Monkeys Stole Their Balls

(Being A True Account of the Invention of Miniature Golf)

Part 1: Cynthia

Buckley woke sweating to the thud-thud of the ceiling fan. He thought of Cynthia. He thought of Cynthia's ankles, trussed up in stockings, and he thought of Cynthia's red hair dishevelled on the pillow as a sudden gasp escaped Cynthia's lipstick'd lips. He thought of Cynthia's eyes dilating, and Cynthia's hands clutching at the mattress. He thought of drops of sweat splashing in slow motion onto Cynthia's pale skin, falling from Cynthia's grunting, gurning, red-faced husband above.

He turned over and stuck his head beneath the pillow, the sheets rasping at his sunburned skin. Another day in paradise.

He had run into Cynthia in the store buying iodine. Her husband, the Major, had the garden boys endlessly scrabbling about for the golf balls he inexpertly punted into the long grass. They suffered an unusually high incidence of stings and snake-bites. Hence the iodine.

Buckley's own wife wrote regularly from Leith concerning choir finances. He'd believe her of infidelity except that he couldn't believe anything really stirred in the vicar's undergrowth. But, then, perhaps some thought that of Cynthia; prim, starched, and upright Cynthia - impeccably cool on the hottest days, radiating gravitas like a school mistress.

Buckley knew better.

Ah Cynthia, wonderful Cynthia, wonderful unobtainable Cynthia. She moved with the grace of a racehorse and the discipline of a soldier on parade; never a foot fell wrong, eyes forward, back straight, hair perfect, not a hint of discomfort at the heat - let alone so much as a drop of perspiration. Those red lips, those dark eyes, that skin that seemed to have never left a grey English day, those marvellous slender ankles forever encased and defined by thick cream stockings. Cynthia was three inches taller than Buckley and might as-well have been a world away.

At the club, affairs were considered just another part of the social fabric and equally as subject to the stratification of class. Cynthia might play off territory, but Buckley was well below her grade.

Yet Buckley had his contacts. Buckley knew that when the Major went away, the Colonel dropped by, and sipped whisky-sodas before noon on the veranda before being dragged back inside for an encore.

And Buckley knew that a marriage vow once broken is forever weak at the point of the break.

'More iodine,' he had remarked.

'The saints preserve me,' Cynthia had said, 'from golf.'

And so, underneath the thud-thud of the ceiling fan, beneath the stained mosquito net, already stifling in the heat even at the break of day, Buckley wondered exactly what Cynthia might do to be preserved from golf.

Part 2: The Colonel

Money was not the primary problem, cheap land and cheap labour were both in plentiful supply. The primary problem was permission. Standards had to be maintained, the English had to remain in strict regimen, everything had to okayed first.

'It's been tried old man,' said the Colonel, 'doesn't work in this country. The blacks just camp out in the bunkers and then cause a hell of a stink if you hit one with a ball. Scorpions and god knows what else take up residence in the holes, plus it costs a fortune to keep the grass anywhere near green and if you succeed at that you end up with people grazing their goats on it. It can't be done. Give it up.'

'I could give it a try though.'

'If you try and stuff it up you'll end up a laughing stock and then we'll all end up a laughing stock for letting you, and where would that leave us? No, afraid I couldn't let it happen. Very sorry old man.'

'What about just a driving range?'

The Colonel paused to consider, fingering the bristles of his moustache. 'Might work,' he mused. 'Might just work. No grass and none of those damn little holes, small enough to keep an eye on it. You know it might just work. Strictly your own deal though, off company books and off company land - your own terms with the natives.'

Buckley was not worried. Company money or company land meant company rules, he was better off without them. He didn't need good grazing land, just a good location. He picked a patch of dirt scrub just outside of town and asked which families had a claim to it. He needed equipment, and for that he needed capital. He cabled his wife in Leith instructing her to release the funds from their savings and send brochures right away. He told her it was a business opportunity, no details.

Still there were problems.

Five families popped out of the woodwork and immediately started squabbling among themselves over who had the right to sell Buckley the land. Buckley was not kept party to the discussions, in fact his attempts to mediate were openly resented and the argument threatened to go on forever. His wife replied that she was reluctant to risk their savings, which were mostly her inheritance, on a venture she knew so little about; her friend the vicar had advised her to ask for a business plan which she could then have looked over by trusted advisors. She sent no brochures.

The Colonel cornered Buckley in the club the following week and ushered him into a back-room. 'Your driving range thingy won't wash after all old man,' he said. 'I talked to the Major - biggest golf fanatic this side of equator - and he says he's just as happy hitting the little balls off his back porch and why would he travel halfway across town to do the same thing.'

'The Major?'

'You know him?'

Buckley waved his hands, everyone knew everyone. What, he asked, would get the Major to travel halfway across town?

The Colonel looked at him curiously, a smile slowly creeping up behind his moustache.

'Have you met Cynthia?'

'Once or twice,' said Buckley, 'in the shop.' He blushed a little, perhaps just enough to be visible over the sunburn.

