I AM BOND, JAMES BOND – The Books Behind The Movies: 20 Book Collection. Ian Fleming
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five miles and Bond was through the dainty teleworld of Herne Bay. The howl of Manston sounded away on his right. A flight of three Super Sabres came in to land. They skimmed below his right-hand horizon as if they were diving into the earth. With half his mind, Bond heard the roar of their jets catch up with them as they landed and taxied in to the hangars. He came up with a crossroads. To the left the signpost said RECULVER. Underneath was the ancient monument sign for Reculver church. Bond slowed, but didn't stop. No hanging about. He motored slowly on, keeping his eyes open. The shoreline was too exposed for a trawler to do anything but beach or anchor. Probably Goldfinger had used Ramsgate. Quiet little port. Customs and police who were probably only on the look-out for brandy coming over from France. There was a thick clump of trees between the road and the shore, a glimpse of roofs and of a medium-sized factory chimney with a thin plume of light smoke or steam. That would be 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.
'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 Moonraker 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 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 with 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 game and when there isn't anyone he books Cecil or me. Rang up this morning and asked if there was anyone about. There's sometimes a stranger drops in.' Alfred Blacking looked quizzically at Bond. 'I suppose you wouldn't care to take him on this afternoon? It'll look odd you being here and short of a game. And you knowing him and all. He might think I'd been trying to keep him to myself or something. That wouldn't do.'
'Nonsense, Alfred. And you've got your living to make. Why don't we play a three-ball?'
'He won't play them, sir. Says they're too slow. And I agree with him. And don't you worry about my fee. There's a lot of work to do in the shop and I'll be glad of an afternoon to get down to it.' Alfred Blacking glanced at his watch. 'He'll be along any minute now. I've got a caddie for you. Remember Hawker?' Alfred Blacking laughed indulgently. 'Still the same old Hawker. He'll be another that'll be glad to see you down here again.'
Bond said, 'Well thanks, Alfred. I'd be interested to see how this chap plays. But why not leave it like this? Say I've dropped in to get a club made up. Old member. Used to play here before the war. And I need a new number four wood anyway. Your old one has started to give at the seams a bit. Just be casual. Don't say you've told me he's about. I'll stay in the shop so it'll give him a chance to take his choice without offending me. Perhaps he won't like my face or something. Right?'
'Very good, Mr James. Leave it to me. That's his car coming now, sir.' Blacking pointed through the window. Half a mile away, a bright yellow car was turning off the road and coming up the private drive. 'Funny looking contraption. Sort of motor car we used to see here when I was a boy.'
Bond watched the old Silver Ghost sweep majestically up the drive towards the club. She was a beauty! The sun glittered off the silver radiator and off the engine-turned aluminium shield below the high perpendicular glass cliff of the windscreen. The luggage rail on the roof of the heavy coach-built limousine body—so ugly twenty years ago, so strangely beautiful today—was polished brass, as were the two Lucas 'King of the Road' headlamps that stared so haughtily down the