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it. Soon there was the gate of a long drive. A discreetly authoritative sign said THANET
ALLOYS, and underneath: NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS. All very
respectable. Bond drove slowly on. There was nothing more to be seen. He took the
next right-hand turn across the Manston plateau to Ramsgate.
It was twelve o'clock. Bond inspected his room, a double with bathroom, on the top
floor of the Channel Packet, unpacked his few belongings and went down to the snack
bar where he had one vodka and tonic and two rounds of excellent ham sandwiches
with plenty of mustard. Then he got back into his car and drove slowly over to the Royal
St Marks at Sandwich.
Bond carried his clubs to the professional's shop and through to the workroom. Alfred
Blacking was winding a new grip on to a driver.
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'Hullo, Alfred.'
The professional looked up sharply. His sunburned, leathery face broke into a wide
smile. 'Why, if it isn't Mr James!' They shook hands. 'Must be fifteen, twenty years.
What brings you down here, sir? Someone was telling me only the other day that you're
in the diplomatic or something. Always abroad. Well, I never! Still the same flat swing,
sir?' Alfred Blacking joined his hands and gave a low, flat sweep.
'Afraid so, Alfred. Never had time to get myself out of it. How's Mrs Blacking and
Cecil?'
'Can't complain, sir. Cecil was runner-up in the Kent Championship last year. Should
win it this year if he can only get out of the shop and on to the course a bit more.'
Bond propped his clubs up against the wall. It was good to be back. Everything was
just the same. There had been a time in his teens when he had played two rounds a
day every day of the week at St Marks. Blacking had always wanted to take him in
hand. 'A bit of practice, Mr James, and you'd be scratch. No fooling. You really would.
What do you want to hang around at six for? It's all there except for that flat swing and
wanting to hit the ball out of sight when there's no point in it. And you've got the
temperament. A couple of years, perhaps only one, and I'd have you in the Amateur.'
But something had told Bond that there wasn't going to be a great deal of golf in his life
and if he liked the game he'd better forget about lessons and just play as much of it as
he could. Yes, it would be about twenty years since he had played his last round on St
Marks. He'd never been back -even when there had been that bloody affair of the
Moon-raker at Kingsdown, ten miles down the coast. Perhaps it had been
sentimentality. Since St Marks, Bond had got in a good deal of weekend golf when he
was at headquarters. But always on the courses round London - Huntercombe,
Swinley, Sunningdale, the Berkshire. Bond's handicap had gone up to nine. But he was
a real nine - had to be with the games he chose to play, the ten-pound Nassaus with
the tough cheery men who were always so anxious to stand you a couple of double
kümmels after lunch.
'Any chance of a game, Alfred?'
The professional glanced through his back window at the parking space round the tall
flag-pole. He shook his head. 'Doesn't look too good, sir. Don't get many players in the
middle of the week at this time of year.'
'What about you?'
'Sorry, sir. I'm booked. Playing with a member. It's a regular thing. Every day at two
o'clock. And the trouble is that Cecil's gone over to Princes to get in some practice for
the championship. What a dashed nuisance!' (Alfred never used a stronger oath.) 'It
would happen like that. How long are you staying, sir?'
'Not long. Never mind. I'll knock a ball round with a caddie. Who's this chap you're
playing with?'
'A Mr Goldfinger, sir.' Alfred looked discouraging.
'Oh, Goldfinger. I know the chap. Met him the other day in America.'
'You did, sir?' Alfred obviously found it difficult to believe that anyone knew Mr
Goldfinger. He watched Bond's face carefully for any further reaction.
'Any good?'
'So-so, sir. Pretty useful off nine.'
'Must take his game damned seriously if he plays with you every day.'
'Well, yes, sir.' The professional's face had the expression Bond remembered so well.
It meant that Blacking had an unfavourable view of a particular member but that he was
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too good a servant of the club to pass it on.
Bond smiled. He said, 'You haven't changed, Alfred. What you mean is that no one
else will play widi him. Remember Farquharson? Slowest player in England. I
remember you going round and round with him twenty years ago. Come on. What's the
matter with Goldfinger?'
The professional laughed. He said, 'It's you that hasn't changed, Mr James. You
always were dashed inquisitive.' He came a step closer and lowered his voice. 'The
truth is, sir, some members think Mr Goldfinger is just a little bit hot. You know, sir.
Improves his lie and so forth.' The professional took the driver he was holding, took up
a stance, gazed towards an imaginary hole and banged the head of the club up and
down on the floor as if addressing an imaginary ball. 'Let me see now, is this a brassie
lie? What d'you think caddie?' Alfred Blacking chuckled. "Well, of course, by the time
he's finished hammering the ground behind the ball, the ball's been raised an inch and
it is a brassie lie.' Alfred Blacking's face closed up again. He said non-committally, 'But
that's only gossip, sir. I've never seen anything. Quiet-spoken gentleman. He's got a
place at Reculver. Used to come here a lot. But for the last few years he's only been
coming to England for a few weeks at a time. Rings up and asks if anyone's wanting a
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