And Thereby Hangs a Tale

9. Members Only*

‘Pink forty-three.’

‘You’ve won first prize,’ said Sybil excitedly as she looked down at the little strip of pink raffle tickets on the table in front of her husband.

Sidney frowned. He’d wanted to win the second prize — a set of gardening implements which included a wheelbarrow, a rake, a spade, a trowel, a fork and a pair of shears. Far more useful than the first prize, he thought, especially when you’ve spent a pound on the tickets.

‘Go and collect your prize, Sidney,’ said Sybil sharply. ‘You mustn’t keep the chairman waiting.’

Sidney rose reluctantly from his place. A smattering of applause accompanied him as he made his way through the crowded tables and up to the front of the hall.

Shouts of ‘Well done, Sidney’, ‘I never win anything’ and ‘You’re a lucky bastard’ greeted him as he climbed up on to the stage.

‘Good show, Sidney,’ said the chairman of Southend Rotary Club, handing over a brand new set of golf clubs to the winner.

‘Blue one hundred and seven,’ the chairman announced as Sidney left the stage and headed back to his table, the golf clubs slung over his right shoulder. He slumped down in his chair and managed a smile when his friends, including the member who had won the gardening implements, came over to congratulate him on drawing first prize in the annual raffle.

Once midnight struck and the band had played the last waltz, everyone stood and joined in a lusty rendering of ‘God Save the King’.

As Mr and Mrs Chapman made their way home, Sidney received some strange looks from passers-by who had rarely seen a man carrying a set of golf clubs along the seafront, and certainly not at twenty to one on a Sunday morning.

‘Well, Sidney,’ said Sybil as she took the front door key out of her handbag, who would have thought you’d win first prize?’

‘What use is a set of golf clubs when you don’t play golf?’ Sidney moaned as he followed his wife into the house.

‘Perhaps you should take up the game,’ suggested Sybil. ‘After all, it’s not long before you retire.’

Sidney didn’t bother to respond as he climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he pushed open the hatch in the ceiling, pulled down the folding ladder, climbed the steps and dumped the golf clubs in the loft. He didn’t give them another thought until the family sat down for Christmas dinner six months later.

Christmas dinner at the Chapman household wouldn’t have differed greatly from that in a thousand other homes in Southend in 1921.

Once grace had been said, Sidney rose from his place at the top of the table to carve the turkey. Sybil sat proudly at the other end of the table while their two sons, Robin and Malcolm, waited impatiently for their plates to be laden with turkey, Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and sage and onion stuffing. Once Sidney had finished carving the bird, he drowned his plate with thick Bisto gravy until the meat was almost floating.

‘Superb, quite superb,’ declared Sidney, digging into a leg. After a second mouthful he added, ‘But then, Sybil, everyone knows you’re the finest cook in Southend.’

Sybil beamed with satisfaction, even though her husband had paid her the same compliment every Christmas Day for the past eighteen years.

Only snippets of conversation passed between the Chapman family as they dug contentedly into their well-filled plates. It wasn’t until second helpings had been served that Sidney addressed them again.

‘It’s been another capital year for Chapman’s Cleaning Services,’ he declared as he emptied the gravy boat over the second leg, ‘even if I do say so myself.’ The rest of the family didn’t comment, as they were well aware that the chairman had only just begun his annual speech to the shareholders.

‘The company enjoyed a record turnover, and declared slightly higher profits than last year,’ said Sidney, placing his knife and fork on his plate, ‘despite the Chancellor of the Exchequer, in his wisdom, raising taxes to fifteen per cent,’ he added solemnly. Sidney didn’t like Mr Lloyd George’s coalition government. He wanted the Conservatives to return to power and bring stability back to the country. ‘And what’s more,’ Sidney continued, nodding in the direction of his older son, ‘Robin is to be congratulated on passing his Higher Certificate. Southend Grammar School has done him proud,’ he added, raising a glass of sherry that the boy wouldn’t be allowed to sample for another year. ‘We can only hope that young Malcolm’ — he turned his attention to the other side of the table — ‘will, in time, follow in his brother’s footsteps. And talking of following in another’s footsteps, when the school year is over I look forward to welcoming Robin into the firm where he will begin work as an apprentice, just as I did thirty-six years ago.’ Sidney raised his glass a second time. ‘Let us never forget the company’s motto: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”’

This was the signal that the annual speech had come to an end, which was always followed by Sidney rolling a cigar lovingly between his fingers. He was just about to light up when Sybil said firmly, ‘Not until after you’ve had your Christmas pudding, dear.’

Sidney reluctantly placed the cigar back on the table as Sybil disappeared into the kitchen.

She reappeared a few moments later, carrying a large Christmas pudding which she placed in the centre of the table. Once again, Sidney rose to conduct the annual ceremony. He slowly uncorked a bottle of brandy that had not been touched since the previous year, poured a liberal amount over the burnt offering, then lit a match and set light to the pudding as if he were a high priest performing a pagan sacrifice. Little blue flames spluttered into the air and were greeted by a round of applause.

Once second helpings had been devoured and Sidney had lit his cigar, the boys became impatient to pull their crackers and discover what treasures awaited them.

The four of them stood up, crossed hands and held firmly on to the ends of the crackers. An almighty tug was followed by four tiny explosions, which, as always, caused a ripple of laughter before each member of the family sat back down to discover what awaited them.

Sybil was rewarded with a sewing kit. ‘Always useful,’ she remarked.

For Sidney, a bottle opener. ‘Very satisfactory,’ he declared.

Malcolm didn’t look at all pleased with his India rubber, the same offering two years in a row.

The rest of the family turned their attention to Robin, who was shaking his cracker furiously, but nothing was forthcoming, until a golf ball fell out and rolled across the table.

None of them could have known that this simple gift would change the young man’s whole life. But then, as you are about to discover, this tale is about Robin Chapman, not his father, mother or younger brother.

Although Robin Chapman was not a natural games player, his sports master often described him as a good team man.

Robin regularly turned out as the goalkeeper for the school’s Second XI hockey team during the winter, while in the summer he managed to secure a place in the cricket First XI as a bit of an all-rounder. However, none of those seated around that Christmas dinner table in 1921 could have predicted what was about to take place.

Robin waited until Tuesday morning before he made his first move, and then only after his father had left for work.

