THE BETTY McCLOUD COLLECTION    
                                                                                     BETTY STEELS IT
   
   Ted Hanson glanced through the clubhouse window, saw Betty McCloud unleash a mighty drive down the fairway into
the wind and clasped a hand to his forehead, ‘Phew, the power of that woman Henry, the gale means nothing to her.
With the outward nine directly into the teeth of it we’re looking at our first woman champion for sure. Ain’t that somethin’?’
   ‘Are we really?’ Henry Freeman muttered through clenched teeth, eyes locked on his correspondence.
  ‘Yeah,’ Hanson enthused, ‘she can wallop that ball over four hundred and fifty yards, even against strong wind. We
don’t have a guy who can match that kind of power.’
   ‘Really.’ Freeman made out like he wasn’t interested but darn it, Hutchings was right. Five foot three inches of her,
that was all there was, but stocky, packed with muscle – pretty too, he grudgingly accepted. Normally she wouldn’t have
a chance of winning the club’s prestigious tournament but this year for once, the high wind came into play with all Betty
McCloud’s strength pitted against it. The show could be all over in the outward nine holes, the backward nine wouldn’t
matter. She had little natural skill but that counted for nothing in weather forecast for the coming week.
   ‘Hey, would you look at that,’ Hanson gasped with a clap of his hands, ‘she never bothered playing down the fairway,
she’s taken the short cut across the mere, smashed straight over it, made the green in two – most guys couldn’t make
that drive wind assisted let alone headlong into the gale. Did you ever see anything like that? Awesome…’

Henry Freeman got to his feet, joined his fellow director at the window. He said nothing, just swallowed, but if Betty
McCloud muscled her way to a tournament victory
the country club would be a laughing stock, no matter that there wasn’t a man for miles around who could match her
strength.
   Laughing stock – no way could that be allowed to happen.
   Hanson saw the look on Freeman’s face, ‘What is it – something bothering you Henry?’ Then it clicked, ‘Ah, it’s the
prospect of McCloud winning, that right?’
   ‘Yeah,’ Freeman snapped, hurrying down the stairs, she’s got about as much golfing skill as my Aunt Agatha. Why
can’t she flex her muscles in another sport. It can’t happen Ted.’
   ‘Well – I don’t see  why not…’ Hanson stopped, surprised at the ferocity in Freeman’s look, ‘then how do we stop her?’
   Freeman opened his car door, slipped inside, ‘Short of driving a tank straight at her I haven’t a clue – but I’ll think of
something.’
   ‘I suppose we could call it off – inclement weather?’
   Freeman shook his head, ‘Nah – too much invested, and besides in one way or another, McCloud is making a name
for herself; if the press witness her little power show they’ll know we’ve cooked it up.’
   He slipped a hand across his mouth, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
   But Freeman’s car had fired into life and Hanson was left to speculate on what his co-director had in mind.
                              *                                              *                                          *
    
    Betty said nothing to Debbie as she drove her home, her mind absorbed by the faces at the club house window. Ted
Hanson she could stomach but not co-director Henry
Freeman, the animosity in his grey eyes had been apparent from the start. He knew what she knew: she might not be
the best golfer in the world but she had phenomenal power – a woman who could out-muscle the guys given the
conditions – and for once the conditions were in her favour. Henry Freeman wasn’t set on allowing it to be that way. He
had something up his sleeve, of that she was sure.
   ‘See you bright and early tomorrow then – well early at any rate,’ Betty glanced at the lowering clouds, the wind
gusted stronger and rain seemed on the way – ‘hey and thanks a lot for caddying for me – it’ll be a great help.’
   Debbie looked back, ‘You don’t need any help. You’ll walk it.’
    Betty frowned, planned on a little evening practice before the main event. A couple of hours later she was out back,
gazing down the clearing between the pines at the rear of her home. Little used, apart from the odd service vehicle it
provided the perfect practice range.
   She’d a quarter mile leeway before the track twisted away and thick woodland took hold, and with her massive range
that woodland was within reach. She’d learned the hard way with numerous lost balls in the undergrowth. But that
evening, to account for the back nine holes she concentrated on direction rather than power.
   If she’d have cracked the ball as far as normal Betty would have been aware of the sedan that pulled to a halt just
before the twist in the track, its engine idling then cut, but she was practising drives of little over two hundred metres and
managing for once to keep to the distance.
   For that reason alone she wasn’t aware of the problem that was to beset her the following morning...
   
