The birds were singing valiantly against the coming night, swooping over the greens in long, drunken loops.
The air was grassy, with a hint of flowers and earth, and the warm, sweet outbreath of the day sighed gently into our hair and over our skin.
I felt like asking Raymond whether we should keep walking, walk over the rolling greens,
keep walking till the birds fell silent in their bowers and we could see only by starlight.
It almost felt like he might suggest it himself. The front door to the clubhouse burst open and three children came running out,
laughing at the tops of their voices, one wielding a plastic sword.
“Here we are, then,” said Raymond, softly. It was an odd venue for a social gathering.
The corridors were lined with notice boards, all pinned with impenetrable messages about Ladders and Tee Times.
A wooden panel at the end of the entrance hall bore a long list of men’s names in golden letters,
starting in 1924 and ending, this year, somewhat improbably, with a Dr. Terry Berry.
The décor was a discomfiting mix of institutional (a look with which I’m very familiar) and outdated family home—
nasty patterned curtains, hard-wearing floors, dusty dried flower arrangements.
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