‘Always a lot of dry-cleaning to be done following the Christmas holiday,’ Mr Chapman declared before kissing his wife on the cheek and disappearing off down the driveway.

Once his father was safely out of sight, Robin climbed the stairs, pushed open the ceiling hatch and dragged the dust-covered golf bag out of the loft. He carried the clubs back to his room and set about removing the dust and grime that had accumulated over the past six months with a zeal he’d never displayed in the kitchen; first the leather bag followed by the nine clubs, each one of which bore the signature of someone called Harry Vardon. Once he had completed the task, he slung the bag over his shoulder, crept down the stairs, slipped out of the house and headed towards the seafront.

When he reached the beach, Robin dropped the bag on the ground and placed the little white ball on the sand by his feet. He then studied the array of shining clubs, not sure which one to select. He finally chose one with the word ‘mashie’ stamped on its head. He focused on the ball and took a swing at it, causing a shower of sand to fly into the air, while the ball remained resolutely in place. After several more attempts he finally made contact with the ball, but it only advanced a few feet to his left.

Robin chased after it and repeated the exercise again and again, until the ball finally launched into the air and landed with a plop a hundred yards in front of him. By the time he’d returned home for lunch, late, he considered himself to be the next Harry Vardon. Not that he had any idea who Harry Vardon was.

Robin didn’t go back to the beach that afternoon, but instead paid a visit to the local library, where he went straight to the sports section. As he could only take out two books on his library card, he needed to be selective. After much deliberation, he removed from the shelf, Golf for Beginners and The Genius of Harry Vardon.

Back at home, he locked himself in his bedroom and didn’t reappear until he heard his mother calling up the stairs, ‘Supper, boys’, by which time he knew the difference between a putter, a cleek, a niblick and a brassie. After supper he leafed through the pages of the other book, and discovered that Harry Vardon hailed from Jersey in the Channel Islands, which Robin hadn’t even realized was part of the British Empire. He also found out that Mr Vardon had won the Open Championship on six separate occasions, a record that had never been equalled and, in the author’s opinion, never would be.

The following morning, Robin returned to the beach. He placed the book on the ground, open at a photograph of Harry Vardon in mid-swing. He dropped the ball at his feet and managed to hit it over a hundred yards on several occasions, if not always in a straight line. Once again he steadied himself, checked the photograph, raised his club and addressed the ball, an expression regularly repeated in Golf for Beginners.

He was about to take another swing when he heard a voice behind him say, ‘Keep your eye on the ball, my boy, and don’t raise your head until you’ve completed the shot. That way you’ll find the ball goes a lot further.’

Robin obeyed the instruction without question, and was indeed rewarded with the promised result, although the ball disappeared into the sea, never to be seen again.

He turned to see his instructor smiling.

‘Young man,’ he said, ‘even Harry Vardon occasionally needed more than one ball. You have potential. If you present yourself at the Southend Golf Club at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, the club’s professional will try to turn that potential into something a little more worthwhile.’ Without another word the gentleman strode off down the beach.

Robin had no idea where the Southend Golf Club was, but he did know that the local library had always managed to answer all his questions in the past.

On Saturday morning he took the number eleven bus to the outskirts of town and was waiting outside the clubhouse a few minutes before the appointed hour.

Thus began a hobby which turned into a passion, and finally became an obsession.

Robin joined his father as an apprentice at Chapman’s Cleaning Services a few days after he left school and, despite working long hours, he could still be found on the beach at six o’clock every morning practising his swing, or putting at a target on his bedroom carpet late into the night.

His progress at Chapman’s Cleaning Services and at the town’s golf club went hand in hand. On his twenty-first birthday Robin was appointed as a trainee manager with the firm, and a few weeks later he was invited to play for Southend in the annual fixture against Brighton. When he stood on the first tee the following Saturday, he was so nervous he hit his opening shot into the nearest flower bed, and he didn’t fare much better for the next nine holes. By the turn, he’d left it far too late to recover and was well beaten by his opponent from Brighton.

Robin was surprised to be selected the following week for the fixture against Eastbourne. Although still nervous, he put up a far better performance and managed to halve his match. After that, he rarely missed a first-team fixture.

Although Robin began to take over many of his father’s responsibilities at work, he never allowed business to interfere with his first love. On Mondays he would practise his driving, Wednesdays his bunker shots and on Fridays his putting. On Saturdays his brother Malcolm, who had recently completed his apprenticeship with the firm, kept a watchful eye on the shop while Robin kept his eye on the ball, until it had finally sunk into the eighteenth hole.

On Sundays, after attending church — his mother still wielded some influence over him — Robin would head for the club and play nine holes before lunch.

He wasn’t sure which gave him more satisfaction: his father asking him to take over the business on his retirement, or Southend Golf Club inviting him to be the youngest captain in the club’s history.

The following Christmas, his father sat at the head of the table as usual, puffing away on his cigar, but it was Robin who presented the annual report. He didn’t rub in the fact that the profits had almost doubled during his first year as manager, and nor did he mention that at the same time he’d become a scratch player. This happy state of affairs might have continued without interruption, and indeed this story would never have been written, had it not been for an unexpected invitation landing on the club captain’s desk.

When the Royal Jersey Golf Club wrote to enquire if Southend would care for a fixture, Robin jumped at the opportunity to visit the birthplace of Harry Vardon and play on the course that had made him so famous.

Six weeks later Robin and his team took a train to Weymouth before boarding the ferry for St Helier. Robin had planned that they should arrive in Jersey the day before the match so they would have enough time to become acquainted with a course none of them had played before. Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned for a storm breaking out during the crossing. The ancient vessel somehow managed to sway from side to side while at the same time bobbing up and down as it made its slow progress to Jersey. During the crossing, most of the team were to be found, a pale shade of green, leaning over the side being violently sick, while Robin, oblivious to their malady, strolled up and down the deck, enjoying the sea air. One or two of his fellow passengers looked at him with envy, while others just stared in disbelief.

When the ferry finally docked at St Helier, the rest of the team, several pounds lighter, made their way straight to their hotel where they quickly checked into their rooms and were not to be seen again before breakfast the following morning. Robin took a taxi in the opposite direction, and instructed the driver to take him to the Jersey Royal Golf Club.

‘Royal Jersey,’ corrected the cabbie politely. ‘Jersey Royal is a potato,’ he explained with a chuckle.

