The Lady Golfer

The Lady Golfer

This story is about a developing love affair between Michael, a young engineering manager, and Sandra, a middle-aged conveyancing clerk that he meets on the golf course.

All characters are over eighteen and, whilst essentially drawn from real life, bear only a passing resemblance to actual persons.

I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it and, as always, I welcome comments.

Sylviafan

The great thing about my shift pattern was that for three weeks every month I was free during the weekdays. This meant I could play golf every day at my local club when most of my contemporaries were at work and the only people on the two eighteen-hole courses that my club boasts were the elderly and retired. Of course there were down sides to shift working too: it played havoc with my social life, such as it was, and the night shifts messed up my sleep cycle; I've never been good at sleeping during the day.

My story starts at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning in early April. The trees and hedges hadn't greened up much yet but there was a promise of renewal and re-growth in the air and the birds were going crazy and singing their heads off. I was standing at the first tee of the Lakes course waiting for the pair ahead of me to get far enough away for me to take my drive. I was looking forward to a relaxing round, maybe playing a couple of balls simultaneously and perhaps spending a bit of time ferreting around in the rough for lost balls if the foursome behind me weren't pressing too hard. Altogether a most satisfactory way to spend a late morning and early afternoon in spring.

I was just setting up my tee and having a couple of swings to loosen up when I became aware of someone with a trolley coming up behind me. I turned and saw a middle-aged lady and as I looked she stopped and consulted her watch.

'What time are you off?' she asked in a clear, unaccented voice.

'Ten-thirty-six,' I replied.

'That's funny, so am I.' She looked puzzled and checked her watch again, looking uncertain of herself.

'You are on the Lakes course?' I asked, 'not the Woodland.'

'Definitely the Lakes,' she replied. 'I've only just started here a few weeks ago and this is my first time on the Lakes course. I was looking forward to it,' she finished.

I pulled my mobile phone out and accessed the booking app. 'That's me at ten-thirty-six,' I said, walking over to her and showing her the screen.

'Yes,' she said, 'I see. I wonder what I've done wrong? It looked alright when I made the booking.'

Despite what she'd said I checked the Woodland course booking sheet. 'What's your name?' I asked.

'Roberts. Sandra Roberts.'

'No, nothing on the Woodlands in that name.' I had a sudden flash of intuition and scrolled down the Lakes booking sheet until I came to ten-thirty-six the following day and there it was: S Roberts. I showed her the screen. 'I'm afraid you're booked in tomorrow, not today.'

'Silly woman,' she said, shaking her head mournfully. You must think me a perfect fool.'

Whatever else I thought of her at that time, I loved the way she talked. It harked back to an earlier epoch, perhaps that of Evelyn Waugh or PG Wodehouse. 'I shouldn't worry,' I reassured her. 'I've done the same myself.' I hadn't but there was something about the slump of her shoulders and the resignation in her face that made me want to cheer her up.

'The worst of it is that I can't play tomorrow. And I was so looking forward to my first time on this course. Is there a slot a bit later?'

'Not until after two,' I reported, after checking.

'Oh bother!'

I had been relishing a relaxing and solitary round but something about Sandra Roberts pricked my conscience and I found myself saying: 'Look, I'm on my own, why don't you come round with me, especially if it's your first time on this course?' After all, I would be playing the next day, and the day after that...

I had expected her to politely decline but somewhat to my surprise she gave me a big smile and said: 'Oh that's ever so kind of you. Are you sure you wouldn't mind?'

I smiled back. 'Of course not.'

She started fiddling with her golf bag, pulling out a couple of balls and taking the head cover off her driver and I took the opportunity to surreptitiously study my new golfing partner. My first impression was of tallness and slimness. She looked to be almost my height in her golf shoes. Her black, slim-fit trousers outlined long, slender legs and the dark red fitted waterproof jacket did the same for her trim waist and narrow shoulders. The most striking thing, as she bent over and unzipped a side pocket, was her hair: a rich reddish-brown and hanging down over her shoulder in a long braid.

She straightened up and smiled again and I said: 'I'm Michael, by the way,' and she held out a slim hand with long, strong-looking fingers.

'Pleased to meet you Michael. And I'll try not to hold you up too much. I'm still a bit of a novice. I only started playing last month and this is probably only my fifth or sixth game.'

