As nice as their first-class cabin had been on the flight from New York, after seven-plus hours of breathing recycled air – regardless of how expensive it may have been – Mustang was relieved to finally step through the door of the plane and fill his lungs with a suitably large dose of the fresh variety.
Having been pretty much glued to his window for the majority of the flight, Mustang was already well aware that it was a gorgeous evening outside, with nothing but clear, blue skies having stood between them and Heathrow since well over the middle of the Atlantic. Now that he was actually outside in it, however, Mustang could just feel it reinvigorating his senses with each passing second. The faint smell of tarmac that had been baking in the sun all day carrying on the gentle breeze whispering around the runway. The feeling of that very same sun washing over his face, it still swelteringly warm despite the fact it was just gone six in the evening. It was as though the weather had rolled out the red carpet for Mustang’s first taste of the Old World – and it wasn’t going unappreciated.
“Well, there’s somethin’ I wasn’t expectin’ …” said Ray, sounding pleasantly surprised as he arrived behind Mustang at the top of the portable stairs which had been carefully maneuvered into place ahead of the passengers disembarking.
Not knowing what he was referring to offhand, Mustang peeled his gaze away from the plane that was just beginning to take off from one of the other runways; followed the direction in which Ray was looking, and – much like the plane he’d been watching – quickly got up to speed. Down on the tarmac, looking completely nonplussed at the fact he was standing no more than 50-feet away from a massive Boeing 777 – its famous red and blue British Airways livery gleaming in the evening sunshine – was the one and only Desmond Finch, scrolling casually through his phone as though he were waiting for a bus.
“I didn’t think we’d be seeing him until we got to Kent,” said Mustang, doing his best to ignore the annoying voice in his head attempting to convince him that perhaps the reason Desmond was there was to tell him there’d been a slight change of plans and how he wouldn’t be playing in the Open after all.
“Yeah, neither did I …” said Ray, readjusting the strap of the duffle bag he had slung over his shoulder. “Well, either way, better go say hello. And remember to thank him for organizin’ all this too; we owe ‘im that much, at least.”
With Ray taking the lead in walking down the steps ahead of him, Mustang tightened his grip on his own duffle bag, took a deep breath in to settle himself, and then began to descend the staircase after Ray. This was going to be his first time speaking to Desmond since the final day of the Walker Cup when he’d shaken his hand on the 18th green and offered him a few words of commiseration following his loss to Finn.
But to think about everything that had happened in the months since that fleeting moment on the 18th at Seminole – namely, losing his place at the Masters and U.S. Open on account of punching Fletcher – it made Mustang feel as though that very brief interaction had not only happened in a different lifetime, but it had almost happened to a different version of himself; one that, now, no longer existed. And in a very quiet corner of his mind, one where he didn’t like to visit too often, a worrying thought had been brewing since Saturday night where Mustang wondered if this new version of himself – the one post-cast – was still capable of actually meriting the faith Desmond had shown in him by getting him a spot in the Open.
Still, after leaving the line of other passengers to continue snaking their way towards the arrivals terminal, the wheels on their respective carry-on luggage rolling smoothly across the tarmac as they moved briskly and purposefully at the instruction of the airport staff shepherding them in the right direction, Mustang, despite his nerves, joined Ray in arriving in front of Desmond – not that he seemed to notice, of course.
“Uh … Mr Finch?” said Ray, not quite knowing what else to say given Desmond seemed, as of yet, completely unaware of his and Mustang’s presence.
Looking a touch taken aback at hearing his name being spoken, Desmond lifted his gaze from the screen of his phone – hitting pause on the rather extensive message he’d been typing – and took in the sight of Ray and Mustang from in underneath the brim of his straw Fedora. “Ah, gentlemen, welcome …” he said, glancing quickly at the pair of them before turning his attention right back down to his phone in order to finish tapping out the remainder of his message. “My apologies for being so engrossed in my phone, but I’m in the middle of trying to get a rather … ‘substantial deal’, shall we say, across the line.”
“Sounds pretty serious,” said Ray, now feeling a touch awkward as he wasn’t quite sure whether or not to look at Desmond or avert his gaze in order to give him some privacy.
“That’s one way of putting it …” replied Desmond, distractedly, as his thumbs continued to dance effortlessly across the screen of his phone. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with our football on this side of the pond, but the summer tends to be rather busy with clubs looking to buy and sell different players. And given one of our brightest young clients at the Guild is nearing the end of his deal at his current club, my team and I are trying to negotiate with the club’s owners over a new contract, whilst, at the same time, also fielding interest from potential suitors both here in the Alliance and in Europe over a possible transfer should we not get the offer we feel a client of our calibre deserves.”
