There are few combinations better than beer and bowls, mused Dex Newcombe from a wicker chair in the Menton Bowls Club bar. A verti-cutter’s baritone drone ushered in the sweet summer smell of freshly-mown grass and amber sunbeams danced from his glass onto bleached pictures on the dark paneled walls. Some were of tournaments predating the Great War though, now, showed little more than outlined shades of gray and white.

Old bowlers never die, Dex thought, they just fade away.

And, so it seemed, had his touch with the bowls over the last couple of days.

Custom called for the winner to buy so Alf Walters left five bucks on the counter and joined Dex at the small table.

          “Cheers, Alf,” said Dex, “Seems I forgot my wallet today.”

          Alf stifled a laugh and turned back to the bar. “Did you hear that, Earle? He’s saying he lost only ‘cause he couldn’t afford to win.”

          Earle Conley looked up from his racing forms. “That doesn’t explain his bar tab, Alf.”

In lawnbowling years, Dex Newcombe was barely out of shorts despite the fact he was a mere decade from early retirement. Still, when it came to forming a team the MBC veterans would often solicit the skills of “Young Derek” because Young Derek had his name engraved on nearly every trophy in the case.

Alf supped the foam from his mug then looked at Dex.

“Three days to the Canadian Championship. Are you ready?”

For a moment Dex gazed through the window, his throat suddenly tight.

“Yeah, although it doesn’t seem right to go without George. It was his dream to take our flag onto Victoria’s green. He coached, I bowled. Now, just when everything has come together, I’m a team of one.”

“He had a lovely memorial, Dex, and you spoke well of him, but you’ve got to play the hand you’re dealt.”

“I know, but his heart could’ve given him another week.”

Alf nodded. “We’re going to miss him, especially out there. When I think of the state those rinks used to be in, he did wonders. We often joked that he slept in the equipment shed.”

       “He did, one night,” said Earle, from the bar. “He was bowling a tournament with his wife, never a good idea, and they got into a row. Doreen drove home before George could even gather his bowls, then locked him out. 'Course, Ol George was too embarrassed to go anywhere else so he slept on bench pads in the shed. Harry Kaye found him with an empty whisky bottle, the next morning, still wearing his tournament whites.”

“Aye, that’s right,” said Alf, chuckling. “George were twice the size, but he was no match for Doreen.”

“And that Doreen were a fine Scottish beauty in her day.” This from Charlie Hammond who had just come off the green with Reg Whyte. “George billeted with her family during commando training. They’d been married forty-seven years when she died - emphysema wasn’t it, Alf?”

Alf studied his beer. “Aye. A sad day, that was.”

Behind the bar Earle pulled a pint. “Who’s call is it, Chas?”

“Afraid it’s mine, and you’d better give Reggie a large one.”

“That bad was it.”

Reg groaned. “I couldn’t hit that little white ball to save my life.”

“Don’t worry, lad. You get days like that. Tomorrow you’ll do no wrong.”

Charlie thumbed through his billfold. “Got any Glenfiddich back there?”

Earle put the bottle on the bar.

“Pour out five tots, Earle. In memory of Doreen.”

Charlie distributed the shots then said, “Gentlemen. Doreen!”

“Doreen!”

The fiery liquid created it’s own moment of silence.

“Those last years were the hardest for George,” Alf said. “He sold his car to retrofit the house so Doreen could stay home. He only left her side to shop, and do his duties out yonder.” He nodded to the perfectly flat expanse of grass. “I’d pick him up and he’d always tell her ‘Won’t be long, Luv. Just goin’ over the green.’”

“And a fine job he did, too,” said Reg, staring out the window. “Not like that bloke from the Parks Department. What does the Town think it knows about bowling greens?”

“It knows politics and money,” said Dex. “We might own the clubhouse but the green is leased. And if a budget isn’t justified, in this case with labour costs, it gets cut back.” He stood up to go to the bar, but added, “I’ll give the Town credit, they didn’t take over the job until George left it.”

“Perhaps so,” said Reg, “but they sure grabbed the keys quick once he was gone.”

There was a murmur of general agreement, and mugs were raised while they pondered that event.

Alf suddenly smiled. “Hey, remember the chap who blamed his lack of talent on the turf? He called it “a poor excuse for a cow pasture”, and George was right there on the rink beside him.”

“Dunsworth from Littledale!” chimed in Charlie. “I thought he’d drawn his last breath but George simply walked over, picked Dunsworth’s bowls off the green and chucked them into the parking lot. ‘See if they roll any better, there, Mate!’ he said, and calmly went back his game.”

“Yet he’d give you the shirt from his back,” said Dex, who had returned with more beer and a tray of shots. “In fact, it was he that paid Elsa Dyer’s dues on her final season. A more generous man you’ll never find. Gentlemen, here’s a toast to George McCready.”

“To George McCready!” The glasses banged down in unison.

“Wherever you are,” intoned Reg.