'I'm just as likely to hold you up,' I smiled back as I took in her facial features. She wasn't a pretty lady. I suppose the kindest thing would be to say that she looked wholesome: an oval face with a rather long chin and a wide mouth, surmounted by a straight nose and green eyes with pronounced crow's feet at the corners and thick eyebrows of the same colour as her hair. She also had lines on her forehead and large spectacles that gave her an air of academia or perhaps just the classroom. Yes, I thought, that was it. She reminded me of one of my junior-school teachers. Miss Symonds, I seemed to recall. I suppressed a grin at the thought and concentrated on estimating her age. Mid-fifties, I decided.

'Ok, if you're all set I'll get off.' I took a couple of practice swings and then sent my ball roughly down the centre of the fairway. A belter of a shot and certainly over two hundred yards, which was about as good as it gets for me.

'Oh well done!' exclaimed Sandra. 'No pressure on me then.' She teed her ball up and took a couple of practice swipes. Her swing was long and elegant, the club coming over her left shoulder on the backswing in a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree arc. She concentrated on her stroke for long seconds then commenced a slow back stroke.

It wasn't a bad shot, straight down the middle of the fairway. Only about a hundred and fifty yards but give me accuracy over distance any time. And with the distance between the ladies and gents' tees she wasn't far behind me. 'Good shot,' I congratulated her and she blew her cheeks out in a big sigh.

'Thank goodness the first shot's over. I was convinced I'd botch it with someone watching.'

I won't describe the ensuing three and a half hours in any detail; readers with no interest in golf would probably find it boring. Suffice it to say that I think we both enjoyed it; I know that I did. Sandra Roberts wasn't a livewire or anything like that, quite the opposite, really, but she was interested in people and she listened intently and asked questions and talked with a disarming and open honesty, almost a naivety. It was nice for me because she didn't know the course so I was able to give her the benefit of my experience and it's good for the ego to have someone to teach. The conversation was mainly about golf so when we got back to the carpark I still didn't know very much about her, but as I might never see her again, except in passing, that didn't matter much.

We stood by her car as I totted up the scores. 'Well,' I said, handing her the card, 'you broke a hundred. That's pretty good on the Lakes and for your first time... Well done!'

She smiled, awkwardly, and drew in a breath. 'Thank you for taking me round. I enjoyed it very much.' She paused. 'Can I buy you a coffee, in the clubhouse? Or a pint of beer. As a thank you.'

I looked at my watch, preparing to gracefully decline, but something in her expression checked me, a mixture of hope tinged with an expectation of disappointment. 'A coffee would be lovely, thank you.'

A few minutes later we were in a corner of the members' lounge. There were a few grey heads dotted about but otherwise it was quiet on this April afternoon. 'Do you play much during the week?' asked Sandra as the waitress put the coffees down on the table. She'd taken her waterproof jacket off revealing a grey sweater over an apparently flat chest.

I laughed. 'Most days. The benefits of shift working.'

'Oh, what do you do? I mean if you don't mind me asking.'

'I work at the power station.' I didn't need to mention its name. Its cooling towers dominated the landscape for miles around; you could see them from some parts of the golf course.

'Ooh! How interesting! What do you do there?'

'I'm one of the shift engineering managers. We supervise repairs and plan maintenance, that sort of thing. It's not exactly glamorous.' She asked some more questions about work and I found myself telling her about my shift patterns and the people I worked with and twenty minutes later she asked me if I'd like another coffee, which I declined although I felt guilty that I hadn't asked her anything about herself.

'How about you, are you retired?' I realised it was a rude thing to say as soon as it was out of my mouth. She wasn't in her sixties or anything, although I suppose she could have taken early retirement. But she took no offence.

'Semi-retired. I work on Wednesdays and Thursdays in a solicitors' office. I'm a conveyancing clerk,' she added.

I knew that conveyancing was about the legal details of buying and selling real estate, mostly private houses, but beyond that... 'Is it interesting?' I asked, lamely.

'Not really. Especially when you've done it for the best part of thirty years.' The conversation dried up and I cast about for something to spark it off but ended up looking at my watch.

'I should be going; my shift starts at four.' We stood up and started moving towards the door.

