We had a little more company for the second nine. Word had got around and more spectators, English ex-pats in the main, came to join the party. So did a couple of journalists and a portly guy from a British TV station, microphone in hand, who seemed to be in hiding under a wide-brimmed Aussie hat. Nerves began to grip me again. They must have shown, for Uche saw me, smiled and gave me a large wink.
The second nine was tougher than the first had been. Jonny made his first mistake at the third, a par five, where there was no margin for error. He went for the green with his second, but tugged it slightly left. The ball took a hard bounce, into the water. The crowd groaned, and I felt like crying. He cheered me up with his next shot, his fourth after a penalty drop, a delicate chip that rolled up to the hole-side, seemed to pause as if to size up the drop, then fell in.
He played it ultra-safe after that, with his caddie’s help, for I saw a few debates over club selection and guessed that Uche was urging caution where there was any doubt. Jonny played steady par golf from then on and was rewarded on the ninth, his last, when his long uphill putt made it all the way to the hole. He was seven under par: tied for the lead.
The first thing I did, as soon as he’d stepped off the green, was hug him. ‘Extra big steak for you tonight, my boy,’ I promised.
‘Not too big, please, Auntie P,’ he replied, with a smile. ‘I have to talk to the press, so I’ll be late getting back, and I don’t want to be so full that I can’t sleep.’
‘Whatever you like. You’re a star, now.’ Just like your uncle was. The thought jumped into my brain but stayed unsaid. As well, for Jonny contradicted me.
‘No, I’m not. I’m the first round co-leader and I’m surrounded by guys who are as good as me and who’ve been here many times before. I won’t be a star for another three days.’ He beamed, and gave me another hug. ‘And then, I promise, we will have a party!’
The second thing I did, as he headed for the recorder’s tent, to check, sign and register his score, was to call his mother, to give her the good news. It wasn’t necessary. Ellie had been watching the coverage on the portly guy’s TV station, and then keeping in touch with his score online when its live transmission had ended. She sounded a mess; elated, sure, but desperately sorry not to have been there. ‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Is he handling it okay?’
‘He’s as laid-back as his granddad,’ I assured her. ‘He’s got loads of stuff to do here yet, but I’ll tell Uche to make sure he calls you as soon as he’s done.’
‘He’d better not need bloody Uche to tell him,’ she snorted, a welcome flash of the old Ellie. ‘How’s the Black Prince getting on anyway? That’s what Harvey and I call him,’ she added, as if explanation was needed.
‘He’s going fine. They’re a good partnership.’
‘That’s what we thought. I’m glad it’s working out. You know, I’ve got to say: the manager, the sponsors, the caddie. . everything’s almost too good to be true.’
Eight
I understood what Ellie had said, but it all made sense next morning, when I logged on to the main UK media websites, and found Jonny all over them. ‘Tragic movie idol’s nephew is new star on tour’, was the headline on the Telegraph report, and a fair summary of all the other coverage.
One of two British writers had noted the connection in their advance pieces about the event, but they’d all been too cautious, or cynical, to go overboard on it. However, with a score on the board, everything had changed and for a day at least, he was the big headline. There was video footage as well, on the European Tour website, from the after-round briefing in the media tent. There wasn’t much, but Jonny handled himself well, particularly when he was asked how his late uncle would have felt about his performance. ‘He’d be trying to buy the movie rights,’ he replied, with only the faintest smile.
My first instinct was that I’d like to have punched the questioner’s lights out. Jonny was his own man and what he’d achieved had nothing to do with Oz. But then I thought of those endorsements and the fact that their relationship had been a help to his far distant manager in securing them. If the sponsors, or the tour publicists, had put it into the public domain, that was probably fair enough.
I didn’t have a chance to discuss it with Jonny. Our alarms had been set for five thirty, and he had left for the course just after six, so that he could fit in a full practice session before his tee time, a more civilised nine forty. I’d decided that I wasn’t going to go that day. ‘Why not?’ he asked, when I told him as he worked his way through breakfast, a mound of scrambled eggs on toast. (Tom was still sound asleep upstairs, so I’d delayed mine.)
‘You’ll have plenty of followers as the co-leader. I can’t be there every day you’re playing. Besides,’ I added, ‘you don’t need me. You’re so focused. You didn’t look at me once yesterday and you didn’t even hear Shirley screaming when you had that eagle. If I did go, you wouldn’t even know I was there.’
‘Maybe not, but Uche would. For all he’s smooth, the guy’s more African than you’d think. He’s dead superstitious; you’re his good luck charm, so he said after the round. If he doesn’t see you he’ll worry, and he might get his yardages wrong, give me a three metal instead of a three iron. You’re a vital part of the team, Auntie P. Come on.’ He paused. ‘But hold on, I’m being selfish. I’m forgetting about Tom. He can’t have packed lunches every day.’
‘He’d be quite happy with that,’ I assured him, ‘and he would today, regardless. There’s a class trip this morning, to the ruins at Ullastret; they’re doing Iberian history.’
‘Well. .’
‘Can I bring the dog?’ I asked, mischievously. His face fell, but I didn’t let it hit the ground. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Kidding. Charlie’ll be okay. Ben Simmers will pick him up if I ask him, and keep him with his two.’ Ben’s dogs and Charlie are from the same stable; they’re family too.
I was easily persuaded in the end. Actually I’d been dead keen to go, but felt that I might be intruding. But if I was that important to the Black Prince, I could hardly refuse.
In the end, I was glad I’d let myself be persuaded. When I showed up on the first tee, the first people I saw were Patterson and Shirley. She’d found some tartan in her wardrobe and was dressed up like a bloody cheerleader. As I’d suspected, there was a proper gallery, up to a hundred people, but she was front and centre. Jonny had eyes for nothing but the fairway when he appeared, but Uche clocked her straight away. The look that he threw her suggested that if I was his good luck charm, then Shirl was a voodoo doll. Then he saw me, and brightened up.
Jonny started the way he’d finished the day before, with a steady straight drive, and once his partners, neither of whom had come close to breaking par in the first round, had played, we set off after them. ‘Out of sight, and lip zipped,’ I warned Shirley.
I’d thought that most of those who’d watched the start would have stayed in the stand, but I was wrong; they followed us around, as did a few journos, and a small contingent of photographers and radio correspondents. Television Man joined us too, at the sixth, keen to pick up on the story.
By that time Jonny was one under for his round, with two birdies and one bogey, a shot dropped after a pushed tee shot at the fourth finished close to a tree. ‘No worries,’ I heard Uche say as they left the green. ‘You were bound to lose your cherry some time, and we’re still on top of the leader board.’
That hadn’t occurred to me, but he was, as I confirmed when I saw a board behind the fifth green. The Irish kid and the other early pacemakers were all out later in the day, and so, at eight under, Jonny was on top of the pile.