“Actually, Reg,” said Earle. “He’s here.”

“Here? Where?”

“Over there. In the trophy case.”

As one, they looked to the cabinet. There, amid the tarnished cups and old wooden plaques, sat a slim shiny vase neatly engraved with the occupant’s name and the dates of his birth and death.

“Hello, Chum,” said Charlie. “We were just talking about you.”

“What on Earth is he doing there?” said Reg.

“Reverend Jon came to use the bowls polisher, and dropped him off,” said Earle.

Reg was incredulous. “Dropped him off!”

“Well, he said George always wanted the club to be his final resting place. We can’t keep him here, though; the Ministry of Health has a thing about human remains in pubs.”

The situation required a deep drink to fully comprehend.

“I’d say the solution was obvious,” said Dex, coming up for air. “George ought to be scattered on the green.”

They all turned to the window. Except Reg. He’d gone to the cabinet and had the urn reverently cradled in his arms. “I’d say Sunshine has finished cutting the grass. Let’s do it now.”

“Trent,” said Earle

“What?”

“Sunshine. His name is Trent.”

“Oh. Right,” said Reg. “Well, are you lads coming?”

With that, the five of them single-filed from the bar with all the gravity of several beer and a half bottle of Scotch.

Trent had just locked the shed when the procession formed a circle on the green. He approached as Reg removed the lid from the urn.

“May I ask just what you’re planning to do with that,” he said.

“You may,” said Reg. “We’re planning to scatter our friend over the green.” He waved his arm in pantomime.

Trent’s eyes widened. “The hell you are!”

“I will ask you to mind your language, Sir,” said Reg. “This is a funeral. Either respect the deceased or be off with you!” He looked into the urn and shook it slightly.

“Be off with you, more like,” asserted Trent. “Not only is this Town property but it’s public land, and live people don’t want to be walking all over dead people. Either put your friend back where you found him or get charged with public mischief, and tampering with a corpse.”

Trent herded them from the green and locked the gate. “I also suggest you have some coffee, and maybe a talk with Reverend Baines.”

“He’s the one who dropped him off, you stupid git,” muttered Reg as they trooped back to the clubhouse.

Resuming their drinks, Charlie said, “We could just go over the fence, at night.”

“Hands up all those with plastic knees and hips,” responded Alf. “Besides, all the vandalism lately has prompted more patrols; and snowbirds with rap sheets have a hard time crossing the border.”

“Don’t worry, mates,” said Dex, studying the message board by the door. “I see a simple way to accomplish the mission, and get our pal Trent to help.” He ran a finger down the maintenance schedule. “Earle, are George’s spare keys still in the cash register?”

“They are.”

“In that case, we meet by the gate, tomorrow at Noon. Let’s synchronize our watches.”

Dex parked his van beside the frost fence and nodded to Alf who stood waiting by his car.  Moments later, Reg drove in then Earle came from the clubhouse, wiping his hands on a cloth. Earle tipped his head toward the street. “Trent drove off about twenty minutes ago. The gate is open, though.”

Dex peered through the fence. The equipment shed was also open, and a fertilizer spreader sat on the end rink.

“Everything looks ready. Any idea where Charlie is?”

“He phoned the clubhouse. Said he’d be a minute or two late. So what’s the plan?”

       “I thought you’d never ask,” said Dex, checking his watch. “According to the schedule, the grass gets a treatment today. So last night I used the spare keys to get into the shed. I mixed George’s ashes into the fertilizer and resealed the bag with one of those kitchen heat sealers. All we have to do is sit back while Trent scatters our friend, in a most even fashion, over the green he so loved.”

“That is brilliant!” said Reg.

“Speak of the devil, here comes Trent,“ said Alf, moving toward a bench. “If Charles doesn’t hurry he’ll miss the show.”

Trent backed his truck to the gate and jumped out.

“No bowling today, Folks, I have work to do.”

“Not a problem,” said Alf. “We’ve just come to see a friend off.”

Trent looked suspiciously at their bright smiles then pulled a large brown bag from the truck. As he carried it to the spreader, Dex’s face soured.

“What’s in the bag, Trent?”

“Fungicide.”

Dex felt the sourness go to his stomach. “Isn’t there a yellow bag full of it in the shed?”

“That was weed and feed. Wrong stuff. I had to take it back to the Co-op.”

Like magic, his words turned the foursome to stone. Immobile, they paled at the implication until the spell was suddenly broken by the unmistakable skirl of bagpipes. Decked in full parade regalia, Charlie Hammond squeezed the tartan bag under his arm and marched defiantly through the gate.

“Charlie. No!” cried Dex, waving his arms, but was drowned out by the piper who winked at him and, with swaying kilt and tassels, made a loud and spirited circuit of the rinks. The scotsman let sound drain from the pipes only as he came back to the gate. His air of triumph deflated faster, however, on seeing the ashen looks of his mates.

“Was it that bad?”