'Is it an eight-hour shift?' Sandra asked as we emerged into the afternoon sunlight of the carpark.

'Yes. Finish at midnight, home by half-past.' There was that little bit of awkwardness again as we contemplated our goodbyes. Sandra seemed to want to say something but instead we just stood by her car for a few seconds, not meeting each other's eyes.

'It's been nice meeting you,' I said at last. 'And best of luck with the golf. There's a pretty lively ladies competition programme in the club. I think you'd do well in that.' And you'd meet a lot of other ladies of your age, I didn't add.

She pulled a face. 'I'm not sure about that.' She paused again and appeared to firm her resolve. 'Would you like to have another round with me sometime, Michael?'

I hadn't got the heart to turn her down face to face. Cowardly, I know, but there was that hope/disappointment thing in her face again. 'Yes,' I said, 'that would be nice.'

'Shall we swap phone numbers then?'

I couldn't really say no so I dragged a business card out of my wallet and handed it over and she fumbled in her handbag and did the same. 'Goodbye then, Sandra.'

Unexpectedly she held out her hand and I shook it briefly, feeling her firm grip and the softness of her fingers. 'Goodbye, Michael, and thanks again. I'll call you or text you,' she said as I turned back to my car.

I didn't hear from her the following week but on the Sunday after that she sent me a text message:

Hi Michael, it's Sandra from the golf club. I wondered if you would like to play this Tuesday morning. Perhaps on the Woodland course this time. Let me know and I will book it on the App and try to get it right this time!

Kind regards, Sandra

As luck would have it next week was my week of day shifts so I could decline with a clear conscience. But I couldn't just say "no". I had to suggest another time or let her know I wasn't interested. I mulled this over while I read her text again. She was a nice lady and perhaps if she were better looking I'd have been more willing. But I knew I could never turn her down flat. And besides, a round of golf with her once a month or so wouldn't kill me would it? And it would undoubtedly cheer Sandra up. I got the distinct impression that there wasn't much going on in her life at the moment, although she hadn't said anything.

Hi Sandra. I'm on day shifts this week. How about a week Tuesday? I'll leave the choice of course to you. Any time after ten and before twelve.

Regards, Michael

Her reply came in five minutes later:

Great! I've booked us at ten-twenty on the Woodland course. Looking forward to it! I hope the weather's kind.

The weather was kind that day we played the Woodland course together for the first time. And again I enjoyed the experience. Sandra didn't play particularly well, in fact she played pretty dreadfully, but she remained cheerful and positive and I admired her for it. Afterwards we had a coffee in the clubhouse, which I insisted on paying for.

'I was fine last week,' she said, sadly, as we examined her scorecard. 'I don't know what went wrong today.'

'That's golf I'm afraid,' I reassured her. 'Next time you'll be brilliant.'

'Can you play next Tuesday?' she asked, quickly.

Taken by surprise I replied: 'Yes, I think so.'

'Lovely! And perhaps we could have some lunch here afterwards. What do you think?' Her face was animated. It made her look marginally prettier.

'Sounds good,' I said, feeling that I was becoming ensnared, but oddly not disliking the feeling.

That first lunch we had together the following week was enlightening for me, and probably for Sandra too. For the first time I learned a little bit about her, and she about me. That may sound odd, as we'd played three rounds of golf together and had coffee afterwards, but our conversation during play was very golf-centric and afterwards we tended towards an analysis of our performances rather than anything deeper or more meaningful. We had finished our lunch -- chicken salad for Sandra, steak and ale pie for me -- and were sipping coffees when Sandra appeared to brace herself and looked at me.

'It feels funny, Michael. Here we are playing golf together and I don't know a thing about you, except that you work at the power station. I don't like prying but I confess I am a bit curious.'

'You're in for a disappointment; there's not a huge amount to know,' I said.

'Well, what do you do in your spare time, when you're not playing golf? Are you married?'

'Ok, well I'm not married,' I began, 'I grew up in Coventry, I've got an elder brother and sister, I went to university in London and got my first job at the power station straight after I graduated and I live on the outskirts of Baythorpe in a house that I'm doing up. It's a bit of a wreck,' I added. 'Your turn.'