“And which one’s lookin’ the more likely at this stage?” asked Ray, his love of all things sports – even those he didn’t watch – seeing him understandably intrigued at this ‘behind-the-scenes’ look at the wheelings and dealings of the business side of the game.
“Well, at the moment, the owners won’t budge on our wage demands …” explained Desmond. “They’re saying they can only bump him from the hundred grand he’s currently on to 125-a-week -…”
“A week?!” spat Mustang, his shock at the idea of someone making such an exorbitant amount of money every seven days seeing him, momentarily, forget his manners.
“Funny thing is, in the grand scheme of the Alliance?” said Desmond, the faintest hint of a smile flashing across his face as he now took to scrolling back through his message to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. “That’s not even on the particularly high end of the scale anymore. I mean, rumour has it the boys upstairs at Hammersmith Olympic are getting set to offer their star striker 300k-a-week to stop him swapping West London for Madrid before the summer’s out – which, if you ask me, is a bit much for a player nearing 35, but each to their own.”
“Damn … sounds like I got into the wrong sport,” said Mustang dryly, as he and Ray exchanged an amused glance.
“Trust me, stick with the golf,” replied Desmond, ruefully, as he made a small edit to his message. “Football’s great and all, but once these boys retire? Well, depending on how clever they’ve been with their money, they either have to become pundits or try their luck on reality television to pay the bills – and, let’s face it, no one wants that. If they’re lucky enough to have been signed with the Guild, however? Well, they can rest safe in the knowledge that we’ll make sure they get paid their worth for however long they can lace up their boots – which, in the case of this particular client, means 180k-a-week plus bonus’. And if the owners don’t want to pay that? Well, they’ll either have to risk letting our client go for free come the end of next season or cash out on him now for anything over £50-million. Either way, though? Both the Guild and our client will get our due – you can count on that.”
With a satisfying whoosh sound letting him know that his message was now digitally winging its way to its intended target, Desmond popped his phone into the pocket of his trousers and, finally, turned his full attention onto Mustang and Ray, staring intently out at them from behind the pair of expensive-looking tortoiseshell sunglasses he was sporting. “Anyway, enough about football …” he said, the brown tint on his lenses catching the sunlight behind him and, as a result, making his eyes fully visible. “Tell me, how was your trip? I take it that everything was satisfactory?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” confirmed Ray, surprised that Desmond could even ask that about a trip that had involved a private jet, chauffeur-driven cars, and a first-class plane ticket on British Airways. “In fact, speakin’ of which, Mustang here was actually sayin’ that he had somethin’ he’d like to say to you – right, kid?”
Seeing that this was his cue, Mustang quickly took his place in the spotlight. “Uh, yeah …” he said, trying his best to stave off the feeling of awkwardness that was making him now, suddenly, highly aware of how his own voice sounded. “I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ for making all of this happen – you know, for flying both of us over here and getting me a spot in the Open. I really do appreciate it. And I won’t let you down – I promise.”
“No need to thank me …” said Desmond, before almost immediately catching himself. “Well, actually, that’s not true – there is. I had to call in a lot of favours to get you that spot. But as I said to Ray here on Saturday night, as far as I’m concerned? I truly believe that you’re worth the investment, so, we’ll call it even.”
“Ok … well, still … thank you,” replied Mustang, quickly realizing that getting used to Desmond’s drier than dry personality was going to have something of a learning curve.
“Yeah, and the same goes for me as well,” said Ray, jumping on the back of Mustang’s point to give him a bit of support. “I mean, that jet was somethin’ else, but to then follow it up with a ride in a plane like that? I was actually tellin’ the kid that one of these days I’m gonna have to take him on a trip using the cheapest plane tickets I can get my hands on just so he don’t get too used to all these private flights and ridin’ in the lap of luxury the whole time!”
“An incredibly noble plan …” Desmond replied, taking a moment to adjust the sleeves of his crisp, white linen shirt he had neatly rolled up towards his elbows, a fashion choice that made the silver Rolex he had strapped around his wrist appropriately visible. “If there’s one thing I always encourage those fortunate enough to be chosen to join the Guild, it’s to never forget the humble beginnings from which you came.” He paused for a beat. “Well, that and always get a prenup.”