Dex was already pushing the others through the gate. “Charlie. In the van. Now!”

The Menton Co-op was lunchtime busy but Dex finally managed to grab a clerk.

“Where do you keep the weed and feed?” he asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I think we’re all out,” replied the clerk and made to move on.

Charlie blocked his path. “A bag just came back, son.”

The clerk took in the kilt and the plumed cap. Somewhat nervously he called over his shoulder, “Ray. We got any weed and feed?”

“A bag was just returned,” came Ray’s voice from the next aisle. “But it went right out again with Henk DeVries.”

Ray was on the stocking ladder so didn’t get trampled.

Dex stood on the first step. “Please, tell me you know where he lives.”

“Henk has an account. I could find out.” Ray began to descend. “Is it a matter of life or death?”

“Death, mostly,” said Reg.

Fifteen minutes later the van crunched up a driveway off Station Lane. It skidded to a halt amidst a cloud of dust but no-one jumped out. They were too late.

Beside the house lay a flattened yellow bag, and a few yards beyond it a tall man in rubber boots and coveralls leaned over to tip the last few grains from his spreader.

Dex dropped his head to the steering wheel. The others just sat in silence.

Alf moved first and pulled the door release. “Bring your pipes, Charles. We may as well finish it off proper.”

Henk met them by the garage. His countenance questioning yet amiable.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” said Reg, offering his hand. “We’re from the Turf Research Institute. Could we possibly inspect the plot you’ve just fertilized?”

“Sure,” replied Henk. “I’m hoping this stuff works, the bag said it had a special additive.”

“And so it does,” said Reg, being the only one who could look Henk in the eye at that particular moment. “In fact, we’re working on a nutrient that’s released by certain sounds.” He glanced at Charlie. “Would you mind if we tried a few notes?”

Henk’s glance at Charlie was rather more bemused.

“Why not. I’ve been trying to get grass to grow over that septic tank for years. You’d think with all the natural stuff below it would be no problem. Are your colleagues feeling alright?”

For Alf and Dex the absurdity finally over-rode the tension. Unable to contain themselves, they sought sanctuary behind the van. Biting hard on the mouthpiece, Charlie pumped up the bag and played ‘Oft in the Stilly Night’ with all the solemnity he could muster.

They told Henk they’d return for a progress check in a few months and climbed into the van. Somberly, they drove back to town.

       “Whatever the protocol is,” said Reg, eventually, “Jon Baines ought to be notified where George ended up.”

Dex thumped the steering wheel. “I can’t believe I got my best friend’s ashes scattered on top of sewage pit. How could I be so stupid!”

“Don’t thrash yourself, Young Derek. Your heart was in the right place,” said Alf. “Reg is right, though. We’d better stop at the rectory. Then we’ll have to tell Earle.”

       Reverend Jon Baines met them at the door with a hearty greeting, then ushered them in when their less than luminous smiles indicated something was wrong. He insisted on making tea before hearing their tale. Once they’d told all, however, he left his chair and paced the carpet with his head down. When he stopped, he stood before them and said, “I, too, have a confession. Two nights ago, I scattered George McCready’s remains over the Menton Bowls Club green.”

Stunned, his audience stared at him with mouths agape.

There was a soft clink as Alf put his cup on the saucer. “But there was ash in the urn.”

“From my fireplace. A nice cherry wood, actually.”

“Well that explains why George smelled like a campfire,” said Dex. “So why the subterfuge?”

Reverend Jon gave a wan smile. “I was buying time. You see, George’s only relative is an older brother receiving palliative care in Guernsey. While I felt it unlikely the brother would want the ashes sent over, and knew that our friend wished to remain on the green, if you’ll pardon the pun, there are still sensibilities to consider. In the end, I decided to grant George’s last request then display the urn unobtrusively in the Club until the time was right to scatter my cherry wood elsewhere.

“However,” he sighed, “it appears that you gentlemen have done it in a more dramatic fashion than I ever could.”

 “Aargh” groaned Charlie. “You mean I played ma pipes over some guy’s shyte tank for nothing!”

“Maybe not,” said Reg. “Sonic fertilization could be the next big thing!” He raised an arm to fend off Charlie’s cap.

Dex was limp with relief. “Well I have to tell you, Jon. You really had me going. I almost dropped out of the Nationals in penance.”

The Reverend’s brow creased in sympathy. He dug into his pocket. “I was going to give you this at the send-off.” He pressed a small round tin into Dex’s hand.

“What’s in it?”

The Reverend gave another flat smile. "When I got home that other night, and found ashes left in the urn, I realized that George had unfinished business. We all know how much he wanted to be with you in Victoria." He patted Dex on the back. “See your friend onto the green, Young Derek, then make us proud.”

Dex massaged the tin and felt it grow warm between his palms. For the second time in two days, his throat was tight. He surveyed the room, taking in the earnest faces of his friends then, in a voice deep with conviction,  he said, “That we will, Gentlemen. That we will.”

- END -