   Her Dodge truck had sounded throaty from the outset, but upon collecting Debbie it gurgled and spluttered and then
died, to Betty’s frustration and mounting anger.
   She barrelled her fist, smashed it on the wheel, the fuel gauge was showing red. The tank had been three-quarters
full. Henry Freeman – his work, had to be, she could practically smell it.
   ‘What’s up Miss? We broken down?’
   ‘No – we’re out of gas Debbie,’ Betty did her best to conceal her temper from the youngster but she was in a mood to
bend a club round Henry Freeman’s neck for this –‘I’m afraid we won’t make it…’
   ‘Don’t speak too soon,’ Debbie grabbed her cell phone and made several eager taps on the keypad – ‘Lizzie, Lizzie,’
she shouted down the phone, ‘Miss McCloud’s got problems, we’re out of gas. What’s that – you’ll run us over?’
   Debbie nudged her teacher, ‘It’s okay Miss. We’re in luck – my sister’s free, she’ll be right across.’
   ‘Across from where?’
   ‘Browville.’
   ‘Oh Debbie,’ Betty spurted, ‘that’s five miles away, we’re less than thirty minutes from registration deadline.’
   ‘Don’t worry,’ Debbie placed a hand on Betty’s shoulder, ‘she’s quick,’ and seeing the worried look on her face, ‘and
safe.’
   ‘She’d better be,’ Betty breathed deeply, and Debbie sensed her agitation.
  ‘How come you run out of gas Miss?’
   Betty tensed, her triceps stretching the fabric of her red cardigan, ‘It wasn’t an accident Debbie, someone siphoned it
out…’
   ‘But why Miss?’
   ‘I’ll leave that to your imagination.’
   ‘Ah,’ Debbie nodded knowingly, ‘it’s Mr. Freeman isn’t it. He doesn’t like you; I’ve seen the look on his face.’
   ‘If you must know, he doesn’t want a woman winning. I reckon he feared this would happen sooner or later, in the
three years I’ve been here I’ve gathered that much. I don’t like making enemies but I’ve made a few, and I’m making
another one here. I feel like spanking him instead of the ball.’
   ‘Don’t let him get to you Miss,’ Debbie said sternly, ‘you just go right out there and show what you can do – hey look –
here’s Lizzie now…’
   ‘Thanks Debbie,’ Betty slapped her pupil’s arm.
   And Debbie’s sister was quick, collecting and transporting them to the clubhouse within a minute of the check-in
deadline.
   
   Henry Freeman was manning the reception desk when she rushed in; Betty saw him glance at his watch, saw the set
of his lips, the grim look on his wizened face and wasn’t surprised when he shook his head, ‘I’m sorry Miss McCloud, the
check-in deadline’s passed – you’re too late I’m afraid,’ he added without taking his eyes off his paperwork..
Betty thrust her hands on hips, spoiling for a fight – he was hell-bent on thwarting her, even now. ‘The clock behind you
tells me I’ve a minute left – your ruse failed Mr. Freeman, so now you’re taking a second bite…’
   Freeman sniffed through his long nostrils, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
   
   Betty stood defiant, looking into the eyes of a man almost a foot taller, ‘A little siphoning, perhaps you’re frightened a
woman – meaning me – will win, isn’t that right?’
   ‘How dare you accuse…’
   ‘Henry, I feel we’re being a little unfair,’ co-director Hanson came from the office, ‘I reckon Miss McCloud just made it.
We must allow her to take part.’
   Freeman’s face might have contained charcoal the way it shaded as he stomped away.
   Hanson placed a hand on Betty’s wrist and smiled, ‘Go blast that ball Betty, give us something to remember.’
   Betty returned the smile, placed her free hand on top of his and gave a squeeze, ‘I intend to.’
   Ted was an engaging character, a young-looking forty five or thereabouts she reckoned; dark wavy hair, nice
attitude. Shame she couldn’t say the same about Freeman.
   Betty locked eyes with Hanson before steeling herself, time to move on and boss the show.
   Except that she couldn’t boss the show, her drive off the first tee was woefully weak and batted back by the gale.
Betty gave Debbie a frustrated, worried glance, it seemed that after all her strength was going to take second place to
the wind. ‘I can’t do it, the wind’s too strong, it’s got the better of me.
   