When the taxi came to a halt outside the main entrance of the magnificent clubhouse, Robin didn’t budge. He stared at the Members Only sign, and if the driver hadn’t said, ‘That’ll be two shillings, guv’, he might not have moved. He settled the fare, got out of the cab and walked hesitantly across the gravel towards the clubhouse. He tentatively opened the large double door and stepped into an imposing marble entrance hall to be greeted by two full-length oil portraits facing each other on opposite walls. Robin immediately recognized Harry Vardon, dressed in plus fours and a Fair Isle cardigan, and carrying a niblick in his left hand. He gave him a slight bow before turning his attention to the other picture, but he did not recognize the elderly, chisel-faced gentleman wearing a long black frock-coat and grey pinstriped trousers.

Robin suddenly became aware of a young man looking at him quizzically. ‘My name’s Robin Chapman,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I’m—’

‘—the captain of the Southend Golf Club,’ the young man said. ‘And I’m Nigel Forsyth, captain of the Royal Jersey. Care to join me for a drink, old fellow?’

‘Thank you,’ said Robin. He and his opposite number strolled through the hall to a thickly carpeted room furnished with comfortable leather chairs. Nigel pointed to a seat in a bay window overlooking the eighteenth hole, and went over to the bar. Robin wanted to look out of the window and study the course, but forced himself not to.

Nigel returned carrying two half-pints of shandy and placed one on the table in front of his guest. As he sat down he raised his own glass. ‘Are you a one-man team, by any chance?’ he asked.

Robin laughed. ‘No, the rest of my lot are probably tucked up in bed,’ he said, ‘their rooms still tossing around.’

‘Ah, you must have come over on the Weymouth Packet.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘but we’ll get our revenge on the return fixture.’

‘Not a hope,’ said Nigel. ‘Whenever we travel to the mainland we always go via Southampton. That route has modern vessels fitted with stabilizers. Perhaps I should have mentioned that in my letter,’ he added with a grin. ‘Care for a round before it gets dark?’

Once they were out on the course, it soon became clear to Robin why so many old timers were always recalling rounds they had played at the Royal Jersey. The course was the finest he’d ever played, and the thought that he was walking in Harry Vardon’s footsteps only added to his enjoyment.

When Robin’s ball landed on the eighteenth green some five feet from the hole, Nigel volunteered, ‘If the rest of your team are as good as you, Robin, we’ll have one hell of a game on our hands tomorrow.’

‘They’re far better,’ said Robin, not missing a beat as they walked off the green and made their way back to the clubhouse.

‘Same again?’ asked Nigel as they headed towards the bar.

‘No, this one’s on me,’ insisted Robin.

‘Sorry, old fellow, guests are not allowed to pay for a drink. Strict rule of the club.’

Robin came to a halt once again in front of the large portrait of the elderly gentleman. Nigel answered his unasked question. ‘That’s our president, Lord Trent. He’s not half as frightening as he looks, as you’ll discover tomorrow evening when he joins us for dinner. Have a seat while I go and fetch those drinks.’

Nigel was standing at the bar when a young woman came in. She walked briskly across and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and she left as quickly as she’d arrived.

From the moment she entered the room to the moment she left, Robin had been unable to take his eyes off her. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a goddess on the island,’ he said when Nigel handed him another half-pint of shandy.

‘Ah, you must be referring to Diana,’ he said as the young lady disappeared.

‘An appropriate name for a goddess,’ said Robin. ‘And how enlightened of you to allow women members.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Nigel, grinning. ‘She’s Lord Trent’s secretary.’ He took a sip of his drink before adding, ‘But I think she’s attending the dinner tomorrow night, so you’ll have a chance to meet your goddess.’

When Robin returned to the hotel later that evening, only one other member of the team felt able to join him for dinner. Robin wondered whether the rest would have recovered sufficiently to be standing on the first tee by ten o’clock the following morning. Though in truth, he was already thinking more about tomorrow evening.

Southend somehow managed a full turnout by the time the chief steward asked the two captains to tee up at the first hole.

As the visiting captain, Robin struck the first ball. Five hours later the score board showed that the Royal Jersey had beaten Southend Golf Club by four and a half matches to three and a half. Not a bad result, Robin considered, given the circumstances, but then he’d never played a better round in his life, which may have been because Diana seemed to be following Nigel around the course. Another home advantage.

After a few drinks in the clubhouse, with no sign of Diana, the Southend team returned to their hotel to change for dinner. Robin was the first one waiting in the foyer. Nervously he touched his bow tie after he’d checked with the receptionist that three taxis had been ordered for seven o’clock.

Robin didn’t speak on the journey back to the Royal Jersey, and when he led his team into the dining room, Nigel was waiting to greet him. Diana was standing by his side. Lucky man, thought Robin.

‘Good to see you again, old fellow,’ Nigel said, and turning to Diana, he added, ‘I don’t believe you’ve met my sister.’

‘You’re going to do what?’ said his father.

‘I’m going to move to Jersey, where I intend to open a branch of Chapman’s Cleaning Services.’

‘But I always thought you planned to open a second branch in Southend, while I took over the main shop,’ said Malcolm, sounding equally bemused by his brother’s news.

‘You’ll still be taking over the main shop, Malcolm, while I open our first overseas branch.’

Robin’s father seemed to be momentarily struck dumb, so his mother took advantage of this rare occurrence. ‘What’s the real reason you want to go back to Jersey?’ she asked, looking her son in the eye.

‘I’ve found the finest golf course on earth, Mother, and if they’ll have me, I intend to become a member and play on it for the rest of my life.’

‘No,’ said his mother quietly, ‘I asked for the real reason.’ The rest of the family remained silent as they waited for Robin’s reply.

‘I’ve found the most beautiful woman on earth, and if she’ll have me, I’d like her to become my wife.’

Robin boarded the boat back to Jersey the following Friday, despite having failed to answer his mother’s third question: ‘Has this young lady agreed to be your wife?’

The only thing Diana had agreed to was to join him on the dance floor for a quickstep, but during those three minutes Robin knew he wanted to hold on to this woman for the rest of his life. ‘I’ll be coming back next weekend,’ he told her.

‘But the team are playing away at Wentworth next Saturday,’ she remarked innocently.

Robin was surprised to find Diana standing on the quayside when the ferry sailed into the harbour the following Saturday. Whom had she come to meet, he wondered, and only hoped it wasn’t another man.

