The allotment golfers had come to something of a critical stage in their game. They had by now reached the eighteenth “green” and Omally had but to sink a nine-foot putt across Reg Watling’s furrowed spinach patch to take the match. Betting had been growing steadily during the morning’s play and with each increase in financial risk the two men had grown ever more tight-lipped, eagle-eyed, and alert to the slightest infringement of the rules.

Omally spat on his palms and rubbed them together. He stalked slowly about his ball and viewed it from a multiplicity of angles. He scrutinized the lie of the land, tossed a few straws into the air and nodded thoughtfully as they drifted to earth. He licked his finger and held it skyward, he threw himself to the ground and squinted along his putter sniper fashion. “Right then,” said the broth of a boy. “It looks like child’s play.”

Pooley, who was employing what he referred to as “the psychology”, shook his head slowly. “That would be at least a three to the sinking I would believe.”

Omally gestured over his shoulder to the water-butt wherein lay Pooley’s ball. “You would be phoning for Jacques Cousteau and his lads, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Pooley shrugged. “That is an easy shot compared to this.”

Omally sniggered. “Keep your eye on the ball, Jim,” he advised.

Omally’s putting technique bore an uncanny resemblance to that practised by seasoned Yorkshire batsmen at the Oval. The putter had a tendency to dig well in on such occasions, sometimes to a depth of some three inches or more, and once beyond digging range. There was generally a fair amount of lift on the ball, although the Now Official Handbook of Allotment Golf suggested that any balls putted above shoulder height should be considered as drives and the player penalized accordingly.

Omally squared up his ball whilst Pooley continued to employ “the psychology”. He coughed repeatedly, rustled sweet papers in his pocket and scuffed his blakey’d heels in the dust. “Is that a Lurcher or a Dane?” he asked, pointing towards some canine of his own creation.

Omally ignored him. There was big beer money on this shot. John suddenly swung the putter in a blurry arc and struck deeply behind his ball, raising a great clod of earth, which is referred to in golfing circles as a divot. The ball cannonaded across the allotment, with a whine like a doctored torn struck a section of corrugated iron fencing, bowled along Old Pete’s herbaceous border, and skidded to a halt a mere inch from the eighteenth hole.

Omally swore briefly, but to the point, flung down his putter and turned his back upon the wanton pill.

“Bad luck,” said Pooley, amid an ill-concealed snigger. By way of consolation, he added, “It was a brave try. But would you prefer that I pause a moment before sinking my ball, on the off chance that an earth tremor might secure you the match?”

Omally kicked his golf bag over.

“Steady on,” said Pooley.

John turned upon him bitterly, “Go on then, Jimmy boy,” he sneered, “let us see you take your shot.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Won’t I, though?”

Pooley tapped at his nose. “Care to up the betting a trice?”

Omally stroked his chin. “From the water-butt in one, that is what you are telling me?” Pooley nodded. “Unless you, like the Dalai Lama, have mastered the techniques of levitation and telekinesis, which I do not believe, I do not rate your chances.”

“You will kick yourself afterwards.”

Omally spat on to his palm and slapped it into that of his companion. “All bets are doubled, will that serve you?”

“Adequately.” Pooley strolled over to the water-butt. With the lie of the land, it certainly was in a perfect line for the hole. Just down a slight slope and into the depression where lay the eighteenth.

“I shall play it from here,” said Jim, turning his back upon the target.

Omally stuck his hands into his pockets. “As you please,” said he.

“I will play it with a mashie if you have no objections.”

“None whatever.” Omally selected the club and handed it to his companion. Pooley leant forward and chalked a small cross at the base of the water-butt. Drawing back, he grasped the club hammerlike in his right fist and with a lewd wink struck the ancient zinc tank a murderous blow.

It was a sizeable hole and the water burst through it with great enthusiasm. Bearing down with the sudden torrent, and evidently much pleased to be free of its watery grave, Pooley’s ball bobbed along prettily. It danced down the slight incline, pirouetted about the eighteenth hole, as if taking a final bow, then plunged into it with a sarcastic gurgle.

“My game,” said Pooley rubbing his hands together. “Best we settle up now, I think.”

Omally struck his companion a devastating blow to the skull. Jim collapsed into a forest of bean poles but rose almost immediately with a great war cry. He leapt upon Omally, catching him around the waist and bearing him towards the now muddy ground. “Poor loser!” he shouted, grinding his thumb into Omally’s right eye.

“Bloody damn cheat,” the other replied, going as ever for the groin.

The two men were more than equally matched, although Omally was by far the dirtier fighter. They bowled over and over in the mud, bringing into play a most extraordinary diversity of unsportsmanlike punches, low kicks and back elbows. They had been tumbling away in like fashion for some ten minutes, doing each other the very minimum amount of damage, yet expending a great deal of energy, when each man suddenly became aware that his antics were being observed.

Some twenty yards or so away, a solitary figure in a grey coverall suit stood silently watching. At the distance it was difficult to make out his features clearly, but they seemed wide and flat and had more than the suggestion of the Orient about them.

The two men rose from the ground, patting away at their clothes. The fight was over, the ref’s decision being a draw. They beat a hasty retreat to the doubtful safety of Pooley’s allotment shed. Through a knot-hole in the slatted side they squinted at the grey figure. He was as immobile as a shop-window dummy, and stared towards them unblinkingly in a manner which the sensitive Jim found quite upsetting. He was of average height with high cheek-bones and a slightly tanned complexion and bore a striking resemblance to a young Jack Palance.

Pooley sought about for his tobacco tin. “I don’t like the look of this,” he said.

Omally, who had liberated Pooley’s tin from his pocket during the fight, was rolling a cigarette behind his back. “He is probably some workman chappy,” he suggested, “or possibly a bus conductor or site engineer from the gas works.” The hollow tone in Omally’s voice was not lost upon his companion.

“He has more of the look of a municipal worker to me,” said Jim, shaking his head dismally. “A park-keeper perhaps, or…”

“Don’t say it,” said John. “Some spy from the Council come to inspect the allotment?”

Pooley clenched his fists. “This is all too much. Discriminated against and ostracized from the Council courses, now tracked down here for further discrimination and ostracization, hounded down because of our love of the game. It is all too much to bear. Let us kill him now and bury his body.”

Omally agreed that it was all too much to bear but thought Pooley’s solution a little drastic. “All may not be lost,” he said. “He may have only just arrived and may only have witnessed our slight disagreement regarding the excellence of your trick shot. He may not suspect the cause.”

Pooley gestured through a broken window-pane to where his golf caddy, a converted supermarket trolley, stood bristling with its assortment of unmatched clubs.

Omally hung his head. “The game is up,” said he in a leaden tone.