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‘That’s not us, I promise. We’re punters, simple as that.’

‘In that case you’ll have the stand to yourself.’ He reached behind his back and pulled a rolled-up magazine from a trouser pocket. ‘Here,’ he said as he handed it to me, ‘on the house for a fellow Jock. It’s the programme for the week, with all the players listed. You won’t be able to buy one of these until Wednesday. That’s how early you three are. Still, if you stick around for a few hours, you should see quite a few of the top guys. This event has a high-quality entry field.’

He left us to it and headed back towards the Portakabin that seemed to be his office. We chose seats in the top row of the not-very-grandstand. One or two of the players glanced in our direction, but most of them stayed completely focused on what they were doing.

Shirley and I sat on either side of Patterson, who seemed to know his stuff as he played ‘spot the golfer’. He named quite a few stars even I’d never heard of, proving himself right when in doubt with a quick check of the programme. I concentrated on the ponytailed chap we’d followed. He was one of the oldest on the range, built like a man who’d enjoyed a few good breakfasts in his time, and with a distinctive practice routine which I guessed that he had been following on other ranges for at least a quarter of a century, and probably more. He loosened up before every shot with a huge, furious swing of the club, but when he put a ball at his feet, he struck it with a slow, controlled rhythm, sending it off into the distance with a perfect left to right fade.

I watched him for a while as he worked his way through all the clubs in his bag, then switched to another player that I recognised, a former US Open champion no less. Patterson remarked that his very presence was a sign that the Catalan Masters event was being taken seriously, and that the prize fund was attractive. I studied his form for a while. At one point he turned to speak to his coach, and noticed us in the stand. He smiled, and I heard him say, ‘Hey, we’ve got a gallery already.’ He waved in our direction. I formed the conceited impression that it was meant specifically for me, and found myself smiling back.

‘He’s a new one on me,’ Patterson murmured, drawing my attention back to him. ‘I wonder who he is.’

I followed his gaze and saw a well-muscled young man of medium height with braided hair, and skin like shiny ebony, carrying a huge golf bag along the back of the range until he found a space between two players. ‘Yes indeed,’ I whispered, as he swung the clubs from his shoulders and planted it firmly on the ground.

‘No,’ said Patterson, ‘not him; he’s a caddie. I mean his boss.’ He pointed to a guy who was following him, a few paces behind. He was quite a bit taller than the other, and his tanned face was set in serious concentration.

If we hadn’t been sitting I’d have fallen over. I felt my heart hammer as it jumped from the normal sixty-something beats per minute to rather more than twice that. My head swam, and for a split second I didn’t know who or where I was. Bizarrely, I wondered if I was dead, like those cops in purgatory in that TV series, for it was as if I was looking at someone I knew better than any man in the world, only it couldn’t be him, for he really was dead, and anyway this version was only half the age he’d have attained if he hadn’t been. My right hand was at my mouth. I bit my fingers, hard, to restore a semblance of reality.

Shirley had been looking at me. ‘Primavera,’ I heard her call out, ‘are you all right?’

I gulped and nodded, but I was speechless.

Patterson had been oblivious to my near faint. He’d been too busy leafing through the programme. ‘Got him,’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s that new lad, the kid from the last Walker Cup team. He’s just turned pro and this is his first event.’ He thrust a page in front of me. ‘There he is. Sinclair, his name is: Jonathan Sinclair.’

I had worked it out for myself by that time. I’d placed him, even though I hadn’t seen him since he was a precocious, pre-pubescent youth, not since the days when I’d been married to his uncle, his Uncle Oz. I knew how his life had developed, though; his Grandpa Blackstone was vastly proud of him, and had kept me in occasional touch with his progress as a golfer. I knew that he’d gone to university in America, on a sports scholarship, and that he’d made a name for himself on the amateur circuit. But I hadn’t seen Mac for a while, and so, while I’d been aware that turning pro had been on the cards, I’d no way of knowing that it had happened.

‘Jonny.’ I only whispered the name, but Shirley heard me nonetheless.

‘Who?’ she asked, loud enough to make the former US Open champion’s caddie throw a frown in her direction.

‘Jonny,’ I repeated. ‘I’d forgotten what his dad’s surname was. He’s Oz’s sister’s older boy.’

She stared at me, then at him, then back at me. ‘Oz’s nephew? The kid who was here when you and he were married? He’s turned into that?’ She looked at him again, a little more closely. ‘Now you tell me, yes, he does look like him. Not as much as Tom does, of course, but still. .’

Of course. It came back to me; Shirley had met him, when Grandpa Mac, Ellie and her boys had come for Christmas to the house in L’Escala that Oz and I had bought not long after we were married. For several reasons, that place, that whole time, had been a disaster for us. The only positive had been Tom’s conception, just as his parents were falling apart as a couple. Things had been pretty bad also for Shirley then. But she hadn’t reacted by taking flight, she’d done so by correcting a mistake, and buying back the house she’d sold believing wrongly that she’d be happy somewhere else. Still, tough and all as she was, my instant concern was that being hauled back to those days wouldn’t be good for her.

I should have known better. ‘Wow,’ she whistled. ‘What a honey. What age will he be now?’

‘Hmmph,’ I snorted. ‘Trust you, Mrs Gash. Young enough to be your grandson.’ I did a quick sum. Jonny would have been. . what?. . eleven back then, so. . ‘He’ll be twenty-two, I reckon.’

‘Well, if I can’t have him, what about his caddie? He’d look great in my garden.’

‘Hands off!’ I warned. ‘I saw him first.’

‘Actually,’ Patterson pointed out, affably, ‘I did.’

Shirley looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. ‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing I haven’t told you.’ He turned to me. ‘What are you going to do, Primavera?’

I leaned closer to him, as if I was trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible, which, in all probability, I was. ‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t want to interrupt his practice, that’s for sure. God, I may be the last person in the world he’d want to see. There was a lot of shit happened between his uncle and me. His mother probably hates me, so he’ll have had his card well marked about me.’

‘If he has,’ he said quietly, ‘there was an up-to-date picture on it. He’s staring at you.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘I wouldn’t, in these circumstances. No joke.’

I forced myself to look back towards the practice range. He was right; Jonny was gazing up towards the spectator stand, and there was nobody else he could have been looking at. He was frowning. Most of me wanted to be out of there. I thought about jumping off the back of the structure and legging it, but my dignity wouldn’t let me take that way out. So I let my eyes meet his.

And when I did, he smiled. ‘Auntie Primavera,’ he said. I could hear the laughter in his voice, and see my past in his wide, friendly smile. He started to move in our direction. I knew that if I stayed where I was he’d climb up to us. I didn’t want to involve Shirley and her man in such an unexpected reunion, so I rose and headed towards him, stepping over the empty seats in front and jumping down on to the ground.

‘Auntie Primavera,’ he repeated, as I stood in front of him, then he swept me up and off my feet, into unexpectedly strong arms and hugged me tight. And I hugged him back. I was feeling lots of things, but none of them was very clear to me at that point. I didn’t know whether I was happy or sad, whether I was really hugging him or whether he was a surrogate for the dead. I kissed his neck, the nearest part available, then whispered ‘Lovely to see you, Jonny. Now put me down. At least three Major champions are staring at us.’