Arnold Mashie was sitting in a deckchair when the call came to him. He was dozing in the afternoon sunshine when he happened to look up. Clouds parted and a throng of angels, each holding a golden putter, descended upon his lawn. They spoke to him of the wisdom of golf. At that instant he knew a life without golf is not worth living.
And then there was Ned Barker. He had been painting the side of the village post office when it happened to him. There was a reflection in the paint. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed them with the tail of his shirt. He peered closer, and could just make out the image of a number 9 iron.
Two days later at breakfast, he saw the outline of a golf bag burned into his toast. And his fried egg looked like a putting green. This was not a normal start to the day. He decided it was a far better thing to go back to bed.
In the quiet of Ned’s bedroom he heard a faint song as if from across a great distance. It was a woman singing. Such a soothing voice. The Call to Golf is a song no one can resit. Its power is too great. The song called to him to follow.
Something deep inside Ned said no to the siren call. But the voice was warm and liquid. He pictured the singer in his mind’s eye: driver slung over her shoulder looking at him straight in the eye. Her’s was a voice of pleasure. The voice was all around him now. He bathed in its sound.
And then he remembered no more until he woke up in the back seat of a little car outside of a pub he didn’t recognize.