For the rest of the course, Arthur became more and more frustrated and with each duff shot his irritation grew and he became careless. Jack would shout encouragement, which only put him off. He let more shots go until he was so far over par he felt like giving the whole thing up. But he couldn’t do that. Instead he had to watch Peter, with his long, slow arm and his careful, hunter’s eye, find the hole more times than not. Worse still was the American with his easy, casual swing that hid, Arthur suspected, as keen an eye as Peter’s. Thoroughly discouraged, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, his entirely wrong, badly fitting shoes dug into his feet and he dreamt of swinging the club into the American’s satisfied face.

Finally, they arrived at the eighteenth. With the relief of the ordeal nearly over, he relaxed. Peter was up first and hit straight to the green.

‘Magnificent shot, Pete!’ Jack was leaning on his club, with a cigarette in his fingers, his large mouth beaming. Arthur had a vision of a Hollywood star in some sunshine-drenched film from the last decade and it made the American unreal, even ridiculous, which was rather comforting.

On his turn, he no longer cared whether the ball ended up anywhere near the damn hole. He took a wild swing.

‘Watch it go!’ blared the American twang behind him, and he looked up to see the ball carving a beautiful, soaring arc along the range heading magically straight for the flag. He watched in bemused awe as the white ball plummeted to earth, falling straight for the hole. He thought, I’ve done it. But in a blink it had bounced off the edge of the green and into a bunker.

Behind him, the old windows of the clubhouse gleamed mockingly in the afternoon sunshine.

In the shady, faded bar, deserted apart from a couple of old gents and the barman himself, Jack bought a round of beers. They took their drinks back out into the light and stood on the terrace overlooking the course, toasting Peter’s triumph.

‘Jack’s at the base,’ said Peter, smiling at the American with pride as if he was showing off a prize.

‘Just trying out some new planes,’ said Jack.

‘What kind of planes?’ He might as well show him that he wouldn’t be diverted.

‘B-45 Tornado,’ Peter answered for him, like a kid collecting cigarette cards.

‘What exactly are you here for?’ He loathed this pretence, the easy sham of it all.

‘Art, old boy, they can’t divulge—’ Peter’s hand was on his shoulder, as if to restrain him.

But Jack’s smile seemed to take them both in. ‘Pete’s right, I’m afraid, I can’t really say, but it’s joint operations with the RAF, and I’m sure you realise that this part of the world is a strategic base.’