When he stepped off the gangway, Diana gave him the same warm smile that had remained in his mind for the past week.

‘I wasn’t sure you believed me when I said I’d be coming back,’ he said shyly as they shook hands.

‘I wasn’t sure you would,’ admitted Diana, ‘but then I thought, if the poor man is willing to give up a weekend’s golf just to spend some time with me, the least I can do is meet him off the boat.’

Robin smiled at the thought that he couldn’t even remember who Southend were playing that day, and took Diana’s hand as they walked along the causeway.

If you had asked him how they spent the weekend, all he could remember was reluctantly climbing back on the ferry on Sunday evening, after kissing her for the first time.

‘See you same time next Saturday, Diana,’ he shouted down as he leaned over the railings, but the boat’s foghorn drowned his words.

Diana was standing on the quayside the following Saturday, and every Saturday until Robin stopped taking the ferry back to Weymouth.

During the week, Robin would book a trunk call so they could speak to each other every evening. Diana spent her spare time looking at properties in St Helier that might meet his requirements. She finally found a shop on the high street whose lease was about to expire, with a hotel across the road that needed to change its bed linen and towels every day, and several restaurants that believed in spotless napkins and fresh tablecloths. Robin agreed that it was the ideal location to open a branch of Chapman’s Cleaning Services.

The following Saturday he signed a three-year renewable lease, and immediately moved into the flat above the shop. If he hadn’t won Diana’s hand by the end of the lease, and also become a member of the Royal Jersey Golf Club, he would have to admit defeat, return to the mainland and open a second branch of Chapman’s in Southend.

Although he was confident that, given time, both challenges would be surmounted, becoming a member of the RJGC turned out to be a far more difficult proposition than getting Diana to agree to be his wife.

It didn’t take long for Robin to qualify as a playing member of the Royal Jersey, and he was delighted when Nigel invited him to represent the club in the hotly contested local derby against Guernsey. Robin won his match, and proposed to Diana that night.

‘What if you hadn’t been picked for the team?’ she asked, unable to take her eyes off the small, sparkling diamond on the third finger of her left hand.

‘I’d have whisked you off to England and sunk the Weymouth ferry,’ said Robin without hesitation.

Diana laughed. ‘So, what are my champion’s plans for conquering the old guard who make up the committee of the Royal Jersey?’

‘They’ve granted me an interview next month,’ he told her, ‘so we’ll soon find out if we’re going to spend the rest of our lives in St Helier or Southend-on-Sea.’

‘Don’t forget that only one in three people who apply for full membership even get on to the waiting list,’ Diana reminded him.

Robin smiled. ‘Possibly so, but with Lord Trent as my proposer, and your brother as my seconder, I must have a better than one-in-three chance.’

‘So that’s why you asked me to marry you,’ Diana said, still staring at her ring.

When the appointed hour came for Robin to appear before the committee, he admitted to Diana that he had never been so nervous, even though everyone seated on the other side of the table seemed to smile whenever he answered their undemanding questions, and nods of approval greeted the Englishman’s detailed knowledge of the life of Harry Vardon.

Ten days later, Robin received a letter from the club secretary to say that his application had been successful and his name would be placed on the waiting list.

‘The waiting list?’ said Robin in frustration. ‘How long do they expect me to hang about before I become a member?’

‘My brother warned me,’ said Diana, ‘that if you weren’t born on the island, it usually takes ten to fifteen years.’

‘Ten to fifteen years?’ repeated Robin in disgust, before adding, ‘Lord Trent wasn’t born on the island.’

‘True,’ said Diana, ‘but at the time the committee was looking for a new president, preferably with a title, so they made him an honorary life member.’

‘And are there any other honorary life members?’

‘Only Harry Vardon,’ replied Diana.

‘Well, I’m no Harry Vardon,’ said Robin.

‘There’s one other way you could automatically become a life member,’ said Diana.

‘And what’s that?’ said Robin eagerly.

‘Win the President’s Cup.’

‘But I was knocked out in the second round last year,’ Robin reminded her. ‘In any case, your brother’s in a different class to me.’

‘Just make sure you get to the final this year,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll fix my brother.’

Robin and Diana were married at the local parish church later that summer. The vicar agreed to conduct the ceremony on a Sunday, but only because the Royal Jersey had a crucial match against Rye on the Saturday.

Robin’s father, mother and brother had travelled over on the ferry from Southampton earlier in the week, and they spent a happy few days getting to know Diana. Long before the day of the wedding, Sybil fully understood why her son had wanted to return to Jersey after one dance. When the bride walked down the aisle, she found that the ceremony was so well attended that extra chairs had been placed at the back of the church.

Mr and Mrs Chapman left the parish church of St Helier as man and wife, to be greeted with a shower of confetti thrown by Diana’s friends, while two rows of young men in RJGC blazers held up golf clubs to form an arch all the way to their waiting car.

The reception was held at the Royal Jersey, where Malcolm delivered such an accomplished best-man’s speech that it came as no surprise to Robin that Chapman’s of Southend continued to flourish in his absence.

Lord Trent rose to reply on behalf of the guests. He let slip the worst-kept secret on the island when he told everyone that the newly-weds would be sailing around the French coast on his yacht for their honeymoon, but only for ten days, because Robin needed to be back in time for the first round of the President’s Cup. Diana couldn’t be sure if he was joking.

When Mr and Mrs Chapman sailed into St Helier ten days later, the skipper informed Lord Trent that Robin had turned out to be such a good sailor that he had allowed him to take the wheel whenever he needed a break.

The following day, Robin was knocked out in the first round of the President’s Cup.

Robin and Diana quickly settled into their new home on the seafront, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Jersey, Robin had to walk to work. Eleven months later, Diana gave birth to a boy whom they christened Harry.

‘Will you do anything to become a member of that damned club?’ Diana asked her husband as she sat in the hospital bed surrounded by flowers and cards from well-wishers.

‘Anything,’ replied Robin, picking up the sleeping baby.

‘Well, I have one piece of information that might speed up the process,’ said Diana, smiling.

‘And what’s that?’ asked Robin, handing the suddenly screaming infant back to its mother.

‘My brother tells me that the St Helier lifeboat is looking for a new crew member, and as you spent more time at the helm of Lord Trent’s yacht than you did in our cabin, you must be an obvious candidate.’

‘And how will that help me get elected to the Royal Jersey?’ enquired Robin.