   Debbie gripped her hand, ‘Nonsense – Miss,’ she snatched the Wood away from her teacher, ‘it’s just that you lost
your fluency, you snatched at the shot – it’s Henry Freeman whose getting the better of you and he knows it – look,’
   Betty followed Debbie’s gaze, across to where a larger than usual group of onlookers were gathered, ‘And you’re
disappointing the people who’ve turned up to watch this – they’re rooting for you.’ Betty caught Henry Freeman’s profile,
he was prominent among them, and saw the smug, triumphant look on his face.
   ‘Dammit, I think you’re right Debbie.’ Betty’s and Freeman’s eyes met, seemed to burn into each other, before Betty
marched to the ball, selected a club and squared her shoulders. The flag was five hundred yards distant, out of bounds
to all, impossible to reach in a single shot, surely.
   ‘Go on Miss,’ Debbie urged, ‘Use your power, but don’t you tense up.’
   Seconds later Betty McCloud unleashed a mighty sweep, the ball became a blur and whistled defiantly through the
wind. The crowd gasped and applauded as it landed on the green, a mere ten yards from the flag.
   Betty glanced back, saw Henry Freeman shaking his head while Ted Hanson punched the air in delight. Debbie
couldn’t contain her enthusiasm, she leapt up and down, ‘Wow Miss, you’re something else. You’ll devastate, no crush
them, just take time with your putting eh?’
   
   Betty did, she putted better than ever before and Debbie watched as hole after hole Betty birdied, sometimes even
eagled in atrocious winds.
   ‘Ease up now,’ Debbie whispered as they encountered the wind assisted backward nine, ‘you’re trouncing them, the
power game’s over and done – just hold par, take it easy…’
   ‘I’ll have to, I’m dead beat,’ Betty mopped her brow and for the first time in Debbie’s memory her teacher actually
looked tired.
   But she held on, she did hold par, dropping just two shots on the backward nine to finish five shots ahead of the field.
   In front of the clubhouse, to a rousing reception, Ted Hanson handed her the trophy; Henry Freeman being nowhere
to be seen. ‘Well done, Miss McCloud,’ Hanson smiled as he shook her hand, ‘tremendous power but magnificent timing,
contrary to what some folk would have us believe, there are aspects of your game that have been grossly
underestimated. Great.’
   ‘Why thank you Mr. Hanson,’ Betty took the trophy in her hands, took a quick look down as her biceps swelled her
cardigan and gave a coy smile, ‘There’s more to me than muscle you know.’
  ‘I do realise that, I’ve noticed, believe me. I take it that you’ll frequent the country club a little more often now?’
  ‘Perhaps, Mr. Hanson, perhaps.’
                                    *                                     *                                       *
 
    ‘Fantastic Miss,’ Debbie smacked her hands together, ‘I knew you could do it.’
   ‘It was thanks to you that I did. I was letting Freeman overawe me.’
   ‘Guess the other guy stood up for you, yes?’
   ‘Ted. Yeah. What a guy.’
  Debbie went quiet, then prodded Betty with her finger, ‘How come you haven’t got a fella Miss McCloud?’
   ‘How do you know I haven’t?’
   ‘Cos I’ve never seen one.’
   ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t have a love life.’
   ‘So you have?’
   ‘I didn’t say that.’
   ‘But you like Mr.Hanson, don’t you? What will you say if he asks for a date?’
   Betty kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, ‘That’s a hypothetical question, Debbie.’
   ‘Say again Miss?’
   Betty couldn’t help smiling, ‘You heard.’