The Colonel winked. 'I see we have a common purpose - of a sort. You're the ideas man, liven it up a bit, give him something he can't get at home. Gather you've ended up the wrong end of one of those family spats, I'll talk to the head honcho and get him to intervene and sort it out. I'll tell you what else I'll do. There was a man tried to build a range outside of Mombassa, lost his shirt doing it just like I warned you you would, I'll wire and ask what happened to the equipment, see if we can't snap it up cheap. Do you need money?'

'I have some funds, but there are difficulties accessing them.'

'Buy whatever you need. I'll have the club front you a loan you if it comes to it.' The Colonel leaned over and slapped Buckley on the back.

'Thank you,' said Buckley, a little overawed.

'Can't promise anything you know, even if you do get the old bastard out of the house. Remember, give him what he's missing.'

Buckley lay again beneath the thud-thud of the ceiling fan, mosquitos whining as they lay siege to the the net, sunburn and thoughts of a grateful Cynthia tormenting him in equal measure. He thought about what he had, some low grade lumpy land, cheap labour, an eclectic selection of second-hand equipment; and he thought about what the Major did not have driving balls off his back porch, company? competition? any element of finesse?

Slowly, gradually, the idea formed.

Part 3: The Major

"The monkeys are the problem, if we could just get rid of the monkeys everything would be okay."

Bharat, his foreman, threw another clod of earth uselessly into the trees. There was nothing amiss, the men who piled and stamped down the curious little mounds of earth had finished the previous week, the men who laid the surface were four fifths done, the men who cut, painted and arranged the little barriers and obstacles were making good work, the men who were going to plant shrubs to decorate the dead areas between the holes were due to start the following day. All was in hand and Buckley and Bharat had just had a first test putt around the course. Monkeys had stolen their balls.

The Major found him in the club that night.

'Buckley isn't it? Hear you're building some sort of golf arrangement down there, what's that all about then?'

Two days before, Cynthia had unexpectedly arrived at the site. Buckley had sent Bharat away on an errand and walked her round the course, describing in a nervous babble how it would look and his experiments with playing surfaces, from lawn which was ideal but too expensive to maintain, to sand, to pounded earth, to wood chips, and finally to his own invention, a sort of soft tarmac made from crushed seed husks and oil.

'I don't understand a word,' said Cynthia, 'but I'm sure my husband will be very interested.'

'I hope so,' said Buckley.

'If you get him out of the house a bit,' said Cynthia, looking Buckley in the eye, 'I'd be very grateful.' As she turned her hand brushed against the crotch of his trousers and subtly and expertly cupped the contents, the point of her fingernail just scratching his fly as it departed.

'Well,' said Buckley to the Major two days later. 'It's a new invention I'm calling "Miniature Golf"'

'Sounds intriguing,' said the Major. 'Something of a golf nut myself you know.'

'Why don't you come down and I'll show you how it's done,' said Buckley, catching the Colonel's approving eye from across the room. 'We've got a few teething problems and I'd love to get your input.'

The following morning the Major arrived in pink golfing trousers and a tartan beret. He and Buckley got halfway round the course before monkeys stole their balls. Bharat hung his head in shame, the men planting the shrubs and the men painting the woodwork burst out laughing, Buckley ran to the store hut to fetch more balls but he could see the moment was ruined.

'You've got a problem there Buckley,' said the Major, half-heartedly resetting the replacement ball. 'Big problem.'

'I know,' said Buckley, frantically trying to think of a solution. In his mind he saw this moment as a precipice, the point at which, if no way forward could be found, the whole plan went belly up.

'Bloody marvellous game otherwise,' said the Major. 'Hit the spot you know, just what I'd been missing.'

Buckley nodded, silently composing the letter to his wife in which he explained that he had spent the money anyway, and lost it all.

'Say,' said the Major. 'Why don't I buy you out a percentage, come in as executive grounds-man, and I'll pop down every few days and shoot some of the blighters.'

Buckley dared not say a thing, he tried to look thoughtful, as if mulling over the suggestion. The letter to his wife was one reality and this was the other. His world balanced between them and he dared not make any sudden movement lest it should fall the wrong way.

'I know all the golfing Johnnies in the area,' continued the Major. 'This works out we could be wealthy men out of it. Could be my retirement sorted. Give me something to do at least, get out the house a bit.' He winked. 'Away from the old trouble-and-strife you know.'

'I think,' said Buckley, 'that could be an excellent idea.'

'Superb!' said the Major, and he shook Buckley's hand vigourously. 'We can argue over numbers later but right now why don't I nip home, get the old twelve gauge, sort out some of those blasted monkeys and then you and I can have another round, eh?'

'Excellent idea,' said Buckley, trying hard not to laugh. 'Excellent.'

The Colonel cornered him in the club the following day. 'Cynthia's very happy, old man,' he whispered. 'Very happy indeed. Of a mind to be grateful I think.'

Buckley nodded, feeling exposed in the crowded room.

'Suggests we sort out some sort of a rota between us,' continued the Colonel. 'Keep things civilised.'

'Oh,' said Buckley.

'Cheer up old man,' the Colonel winked and smirked behind his moustache. 'You got what you wanted.'

'Buckley risked a smile. 'Superb,' he said.

'I'll say.'

'Marvellous.'

'Excellent.'

'Rather.'

'What-ho.'

'Tickety-boo.'

'Pip-pip.'