‘Guess who’s president of the RNLI?’ said Diana coyly.

The day after Robin failed to make the third round of that year’s President’s Cup, he filled in an application form to join the crew of the lifeboat.

Robin’s interview for a place in the lifeboat turned out to be not so much a meeting as an endurance test. John Poynton, the coxswain, put all the applicants through a series of rigorous trials to make sure only the most resilient would want to return a week later.

Robin couldn’t wait to get home and tell Diana how much he’d enjoyed the whole experience, the camaraderie of the crew, the chance to learn new skills and, most important, the opportunity to do something worthwhile. He only hoped the coxswain would take his application seriously, despite his lack of experience.

When the time came for Mr Poynton to select his new crew member, he unhesitatingly placed a tick by one name, telling his bosun that young Chapman was such a natural he wouldn’t be surprised if the man could walk on water.

As the weeks passed, Robin found himself enjoying being tested by the rigorous drills the crew were put through on the high seas. Whenever the klaxon sounded, the crew were expected to drop everything and report to the boathouse within ten minutes. Robin could never be sure if it would be just another dry run, or if this time they would be going to the aid of someone who was genuinely in distress. The coxswain regularly reminded his crew that all the hours of hard work would prove worthwhile when someone called for their assistance, and only then would they discover which of them could handle the pressure.

It was the middle of the night when the klaxon sounded, waking everyone within a mile of the boathouse. Robin leapt out of bed in the middle of a dream, just as he was taking a putt to win the President’s Cup. He switched on the light and quickly got dressed.

‘Off to see your other girlfriend?’ enquired Diana, turning over.

‘All eight of them,’ Robin replied. ‘But let’s hope I’ll be back in time for breakfast.’

‘You’ll be back,’ said Diana. ‘After all, it’s the final of the President’s Cup on Saturday, and as you’re playing my brother, you may never have a better chance of winning.’

‘I beat him in my dream,’ said Robin as he picked up his bicycle clips.

‘In your dreams,’ said Diana, smiling.

Robin was pedalling frantically through the empty streets when the klaxon sounded a second time. He pedalled even harder.

He was among the first to arrive at the boathouse, and the look on the coxswain’s face left him in no doubt that he was about to experience his first distress call.

‘We’ve had an SOS from a small sailing boat that’s capsized just off the Arden Rock,’ the coxswain told his crew as they pulled on their oilskins and sea boots. ‘It seems a young couple thought it would be fun to sail around the bay after midnight,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll be launching in a couple of minutes.’ None of the crew spoke as they climbed on board and carefully checked their stations.

‘Knock her out!’ the coxswain called to the head launcher once the last crew member had given a thumbs-up.

Robin felt a rush of adrenaline pump through his body as the lifeboat made its way across the lapping waves inside the harbour. Once they had passed the breakwater, the boat reared up and down in the open sea. None of the crew showed any sign of fear, which gave Robin confidence. They had only one thing on their minds as they each carried out their separate duties.

The lookout was the first to spot the capsized yacht. He pointed and bellowed against the high wind, ‘Nor’ nor’west, skipper, about three hundred yards.’

Robin felt exhilarated as they edged slowly towards the capsized vessel. All the drills they had practised during the past months were about to be put to the test. As they came alongside, Robin stared into the eyes of a terrified young couple, who couldn’t believe there were eight people on that little island who were willing to risk their lives to rescue them. But however much the coxswain shouted at them to catch hold of one of the grab lines, they kept clinging to the keel of their sinking yacht. Robin began to feel that nothing would make either of them let go, and, if anything, the boy looked even more terrified than his girlfriend. The waves refused to let up, making Robin wonder how long it would be before the coxswain decided his own crew was in just as much danger as the yacht. They tried one more time to manoeuvre the lifeboat alongside the stricken vessel.

When the boat was at its highest point in the water, Robin wondered if he dare risk it. It was not something to spend much time thinking about. When the bow of the boat plunged into the next wave, he leapt into the sea and with all the strength he could muster managed to grab on to the side of the yacht. He waited for the wave to rise again before he pulled himself up on to what was left of the floating wreck. With the help of the next wave he hauled himself up on to the keel and somehow managed to smile at the two disbelieving faces.

‘Take my hand!’ he hollered to the girl. After a moment’s hesitation, she released her grip on the keel and clung on to Robin’s outstretched arm. For a moment he feared she might panic and push him back into the sea.

‘You’ll have to jump when I give you the signal,’ screamed Robin above the noise of the wind. The girl didn’t look convinced. ‘Are you ready?’ he cried as the next wave headed towards them. As the lifeboat reared into the air like a startled horse, Robin shouted, ‘Now!’ and pushed her off the yacht with all the strength left in his body.

Two arms grabbed her as she landed in the water by the side of the lifeboat and hauled her unceremoniously on board. Robin waited for the next wave before the young man obeyed the same instruction. He was not as lucky as his companion, and cracked his head on the gunnel before he was finally dragged on to the boat. Robin could see blood pouring from his forehead. He knew there was a first-aid kit in the cockpit but no one would be able to open it, let alone administer any succour, during such a storm.

Robin felt the yacht sinking beneath him and his thoughts switched from the young man’s problems to his own survival. He would only have one chance before the boat disappeared below the waves.

He hunched up in a ball as he waited for the lifeboat to arch on the peak of the wave, then propelled himself towards it like an athlete bursting out of the blocks. But it turned out to be a false start because he missed the grab line by several feet and found himself floundering in the sea. His last thoughts as he sank below the unforgiving waves were of Diana and his son Harry, but then he bobbed up in a trough and a hand grabbed his hair while another clung to a shoulder and dragged him inch by inch, wave by wave, towards the boat. But the sea still refused to give him up, and when the next wave hurled him against the side of the lifeboat, he felt his arm snap. As he was dragged on to the deck he screamed, but no one heard him above the storm. He would have thanked the coxswain, but all he could manage was to unload a stomach full of seawater all over him. At least Poynton had the grace to laugh.

Robin couldn’t recall much of the journey back to port, except for the excruciating pain in his right arm and the looks of relief on the faces of the young couple he’d rescued.

‘We’ll be back in time for breakfast,’ said the coxswain as they passed the lighthouse and sailed into the relative calm of the harbour. When the crew finally disembarked, they were greeted by a cheering crowd.

