Nicola Barker: The Yips

‘Ha!’ Jen laughs.

‘That’s not the punchline,’ Ransom curtly informs her.

‘So we’re seriously meant to believe,’ Jen scoffs, ‘that this service-station attendant knows the identity of Tiger Woods — a golfer — but is still incapable of identifying one of the world’s most basic pieces of golfing equipment, the tee?’

‘… and Tiger says …’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

… and Tiger says …’

‘Completely ridiculous — and not in a funny way, either.’

‘And Tiger says, “They’re for balancing your balls on when you’re driving!”’

Jen gazes at him, blankly.

‘Then the little Irish … anyway’ — Ransom waves his own hand (mirroring Jen’s earlier gesture) — ‘he says, “My God, those clever people at BMW tink of everyting, don’t they?!”’

No reaction from Jen.

‘“Those clever people at BMW tink of everyting, don’t they?!”’ Ransom repeats.

‘I get it,’ Jen assures him, ‘I just think the joke would be funnier if it wasn’t so obviously the work of a puffed-up BMW marketing department somewhere.’

‘It’s not about BMW,’ Ransom objects.

‘It would be way better if the car was an Irish make.’

‘Irish?!’ Ransom scoffs. ‘What? Like the DeLorean DMC-12?’

‘Why not?’ Jen shrugs.

‘Because that’d be an altogether different kind of joke, you friggin’ idiot!’ Ransom protests.

‘We should go surfing,’ Jen suddenly suggests, catching sight of a distant — plainly frazzled — Del Renzio on the skyline, heading towards them, Terence Nimrod in hot pursuit.

‘Surfing?’ Ransom scowls.

‘Yeah. You and me. Take the brass. Pack up the motor. Buy a litre bottle of white rum. Head down to Cornwall.’

She starts to deconstruct her trombone and return it to its case.

‘We don’t have a motor,’ Ransom demurs.

‘We’ll get Nimrod to drive us in his car.’

‘I’m broke,’ he confesses.

‘There’s always my savings from the hotel.’

‘But I’ve just got my swing back!’ Ransom protests.

‘Exactly.’ Jen nods.

‘How d’you mean, “exactly”?’ Ransom demands, putting the bugle away, somewhat regretfully.

‘Delayed gratification,’ Jen opines, gnomically, ‘it’s the new black.’

‘What?’

‘Ever heard of the theory that walking away from something is actually the best way of walking towards it?’

Ransom thinks for a moment.

‘Nope.’

Jen fastens the clasp on her trombone case and picks it up. She’s ready to go.

‘You never told me what you did to your hands.’ Ransom is staring at her mangled fingertips, intrigued.

‘Let’s save that for the journey.’ Jen grins, then winks, then starts off. Ransom gazes after her, perplexed.

‘But I just got my swing back!’ he murmurs, hurt.

‘I’m certain the Irish have produced other cars,’ Jen yells over her shoulder, leaving the green and entering the rough, ‘ way better than the DeLorean.’

‘Bollocks!’ Ransom yells. ‘Unless you’re thinking of the friggin’ Shamrock!’

He curls his lip, derisively.

‘How about the TMC Costin?’ Jen demands (full volume).

‘It went bankrupt in the friggin’ eighties, you twit!’ Ransom bellows.

‘They sold the chassis rights to an American auto developer,’ Jen bellows back, her voice getting lost in the gentle wind, ‘by the name of Daniel Panoz. The Panoz Roadster remains in production to the present day and is still based on the Costin design!’

Ransom struggles to process this information.

‘We’ll need a photographer!’ Jen adds (full volume). ‘For the holiday.’

‘What?!’ Ransom scowls (barely audible).

‘Bloody BMW!’ Jen cackles, gesturing obscenely. ‘You’re such an old, corporate whore! WHORE!’ she repeats (another gesture — in case he can’t quite hear her). ‘It’s so embarrassing! EMBARRASSING!’

Ransom remains where he is for a few seconds longer (deeply offended), then swears under his breath, shakes his head, picks up the bugle case (wincing slightly as he straightens up), inhales deeply, winces again, embraces the pain (C’mon! Embrace the pain you old fool! Embrace it!) and rapidly strikes out after her.