“See, kid?” said Ray, turning and looking at Mustang, a smug expression on his face at hearing Desmond validate his idea. “I was right.”
“About me getting a prenup?” quipped Mustang, grinning brazenly.
After smiling back at Mustang, Ray focused his attention, once again, onto Desmond. “So, uh, I guess we should go get our luggage …” he said, getting back to business. “Try and get on the road to Kent as soon as we can. It’s like a two-hour drive, right?”
“It is …” replied Desmond, fishing his phone back out of his pocket as a metallic-sounding ding signaled that he’d just gotten a message.
“Ok, so, uh … will we meet you out front once we get our luggage?” asked Ray, trying to get a sense of what the plan was given Desmond, again, was staring intently down at his phone.
“We already have your luggage,” said Desmond, lifting his head and flashing the screen of his phone at Ray to show that was, obviously, what the message had been about. “My staff are bringing it out to the helicopter as we speak – which is where we should probably be heading as well, actually. So, if you wouldn’t mind following me …”
With Desmond already turning to begin walking off, a quietly shocked Ray quickly piped up before he could get too far away. “Uh, sorry, did you say helicopter?!” he asked, thinking he, surely, must have misheard.
“Well, as you said yourself, Ray, it’s a two-hour drive to Kent,” said Desmond, his tone matter-of-fact as he stopped briefly to answer Ray’s question. “But by helicopter? It’s only 40-minutes – so, a pretty simple decision, don’t you think? Now, shall we?”
Setting off walking once again, Ray and Mustang could only look on in stunned silence after Desmond as he strode confidently across the tarmac.
“So much for not gettin’ too used to flyin’ private, huh?” joked Ray, figuratively throwing in the towel.
“Are you kidding me?” said Mustang, adopting a haughty, faux-disgusted air. “A helicopter?! After riding in a private jet?! I feel like I’m slumming it already!”
“I’ll show you slummin’ it!” laughed Ray, swiping his hand light-heartedly at a chuckling Mustang as the pair of them set off after Desmond.
*
The helicopter ride from Heathrow to Kent was, as expected, another one of those truly unforgettable experiences for Mustang and Ray. Seeing the sprawling expanse of London disappearing off into the distance as they set a course for the coastline. Passing over the picturesque villages dotted in-between the patchwork of different coloured fields carpeting their route out east; some filled with livestock, others just crops basking in the late evening sunshine. Watching the Channel coming gradually more and more into view the closer they got to the coast, until, eventually, it was all they could see as it stretched off towards the horizon and beyond to the continent.
Basically, everything about it had just been mind-blowingly surreal.
The highlight, however, was, undoubtedly, the surprise Desmond had arranged for Mustang and Ray. Though it had required them to go slightly out of the way from their ultimate destination, Desmond had instructed their pilot to bring them on a flyby of Royal St. George’s just so Mustang could get his first glimpse at the formidable challenge he’d be getting up close and personal with over the next week. And to actually see the famous, old track in person? Albeit from a few hundred feet in the air? It just brought crashing back the sobering reality of what Mustang was really doing there.
Because he’d, of course, known that everything up until then – the private jet, the fancy hotel in Manhattan, the first-class plane tickets – it had all been in aid of getting him to the UK so that he could play in the Open; it’s not like he’d forgotten that. But in all the excitement of getting to experience those things, it was as though that particular facet of the trip had been pushed to the back of his mind; turned into something to be dealt with and comprehended at a later point when he was actually in the same time-zone as where it would all be happening.
As their helicopter had swooped over those storied links, however, the realization that he was, indeed, going to be playing in the Open come Thursday morning had barged its way right back to the forefront of Mustang’s mind, quickly demanding nothing less than his full and undivided attention. And of everything that had happened in the previous 36-hours? That quickly made Mustang feel a whole different level of excitement; one which far outstripped any ride on a private jet or helicopter.
Because as he’d stared out his window at Royal St. George’s, drinking in everything that he could given the immense speed at which the helicopter was travelling, Mustang had just gotten this bizarre feeling of ‘belonging’. Seeing the fairways tinged brown in places after a few weeks of relentless sunbathing? The swathes of long, dense grass that had been left to their own devices over the preceding few months to ensure wayward tee-shots were duly punished? The massive, undulating greens looking lush and healthy from the sustained watering they’d been receiving in anticipation of the heavy footfall they’d be subjected to from the minute the sun crept back up over the horizon the following morning? The pot bunkers? The huge, dark green grandstands? The clubhouse? In short, wherever Mustang’s eyes fell in those thirty glorious seconds it took their pilot to navigate his way over all 18-holes on the property, as opposed to making him feel overawed or perhaps even nervous, it, instead, had just made him feel that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. And that feeling? Whilst undoubtedly exciting, for the “new” version of Mustang? It was also incredibly reassuring. Because it meant that he might just have the capacity to return to the form he had before breaking his hand and losing to Finn.