Diana was standing on the quay, her eyes frantically searching for her husband. Robin smiled and waved at her with the arm that wasn’t broken.

It wasn’t until she read a full report in the Jersey Echo the following day that she realized just how close she’d been to becoming a widow. John Poynton described Robin’s decision to leave the boat to rescue the stranded couple, who undoubtedly owed their lives to him, as an act of selfless courage in the face of overwhelming odds. He had told Robin privately that he thought he was mad, and then shook him by the hand. It was the wrong hand, and Robin screamed again.

All Robin had to say while he sat propped up in a hospital bed, one arm in plaster, the other attempting to handle a spoon and a bowl of cornflakes, was, ‘I won’t be able to play in the final of the President’s Cup.’

A year later, Diana gave birth to a girl whom they christened Kate, and Robin fell in love for a second time.

Chapman’s Cleaning Services continued to flourish, not least because Robin had become such a popular member of the community, with some of the residents now treating him as if he were a local and not a newcomer.

The following year, he was elected a vice-president of the local rotary club, and when the head launcher stepped down, the RNLI committee voted unanimously to invite Robin to take his place. Despite these minor honours being bestowed upon him, he reminded his wife that he was no nearer to becoming a full member of the Royal Jersey, and as his handicap had begun to move in the wrong direction, he’d probably missed his one chance to win the President’s Cup and automatically become a life member.

‘You could always join another club,’ Diana suggested innocently. ‘After all, the Royal Jersey’s not the only golf club on the island.’

‘If I were to join another club, the committee would strike me off the waiting list without a second thought. No, I’m just going to have to be patient. After all, it should only be about another eight years before they get round to me,’ he said, not attempting to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

Diana would have laughed if the klaxon hadn’t sounded for the ninth time that year. Robin dropped his paper and leapt up from the table without a second thought. Diana wondered if her husband had any idea of the anxiety she experienced every time he was away at sea. It hadn’t helped when a few weeks earlier one of the crew had been swept overboard during an abortive rescue attempt.

Robin kissed his wife before leaving her with the familiar parting words, ‘See you when I see you, my darling.’

When he returned, four hours later, he crept quietly into bed, not wanting to wake Diana. She wasn’t asleep.

Robin smiled after he’d read the letter a second time. It was just a short note from the club secretary, nothing official, of course, but he was confident that it wouldn’t be too much longer before the committee was able to ratify his membership of the RJGC. What did ‘too much longer’ mean? Robin wondered. In theory he still had another four years to wait, and he was well aware that there were several other names ahead of his on the waiting list. However, Diana had told him that several members felt he should have been elected after he’d broken his arm and been forced to withdraw from the final of the President’s Cup.

Robin’s spell as head launcher on the lifeboat was coming to an end, as the job required a younger man. Diana couldn’t wait for the day when her husband would become more preoccupied with propelling a little white ball towards a distant hole than with rescuing helpless bodies from a merciless sea.

The following year, Robin opened a second shop in St Brêlade, and was considering a third, on Guernsey. He felt a little guilty because his brother Malcolm was now running four establishments on the mainland, and contributing far more to the company’s bottom line, while at the same time keeping an eye on his two children, who were at prep school on the mainland.

Robin was a contented man, and on his thirty-sixth birthday he promised Diana that he would serve only one more year as head launcher, even if he wasn’t elected to the Royal Jersey. He raised his glass. To the future,’ he said.

Diana raised her glass and smiled. To the future,’ she repeated, unaware that another man on the far side of Europe had other plans for Robin Chapman’s future.

When Britain declared war on Germany on 3 September 1939, Robin’s first instinct was to return to England and sign up, especially as several younger members of his crew had already found their way to Portsmouth and joined the Royal Navy. Diana talked him out of the idea, convincing him that he was too old, and in any case his expertise would be needed on Jersey.

They decided to leave the children at school in England, and Malcolm and his wife unhesitatingly agreed to look after them during the holidays.

When the German army goose-stepped down the Champs-élysees nine months later, Robin knew it could only be a matter of weeks before Hitler decided to invade the Channel Islands. Thirty thousand islanders had been evacuated to Britain, including his own children, and German bombs had fallen on St Helier and St Peter Port on Guernsey.

‘I’ll have to stay on as head launcher,’ Robin told Diana. ‘With so few young men available, they’ll never find a replacement before the war is over.’

Diana reluctantly agreed to what she imagined to be the lesser of two evils.

When Lord Trent phoned Robin at home and asked if they could have a private meeting at the club, he assumed the old man was at last going to confirm his membership of the Royal Jersey.

Robin arrived a few minutes early and the club steward ushered him straight into Lord Trent’s study. The look on the President’s face was not one that suggested glad tidings. Lord Trent rose from behind his desk, indicated that they should sit in the more comfortable leather chairs by the fire, and poured two large brandies.

‘I need to ask you a special favour, Robin,’ he said once he’d settled in his chair.

‘Of course, sir,’ said Robin. ‘How can I help?’

‘As you know, the ferries from Weymouth and Southampton have been requisitioned by the Government as part of the war effort, and although I thoroughly approve this decision, it presents me with something of a problem, as the Prime Minister has asked me to return to England at the first possible opportunity.’

Before Robin could ask why, Trent took a telegram from an inside pocket and handed it to him. Robin’s heart missed a beat when he saw the address: ‘No.10 Downing Street, London, SW1’. Trent waited until he had finished reading the telegram from Winston Churchill.

‘The Prime Minister may well wish to see me urgently,’ said Trent, ‘but he seems to have forgotten that I have no way of getting off this island.’ He took another sip of his brandy. ‘I rather hoped you might feel able to take Mary and me across to the mainland in the lifeboat.’

Robin knew that the lifeboat was never meant to leave the harbour unless it was answering a distress call, but a direct request from the Prime Minister surely allowed him to tear up the rule book. Robin considered the request for some time before he responded. ‘We’d have to slip out after nightfall, then I could be back before sunrise and no one need be any the wiser.’

‘Whatever you say,’ said Trent, command changing hands.

‘Would tomorrow night suit you, sir?’

The old man nodded. ‘Thank you, Robin.’

Robin rose from his place. ‘Then I’ll see you and Lady Trent on the quayside at nine tomorrow night, sir.’ He left without another word, his brandy untouched.

