The 19th

Frank Brennan left a message on his answering machine. 'This is Dr Brennan. I'll be away for a couple of days. In case of emergency, please call Dr Flint, my replacement.' Frank played back the message and locked up the surgery last thing Wednesday night. Dropping the keys into his pocket, he thought: 'This time I'll do it.'

Maggie had almost finished packing - just his clubs and his baby-blue cap to go. He crinkled a brown-eyed smile at her. Frank Brennan, MD, knew it wasn't easy for any woman to be the wife of a GP. And he knew it was a lot harder for his wife, as he caught a whiff of her sighing while she packed the suitcase for their two-day trip.

Thursday morning and they were about to leave for Chortle Manor, an exclusive golf course a two hours' drive south. He'd worked it all out. This time he wouldn't be disturbed.

This time there'd be no beep on his wrist to call him back to the clubhouse from the 11th. Like the time that chap had hit the ball in the air and it had spun back down his shirt to smash a collarbone. Frank had just been lining up his putt for a 3-par when the beep sounded. He couldn't ignore it, and anyway, it had shot his concentration.

This time there'd be no partner screaming from the bite of a wasp just as he was teeing off from the 17th, making the ball fly into the trees. He always carried a kit for accidents in his golf bag. But why did that wasp have to bite just as he swung down with the wood? Why? Why? Why?

Or the time his mates had played that joke on him at the 18th when they'd swapped his ball for an unputtable one. It had jumped, skidded, balked and gyrated. Although he'd laughed, it had put him off for the finish.

And the time he couldn't even finish his beer before an afternoon game because the waitress had tripped on an errant ball and broken her ankle. Luckily he had been there. He was always there. Sometimes he felt he never wanted to be there.

This time there'd be no large crow cawing at him before swooping down to pinch his ball. He had never been sure whether Maggie believed that one.

It was the way the sparkle in her grey eyes seemed to have turned flat that made him doubt. He'd sensed something in the last few years of their twenty-year marriage; he sometimes even wondered what it was that bothered her. It wasn't the golf. He was sure of that. She didn't mind being a golf widow, she'd said. She was even partial to a game herself from time to time. So it wasn't that.

He knew it wasn't the doctor's life - Maggie had known what she'd be in for when she married him. She'd accepted the nights broken by calls, the roast beef turned tough in the wait for him to make it home from the surgery. He knew she could take all that.

Maggie had her own activities - painting, weaving and the piano. She found satisfaction in her hobbies. It was he that was becoming more and more frustrated every time he came home from his beloved golf. And deep down, he knew what the problem was. He never managed to finish the course.

No, this time it was going to be different. He was going away to play on a golf course where nobody knew him. Nothing would stop him from finishing. Nothing.

He loaded his clubs and the suitcase into the car, gave Maggie a kiss and a squeeze and opened the passenger door for her with a flourish. 'It doesn't matter if I play alone,' he thought. 'Just as long as I finish. Finish, finish, finish,' he hummed.

He'd worked it all out. He'd chosen Chortle Manor, not just for the quality of its golf course, he'd also thought of Maggie. She could do her water-colours over by Butterfly Cottage. She'd daub for hours to capture the light twinkling on Spring Lake. And capture it she would. And he - he would have a chance to thrash the course.

They checked into the hotel in the next village as Mr and Mrs. No Dr this time. No one ever asked if there was a Mr in the house. Then they drove over to Chortle Manor. After a snack on the terrace of the club house, Frank left Maggie to go over to Butterfly Cottage as he made his way in the opposite direction to tee off.

He was alone. The course to himself. He took in Spring Lake to the right, the trees just keeping their distance from the fairway. He felt good as he kept a steady game of three over par right up to the 13th. The 13th, he'd never forget it - a tricky par 4 of a dog's leg, with a pond to the right of the green. It was a bit tough, but not tough enough for a birdie. This was what it was all about. Everything was working.

The 18th, although a par 4, rolled up so he could only see the green flag across from the bends in the river. But he knew he just had to give the ball a straight hard shot for it to fly over the first river bend and land between the second bend and the bunker. It was a long shot, but the wind was just right. 'Crack!' His wood sent the ball soaring through the air. He watched the perfect trajectory with his hand as if to wave it 'Godspeed'. Happily he pulled his buggy behind him to follow the ball. He kept going. It had really gone that far. What a shot! 100 yards from the green. He couldn't believe it - another birdie? Finish the course ... and two birdies ... all on the same day!

The ball had a perfect lie. All Frank needed was a straight shot to the pin. He aimed, felt his body swing just right, and ... thwack! He relaxed and saw two women on the bridge over the river to the right of the green. One was waving. It was Maggie. He'd know that pink sun hat anywhere. The other woman had a black dog; Maggie must have met her over at Butterfly Cottage. Frank waved back and set his eyes on the approach to the green. As he crested, his face filled with excitement. Then he slowed down and stared at the flag. He was sure his ball had made it to the green. He looked in the hole. No ball. He looked all around. It was gone. He stood by the flag and scratched his head as he watched a black dog run off towards Maggie and the woman. The dog! It couldn't have been. Dogs weren't allowed on the course. The ball couldn't have disappeared. But what if ....?

'How was your game, darling?' Maggie said as he came up to the terrace. She always waited for him with a smile. He kissed her gently on the cheek, placed his clubs by the clubhouse wall and came back to give her a hug.

'My ball disappeared on the 18th,' he said to her quizzical eyes. ' But I got a birdie on the 13th and was 3 over par all the way ...', his voice trailed off.

'Darling, this is Mary Fenwick. I met her walking her dog over by Butterfly Cottage.'

Frank nodded 'Hallo' and glanced down at the black labrador. It was munching. 'Found a bone, did he?' Frank said.

Mary Fenwick looked embarrassed. 'Not quite,' she said. 'He's just a puppy. He still has some bad habits ...

Frank looked towards his wife. A smile teased the corners of her mouth.

'There's still the 19th,' Maggie said.

The smile that sparkled in her grey eyes made Frank feel as if he had hit an eagle on the 18th. He'd never know. Somehow it didn't seem to matter anymore.

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Published online in 1994 in the Library of IGA - International Golf Associates (Franco-Swiss).