Maybe.
After zipping down the coastline for another ten minutes or so after getting their sneak peek at the course, however, Mustang and Ray – who were both just beginning to feel the effects of their two-day-long trek from Louisiana – were relieved to see their pilot finally bring the helicopter in for a landing at the rear of an amazing-looking, clifftop mansion that struck just the right balance between modern luxury and quaint, old English charm.
“Heck of a place,” said Ray, still needing to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the helicopter, which was now slowly gaining in elevation once again having dropped them safely off on the manicured lawn that separated the house from the area of tree cover that led towards the sheer drop down to the sea beyond. “Is it yours?”
“No, I’m just renting it for the week,” answered Desmond, keeping an eye on his staff who, upon seeing their helicopter landing, had come rushing out of the house to collect Mustang’s and Ray’s luggage, and were now dutifully schlepping it back up to the house ahead of them.
“Bet that wasn’t cheap,” smiled Ray, finally able to return his voice to a more normal volume now that the helicopter was after climbing sufficiently high enough to begin peeling off back down the coastline.
“Well, as luck would have it, it actually belongs to an old school chum of mine …” replied Desmond, now feeling confident enough to pop his hat back on his head given it was no longer in danger of getting whipped off in the downdraft from the helicopter, itself already growing noticeably small as it streaked across the increasingly dusky-looking sky. “So, he was generous enough to give it to me for thirty grand as opposed to the forty-five he’d have charged someone else,”
“Oh, so, he was practically givin’ it away then …” quipped Ray, stealing a smile in Mustang’s direction, himself, too, smirking.
“So, uh, are all those people staying in the house as well?” asked Mustang, gesturing at the members of Desmond’s staff who had just disappeared inside the house with their luggage, the glow coming from the lights that had already been turned on despite the early hour looking appealingly warm and inviting.
“No, these are just the ‘welcome staff’ to help you get settled into the property,” answered Desmond, his phone – as it had been since leaving Heathrow – never too far from his mind as he pulled it from his pocket once more. “There will be a core staff staying in the house, though; a chef to handle all of your meals, including your on-course nutrition needs for the week; a physiotherapist to keep an eye on that hand of yours and take care of any other ailments that might arise – that goes for you too, Ray; and then, finally, to ensure everything runs as smoothly as possible and to coordinate the day-to-day running of the house – basically, to be my man on the ground – I’m entrusting to you the Guild’s most experienced valet, Mr Cedric Fernsby. He’s a good man; a steady hand. Most importantly, though, it’s not his first week at a Major, so, should a problem arise? More than likely, it’ll be nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.”
Mustang didn’t quite know how to respond. He’d been grateful enough as is to Desmond for just snagging him a spot in the Open and covering their travel expenses to actually get to the UK. But to hear the amount of detail and extra resources he’d poured into ensuring every facet of their stay was going to be fastidiously attended to? Frankly, it had left him feeling a little stunned.
“Wow … Mr Finch …” Mustang mumbled, clumsily rifling through his cache of words to try and find just the right ones to convey the level of gratitude he was feeling. “I dunno what to say … I mean, to go to all that trouble for me? Honestly, it almost feels like it’s too much.”
Having been steadily walking up the length of the lawn since the helicopter had begun taking off, Desmond, out of nowhere, came to an abrupt stop. “Mustang, do you know what the ‘79’ in the Guild’s name stands for?” he asked, turning and looking him dead in the eye.
“Uh … I never really thought about it, to be honest,” replied Mustang, not knowing how to best react to this unexpected shift in Desmond’s demeanour.
“Very well, I’ll put it this way then …” said Desmond, quickly shifting tack as, for the first time, he blatantly ignored a message that had just popped into his phone – clearly, what he had to say was far more important. “If you look at the periodic table and carefully scan your way down through it until you get to 79, do you know what element you’ll find?”
Mustang and Ray both shrugged their shoulders – again, neither of them had any clue what the correct response was.