Robin was assisted by two young crew members who also wanted to reach the mainland, as they wished to join up. He was surprised by how uneventful the Channel crossing turned out to be. It was a full moon that night and the sea was remarkably calm for October, although Lady Trent proved to be a far better sailor than his lordship, who never opened his mouth during the entire voyage except when he leaned over the side.

When the lifeboat entered Weymouth harbour, a patrol boat escorted them to the dockside, where a Rolls-Royce was waiting to whisk the Trents off to London. Robin shook hands with the old man for the last time.

After a bacon sandwich and half a pint of Courage in a dockside pub, he wished his two crew members good luck before they boarded a train for Portsmouth, and he set off on the return voyage to Jersey. Robin checked his watch and reckoned he should be back in time to join Diana for breakfast.

Robin slipped back into St Helier before first light. He had just stepped on to the dock when the fist landed in his stomach, causing him to double up in pain and collapse on to his knees. He was about to protest when he realized that the two uniformed men who were now pinning him to the ground were not speaking English.

He didn’t waste any time protesting as they marched him down the High Street and into the nearest police station. There was no friendly desk sergeant on duty to greet him. He was pushed roughly down a flight of stone steps before being flung into a cell. He felt sick when he saw Diana seated on a bench against the wall. She jumped up and ran to him as the cell door slammed behind them.

‘Are they safe?’ she whispered as he held her in his arms.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘But a spell in prison isn’t going to help my membership application for the Royal Jersey,’ he remarked, trying to lighten the mood. Diana didn’t laugh.

They didn’t have long to wait before the heavy iron door was pulled open once again. Two young soldiers marched in, grabbed Robin by the elbows and dragged him back out. They led him up the stairs and out on to an empty street. There were no locals to be seen in any direction as a curfew had been imposed. Robin assumed that he was about to be shot, but they continued to march him up the high street, and didn’t stop until they reached the Bailiff’s Chambers.

Robin had visited the seat of local government many times in the past, as each new bailiff required his dress robes to be spotless on inauguration day, a ceremony he and Diana always attended. But on this occasion Robin was led into the front office, where he found a German officer seated in the Bailiff’s chair. One look at his crisp uniform suggested that he wasn’t going to enquire about Chapman’s services.

‘Mr Chapman,’ the officer said with no trace of an accent, ‘my name is Colonel Kruger, I am the new commandant for the Channel Islands. Perhaps you could start by telling me why you took Lord Trent back to England?’

Robin didn’t reply.

‘No doubt Lord and Lady Trent are enjoying breakfast at the Ritz Hotel while you languish in jail for your troubles.’ The officer rose and walked across the room, coming to a halt when the two men were standing face to face. ‘If you feel unable to assist me, Mr Chapman, you and your wife will remain in jail until there is space on a ship to transport you to the Fatherland.’

‘But my wife was not involved,’ Robin protested.

‘In normal circumstances, I would be willing to accept your word, Mr Chapman, but as your wife was Lord Trent’s secretary...’ Robin said nothing. ‘You will be sent to one of our less well-appointed camps, unless, of course, one of you decides to enlighten me on the reason Lord Trent needed to rush back to England.’

Robin and Diana remained in their tiny cell for nineteen days. They were fed on bread and water, which until then Robin had always assumed was a Dickensian myth. He began to wonder if the authorities had forgotten about them.

He managed to pick up snippets of information from those islanders who had been forced to work at the police station, but the only thing of any consequence he was able to find out was that German ships were docking at St Helier regularly to unload more soldiers, arms and ammunition.

On the twentieth morning, one of their informants told them that a ship would be arriving from Hamburg the following day, and that he had seen their names on the embarkation log for its return journey. Diana wept. Robin never slept while his wife was awake.

In the middle of the night, when they were both sleeping fitfully, the cell door was pulled open without warning. Two German soldiers stood in the doorway. One of them asked politely if Mr Chapman would join them. Robin was puzzled by the officer’s courteous manner, and wondered if this was how German soldiers behaved just before they shot you.

He accompanied the soldiers up the stairs. Was he being escorted to the ship? Surely not, or they would have taken Diana as well. Once again he was taken down the street in the direction of the Bailiff’s Chambers, but this time the soldiers walked by his side, making no attempt to hold on to him.

When he entered the Bailiff’s office, Colonel Kruger looked up from behind his desk, an anxious look on his face. He didn’t waste his words. The ship that was meant to transport prisoners to Hamburg has struck a rock just outside the harbour.’ Robin wondered which brave islander had managed to remove the warning lights. ‘It’s sinking fast,’ continued the colonel. The lives of all those on board will be lost, including several civilians, unless the lifeboat is sent out to rescue them.’ He avoided saying ‘my countrymen’.

‘Why are you telling me this, Colonel?’ asked Robin.

‘The lifeboat crew is refusing to cast off without their head launcher, so I am asking you —’ he paused — ‘begging you, to join them before it’s too late.’

Strange, the things that pass through one’s mind when faced with a moral dilemma, Robin thought. He knew the directive by heart. It is the duty of every member of the RNLI to go to the aid of anyone in distress on the high seas, irrespective of their nationality, colour or creed, even if they are at war with Britain. He nodded curtly at the colonel.

Out on the street a car was waiting, its door open, to take him to the harbour. Fifteen minutes later they cast off.

Robin and the rest of the crew returned to Arden Rock several times that night. In all, they rescued 73 passengers, including 11 German officers and 37 crew members. The remainder were civilians who had been selected to assist in the administration of the island. A cargo of arms, ammunition and transport vehicles was resting on the bottom of the ocean.

When Robin carried the last of the survivors back to the safety of the island, two German officers were waiting for him as he stepped off the lifeboat. They handcuffed him and escorted him back to the police station. As he walked into the cell, Diana smiled for the first time in days.

When the cell door was opened the following morning, two plates of bacon and eggs, along with cups of hot tea, were laid before them by a young German corporal.

‘Last breakfast before they execute us,’ suggested Robin as the guard slammed the cell door behind him.

‘It wouldn’t be hard to guess what your final request will be,’ said Diana, smiling.

A few minutes after they’d devoured their unexpected feast, another soldier appeared and told them he was taking them to the commandant’s headquarters.

‘I shall be happy to accompany you to the Bailiff’s Chambers,’ said Robin defiantly.

‘We’re not going to the Connétable,’ said the soldier. ‘The commandant has requisitioned the golf club as his new headquarters.’

