here, showing an interest and seeing Grandad’s animated face. This had been a good idea. He clearly had no clue it was a guise to ensure I got things back on track with him.
Grandad showed me what a tee was, where to put the ball, how far back to stand and how to swing through. It looked reasonably straightforward and I felt pretty confident walking into my booth. How hard could it be?
This outing was my way of making amends. I knew this probably wasn’t going to be an emotional make-up scene with lots of hugs and apologies like my session with Amy. I was glad for the thin plywood wall that separated our booths and the distraction of attempting to hit a tiny white ball with a really long stick to show him I was sorry.
‘This is haaaaarrd,’ I said after the fifth swipe, the ball stubbornly remaining on the small tee in front of me.
‘’Tis a bit,’ Grandad said, popping his head over the partition. ‘Do you need me to watch your swing?’
‘Hmm, I think I’ll just keep having a try, thanks,’ I said, not wanting an audience to my humiliation.
He nodded and disappeared back to his side.
It seemed to take an agonisingly long time to get rid of the balls in my basket. At one point I made the whole range cry out as I hit a ball into the steel rutted roof above our heads, and later, when Grandad wasn’t looking, I picked up three balls at a time and simply lobbed them into the field. Annoyingly, two of them travelled further than the majority of the balls I had hit with the club.
Grandad appeared behind me as I struck the last ball, actually managing to connect with it and send it zipping off at a 45-degree angle. ‘At least it got into the air,’ I said, turning with a small triumphant smile.
‘Not bad for a first go, Lottie. It’s a damn difficult thing to do. You just have to keep at it.’
I was under no illusions that this would be my only foray into golf. I was here simply to ensure that Grandad and I had cleared the air. I’d missed him.
‘Time for a break?’ I asked, handing him back the club.
‘Absolutely.’
We headed into the clubhouse and I was grateful to see no familiar faces. Hushing Grandad as he tried to pay for our order I handed over my card and then moved to the table in the corner with two pints of beer.
‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, raising his glass to me.
I could have left it there, I knew he would let me, but I suddenly realised I really did need to say something. Taking a breath I looked at him and in a small voice simply said, ‘I’m sorry, Grandad, about before.’
He tried to wave me away but I wouldn’t let him. Now that I had started it was important that I finished.
‘No, I need to say it. The things you said before – well, you were right, and I was rude and stubborn and trying not to listen to you. I didn’t want to hear it, and I’m sorry I said such unpleasant things when you were just trying to point out what I knew really. And I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, about Luke. I know you wouldn’t hide things from me.’
Grandad was casting around for somewhere to look and his self-conscious avoidance made me stop and giggle. ‘OK, I’ve finished now, you can relax,’ I said.
He took a sip of his beer. ‘You don’t need to apologise, Lottie. I love you and just want to see you happy.’
These were pretty big words from Grandad, I was fairly sure I had only heard him tell me he loved me three times before. (When he won £240 on a horse I picked for him on the Grand National in 1996; when I ended up in hospital after falling out of the wheelbarrow he’d been pushing me in, promising to tell Grandma he knew nothing, and when I’d solemnly offered to give him my ‘life savings’ when I’d overheard him talking to Grandma about money worries.) So, of course, as was my way in recent hours, I found the never-ending well of tears I’d barely known I had fill up once more.
Grandad looked stricken. I was fairly sure there was a stringent ‘No Crying’ policy in the clubhouse.
‘Did you see they are banning children from sitting on Santa’s lap in