“Gold, gentlemen …” said Desmond, answering his own question. “And since its inception, that is what the Guild has been all about: Gold. Trophies. Winning. But what we at the Guild also knew was that for our clients to be number one in their chosen sport, having ‘talent’ would only do so much. Because all athletes who reach a stage where they’re professionals are talented – they have to be, otherwise, they wouldn’t be getting paid to do it. No, we knew that for a talented individual to break out from the pack and grab that brass ring that would mark them out as being different? As being the best? There was a craft to it. And all of this?” He pointed off at the house. “The chef? The physio? Mr Fernsby? That is that craft at work, Mustang – the craft of winning. Now, does that mean I expect you to win this week just because you have all those things? Absolutely not. But what it is going to do is give you a glimpse at what you’re potentially capable of when the Guild affords you the tools to ensure your talent, and your skillset is in the best possible condition to shine.”
Having been on something of a roll with everything he was saying, Mustang and Ray were surprised to see Desmond suddenly fall silent and look off to the side, a ponderous expression furrowing his otherwise noticeably unwrinkled brow.
“And speaking of those ‘tools’, actually, that reminds me …” he said, finally continuing. “There will be one other staff member staying in the house this week that I forgot to mention.”
“Oh, really?” said Ray, trying to think what other set of skills he and Mustang could possibly need at their disposal over the next few days beyond those that had already been catered for.
“Yes, and you’ll be glad to hear that this gentleman’s services are actually specifically applicable to what you two will be doing on the course,” Desmond replied, now taking to walking once more in the direction of the house. “See, as I’m sure you’re already well aware, ‘links golf’, in itself, is something of a different animal to the style of golf you might be used to playing back in the States. And the courses themselves? Well, generally, they tend to require a great deal of time to ‘crack the code’, as it were, as to how best to navigate one’s way around them. As ‘time’ isn’t a luxury available to us, however, I decided to call in a ‘ringer’, as you Americans like to say, to help expedite the process.”
“Ok, well … cool,” said Ray, happy to be on the receiving end of any and all insights he could get into unlocking Royal St. George’s secrets. “So, is this guy like the Head Pro at the course or somethin’?”
“Not quite …” replied Desmond, pulling his phone back into his eye line as he’d now reached his limit for how long he could physically stand to ignore it. “Though, given he’s worked every position at the course from forecaddie all the way up to greenkeeper, I’d wager good money his knowledge would certainly rival that of the Head Professional’s.”
“Well, it sure seems like this guy knows what he’s talking about,” said Mustang, failing to not be impressed having heard Desmond’s glowing review of this mysterious guide he’d unearthed. “It’ll be cool to meet him.”
Once again, Desmond brought their convoy to another sudden halt just as they were nearing the end of the lawn. “Well, to paraphrase an old saying …” he said, typing out a hastily written message on his phone. “Why put off until later, what you can do right … now.”
Seeing Desmond turn his attention up towards the balcony running across the entire length of the first floor of the house after hearing the familiar whoosh sound that indicated he’d just fired off a text to someone, Mustang and Ray took their cue to do likewise as the sound of a patio door being opened carried down from the balcony on the still evening air.
Obviously, they were about to meet their would-be guide for the week.
Where he’d been imagining some grey-haired old man in his head, however, his tired eyes belying the depth of knowledge which lay behind them as though he were some wise, grizzled sensei or, perhaps even better, a self-styled ‘links whisperer’, Mustang, instead, was greeted by a far different proposition.
“No way …” he said, mouth falling open in a mixture of disbelief and excitement as he finally laid eyes on their “guide”.
Now standing up on the balcony – leaning up against the wooden balustrade fronting it – was someone Mustang hadn’t seen in the flesh since the Walker Cup almost a year previously.
Rodney Burrage.
“Alright, mate!” said Rodney, beaming from ear-to-ear as he looked down at Mustang.
“You?!” cried Mustang, his mouth still agape as he tried to figure out whether or not all this was actually happening. “You’re the ringer?! But I texted you yesterday saying I was going to be playing in the Open! Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“And miss seeing the look on your face?! Not a chance!” laughed Rodney, clearly loving the fact he’d successfully pulled one over on Mustang. “Hey, Mr Thackett!”
“Rodney …” smiled Ray, returning Rodney’s greeting with a small salute. “Nice to see ya again.”
“Same here!” replied Rodney, his infectious smile not looking as though it was going to be losing steam anytime soon. “Now, uh … I know you’re both probably tired – what with all the travelling and all … but how does getting down to work sound? Cause, I’ll be honest, we got a lot to get through, and Silver Medals? Well, they don’t win themselves, now do they?!”
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