She steepled her fingers together and rested her chin on them, looking at me through her big, black-framed spectacles with her green eyes. 'Well I grew up in Worcester and I didn't go to university. When I left school I worked in the local government offices for quite a long time and when I was nearly thirty I met someone and we got married and he got a job in Baythorpe so we moved here, well to Tissingford.' She paused. 'I got a job with the solicitors that I'm still with and they trained me up as a conveyancing clerk. And I started working part-time at the beginning of March because I wanted to develop some interests outside work. Hence the golf.'

'Couldn't you have just played at weekends?'

'Not really. I go over to my parents most Saturdays and usually stay the night. They're getting a bit frail.'

'Where do they live?' I asked, slightly surprised that both her parents were still functioning at all.

'Oh, they're still in Worcester.'

'What about your husband?'

Sandra looked down at the table. 'We divorced five years ago.' I waited but she didn't elaborate, though there was an air of sadness about her.

'Are you ok for next Tuesday?' I asked, in an effort to cheer her up.

She smiled and suddenly looked quite pretty. 'Yes, that's fine. It's actually what I look forward to the most at the moment.'

So we continued to play every Tuesday except when I was on dayshift, alternating between the two courses, as April turned into May and then June. Sometimes, when it was wet, we'd still meet for lunch in the clubhouse and talk about an eclectic range of topics: politics, music, art, books... But although our conversations were wide-ranging and enjoyable, I didn't learn anything more about Sandra's personal life or her marriage; I didn't even know if she had children, although I assumed she'd have mentioned it if she had.

And as the weeks went by and I watched Sandra's slim frame swinging her driver on the tee box or kneeling to line up her ball on the putting green or as we talked in the clubhouse over coffee and I looked at her hands with their long fingers and perfect, almond-shaped nails, I became aware that I was starting to think of her in a sexual context. Starting to be attracted to her, or more precisely to her body. Though I was by no means turned off by her looks. There was animation in her face as she talked about a subject that interested her, and that she was knowledgeable about; her smile was wide and generous and she seemed to smile a lot more than she had when we first met. And when she did, the corners of her eyes crinkled and I saw her teeth, even and clean-looking, and I imagined kissing her.

I also wondered, in typically male fashion, what she would look like naked. Apart from an apparently flat chest, she seemed to have a gorgeous figure: slim-hipped and long-legged. And as the spring clothes were replaced by summer T-shirts I saw that she wasn't completely devoid of breasts -- they were there, but they were small, barely visible.

By this time I had been without a girlfriend for nearly seven months and the itch in my loins was becoming more difficult to satisfy with masturbation alone. I wanted the intimacy of a lover and there weren't too many candidates in my life at that time. Kerry, the station manager's new PA, had seemed a likely recruit, but she'd been snapped up by one of the operations staff. It wasn't as if I had great difficulty in attracting women; I'm fairly presentable and my body's good and I can talk the birds out of the trees, as my mum used to say. I suppose I'd become lazy, golfing every day and working on the house. So the circumstances were perfect for the next chapter of my relationship with Sandra Roberts, which began on a mid-June Tuesday as we sat in the clubhouse and contemplated the bar snack menu.

'Michael,' she began, 'it's my birthday a week on Saturday. I'm not going to Worcester, my parents are out of the country, and I was wondering if you'd like to come out for dinner with me, if you're free that is. My treat,' she added, hastily.

I was surprised and touched. Also my stomach did a little flip as the possibilities blossomed in my head. I thought for a second. 'I'm actually on night shifts then. But I don't need to be in until eleven-thirty,' I said as I saw her face fall. 'It could actually work quite well; I could drive and you could have a few drinks.'

'Are you sure?' she asked, nervously. 'I mean are you alright to do a long night shift after putting up with me for the evening?'

'Of course I'm sure,' I replied. 'Have you got somewhere in mind?'

'Are you ok with Greek food? I adore it so I thought Steliana's and Sappho's on Bridge Street.'

'You'd better give me your address.'

We didn't play the following Tuesday, so the next time I saw Sandra was at seven o'clock the following Saturday when I rang the bell of the big Victorian or Edwardian detached house on the edge of the attractive village of Tissingford., a few miles from Baythorpe. I was surprised at the size and opulence of the place. Either conveyancing clerks earned more than I'd thought or this was the fallout of a particularly successful divorce case.