‘Your final wish has been granted,’ said Diana as she and Robin settled into the back seat of a staff car, which brought a puzzled expression to the young German’s face.

When they arrived at the club, they were taken to Lord Trent’s office. Colonel Kruger stood up and offered them both a seat. Diana sat down, but Robin remained standing.

‘This morning,’ the colonel said, ‘I rescinded the order that you were to be shipped to prison in Germany, and issued a new directive, releasing you immediately. You will therefore be allowed to return to your home. Should you be foolish enough to break the law a second time, Mr Chapman, you will both be aboard the next ship that sails for Germany. Think of it as what’s called, in your country, a suspended sentence.’

The commandant once again rose from behind his desk. ‘You are a remarkable man, Mr Chapman. If your fellow countrymen are forged from the same steel, your nation may not prove quite as easy to defeat.’

‘Perhaps you should read Henry V,’ suggested Robin.

‘I have,’ replied the commandant. He paused and looked out of the window towards the weed-covered eighteenth green before adding, ‘But I’m not sure the Führer has.’

The remainder of Robin’s war turned out to be something of an anticlimax, except for those occasions when the klaxon sounded and he had to pedal furiously along the seafront to join his crew at the boathouse. He stayed on as the lifeboat’s head launcher while the Germans remained on the island.

During the occupation, members of the Royal Jersey were not permitted to enter the clubhouse, let alone play a round of golf. As the years passed, the finely tended course became so overgrown with weeds and nettles you couldn’t tell where the rough ended and the fairways began. Clubs rusted in the storeroom, and there were only tattered flags fluttering on the ends of their poles to show where the greens had been.

On 9 May 1945, the day after VE day, an advance party of English troops landed on Jersey and the German commandant on the Channel Islands surrendered.

Once the thirty-six thousand intruders had finally departed, the locals quickly did everything in their power to restore the old order. This didn’t prove easy, as the Germans had destroyed many of the island’s records, including applications for membership of the Royal Jersey Golf Club.

Other forms of life did return to normal. Robin and Diana were standing on the dockside waiting to welcome the first ferry from Weymouth when she sailed into St Helier on 12 July.

‘Oh my goodness!’ cried Diana the moment she saw her children. ‘How they’ve grown.’

‘It’s been more than five years since we last saw them, darling,’ Robin was reminding her as a young man accompanied by his teenage sister stepped on to the quayside.

The Chapman family spent six happy weeks together before Harry reluctantly returned to the mainland to take up his place at Durham University, and Kate went back to Weybridge to begin her final year at St Mary’s; both were looking forward to returning to Jersey at Christmas.

Robin was reading the morning paper when he heard a knock on the door.

‘I have a recorded delivery for you, Mr Chapman,’ said the postman. ‘I’ll need a signature.’

Robin signed on the dotted line, recognizing the crest of the Royal Jersey Golf Club stamped in the top left-hand corner of the envelope. He ripped it open and read the letter as he returned to the kitchen, and read it a second time before he handed it across to Diana.

(Secretary)

Robin swore for the first time since the Germans had left the island.

Diana could do nothing to console him, despite the fact that his brother was coming across from the mainland to spend his first weekend with them since the end of the war.

Robin was standing on the dockside when Malcolm stepped off the Southampton ferry. Malcolm was able to lift his older brother’s spirits when he told him and Diana all the news about the company’s expansion plans, as well as delivering several messages from their children.

‘Kate has a boyfriend,’ he told them, ‘and—’

‘Oh, God,’ said Robin. ‘Am I that old?’

‘Yes,’ said Diana, smiling.

‘I’m thinking of opening a fourth branch of Chapman’s in Brighton,’ Malcolm announced over dinner that night. ‘With so many factories springing up in the area, they’re sure to be in need of our services.’

‘Not looking for a manager are you, by any chance?’ asked Robin.

‘Why, are you available?’ replied Malcolm, looking genuinely surprised.

‘No, he isn’t,’ said Diana firmly.

By the time Malcolm took the boat back home to Southend the following Monday, Robin had perked up considerably. He even felt able to joke about attending the interview at the Royal Jersey. However, when the day came for him to face the committee, Diana had to escort him to the car, drive him to the club and deposit him at the entrance to the clubhouse.

‘Good luck,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. Robin grunted. ‘And don’t even hint at how angry you are. It’s not their fault that the Germans destroyed all the club’s records.’

‘I shall tell them they can stick my application form up their jumpers,’ said Robin. They both burst out laughing at the latest expression they’d picked up from the mainland. ‘Do they have any idea how old I’ll be in fifteen years’ time?’ he added as he stepped out of the car.

Robin checked his watch. He was five minutes early. He straightened his tie before walking slowly across the gravel to the clubhouse. So many memories came flooding back: the first time he had seen Diana, when she had walked into the bar to speak to her brother; the day he was appointed captain of the club — the first Englishman to be so honoured; that missed putt on the eighteenth that would have won him the President’s Cup; not being able to play in the final the following year because he’d broken his arm; the evening Lord Trent had asked him to sail him to the mainland because the Prime Minister needed his services; the day a German officer had shown him respect and compassion after he had saved the lives of his countrymen. And now, today... he opened the newly painted door and stepped inside.

He looked up at the portrait of Harry Vardon and gave him a respectful bow, then turned his attention to Lord Trent, who had died the previous year, having served his country during the war as the Minister for Food.

‘The committee will see you now, Mr Chapman,’ said the club steward, interrupting his thoughts.

Diana had decided to wait in the car, as she assumed the interview wouldn’t take long. After all, every member of the committee had known Robin for over twenty years. But after half an hour she began to glance at her watch every few minutes, and couldn’t believe that Robin still hadn’t appeared an hour later. She had just decided to go in and ask the steward what was holding her husband up when the clubhouse door swung open and Robin marched out, a grim look on his face. She jumped out of the car and ran towards him.

‘Anyone who wishes to reapply for membership cannot hope to be elected for at least another fifteen years,’ he said, walking straight past her.

‘Are there no exceptions?’ asked Diana, chasing after him.

‘Only for the new president,’ said Robin, ‘who will be made an honorary life member. The rules don’t seem to apply to him.’

‘But that really is so unfair,’ said Diana, bursting into tears. ‘I shall personally complain to the new president.’

‘I’m sure you will, my dear,’ said Robin, taking his wife in his arms. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’ll take any notice.’