The Players (9 page)

So he did not try to make it. Just before they reached that final curve Mike jammed the accelerator to the floor and prayed for the last reluctant ounce of power from the little engine. A gap of inches opened for a moment between him and the Jag, and instead of trying to wheel around the curve at that deadly speed Mike steered straight ahead.

He shot off the road, through a shallow ditch, and up into the field beyond. The Ford jounced and leaped over hummocks and small boulders. Mike, who had ignored the seat belt as usual, banged his head on the roof, his knees on the steering wheel, and other parts of his body on various protrusions before the car dived hub deep into a marsh and stopped.

Mike sat there for a moment while his head cleared. Then he pushed open the door and staggered out to stand beside the car. His head hurt like fury.

Back on the road, some thirty yards behind him now, the Jaguar had negotiated the curve without trouble and continued on past the alder grove. There the driver brought it to a jolting stop. As Mike watched, the back-up lights blinked on and the Jag came roaring back toward him in reverse.

Mike stood in the field and watched the green Jaguar as it picked up speed in reverse and raced back down the road toward the point where he had gone off. Mike rubbed his head, which ached where he had slammed against the roof of the Ford, and tried to clear his mind for some course of action. As he watched the Jag come, the brake lights suddenly flashed on and the car jolted to a stop. With a grinding clash of gears the driver peeled rubber and shot forward again. Puzzled, Mike stared after him as the Jag swept on around the curve and out of sight. As the roar of the engine faded Mike became aware that someone was calling to him.

“Hi, there, mister, are you all right?”

Mike turned in the direction of the voice to see a man standing at the roadside holding a bicycle propped against his hip. He wore a blue uniform with a stiff round cap. Spikes of gray hair bristled from under the cap. Gently the man laid his bicycle down and slogged across the marshy field toward Mike.

“Anybody hurt here?” he asked.

“No,” Mike called. Then, feeling his head he added, “Not seriously, anyway.” When the man drew abreast of him Mike could see the badge that identified him as a postman.

“Did you see where the other car went? The one who pushed me in here?”

“I didn’t see no other car,” the postman said. “I was just comin’ down the lane over there beyond the trees when I hears you go kerwhump into the ditch and out again. ‘Sounds like trouble,’ I says to meself, so I pedals on over to see what’s took place.”

“Somebody forced me off the road,” Mike said. “A green Jaguar sedan.”

“You’d be an American, wouldn’t yer,” the postman said, eyeing him narrowly.

“Yes, I would,” Mike admitted.

“Sometimes drivin’ English roads can be a bit tricky until you’ve got the knack.”

“The only thing tricky was the guy in the green Jaguar. He tried to wreck me.”

“Yes, I see. I’d best ride on into the village and get someone to come pull you out.”

Mike stared morosely at the little Ford, hubcap deep in the mire. Clearly there was nothing to be gained by further conversation with the postman about the other car. He said, “How far is the village?”

“Willoughby’s just a couple of miles.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” the postman said. “I’ll have someone back for you in a twinklin’.”

While Mike watched, the postman picked his way back to the road and mounted his bicycle. With a jaunty wave he pedaled off in the direction the Jaguar had gone. Mike sat down on the rear deck of the little car and tried to get his thoughts to mesh.

Could the driver of the Jaguar have been drunk? Not too likely before noon on a Sunday in the English countryside. And what he had been able to see of the driver’s face showed a deadliness of purpose that you wouldn’t expect in the face of a drunk. Somebody playing games just for the hell of it? Hardly.

Had Mike been singled out, he asked himself, or was it a random attack by some psychopath behind the wheel? He didn’t know anybody in the country who would have a reason to do that to him. He hardly knew anybody, period. Still, the feeling persisted that the green Jaguar had been following him for many miles. He distinctly remembered seeing it turn off the motorway behind him to head up this country road.

Mike ran the various possibilities over in his mind and decided he didn’t like any of them. He was still searching for an answer when a tow truck arrived from Willoughby. In the cab were the driver, the postman, and a constable from the village.

While the tow truck driver hooked a cable to a rear bumper brace on the Ford Mike told the constable what had happened.

“Yes, I see,” the policeman said in much the same tone the postman had used. “By any chance, did you get the number of the other car?”

“Well, no, I was too busy trying to keep my own car on the road.”

“You say that after you had run into the meadow the other vehicle began to back up toward you?”

“That’s right.”

“And at that time you did not notice his number?”

Mike ground his teeth. Some hotshot reporter. Always sharp, always alert, always observant of details that might be important.

“No,” he admitted, “I just didn’t think about getting his license number. Listen, I’m not making this up. There
was
a green Jaguar, and he
did
run me off the road.”

“I have no doubt there was another car, sir,” the constable said earnestly. “We do get some drivers on our roads out here who lose all respect for speed laws and have no consideration at all for others.”

Mike was convinced there was more to it than some thoughtless driver bullying a smaller car off the road, but the cool response he was getting from the constable showed him the futility of further discussion along that line.

The tow truck driver secured the cable to his satisfaction and walked back to his truck. He started the winch on the rear of his vehicle and the little car bounced readily up out of the marshy ground and rolled easily backward through the ditch and back up on the road. The driver walked slowly around the Ford, poking and pulling on it in various locations.

‘There doesn’t seem to be any real damage,” he said to Mike, “but you might drive it on into the shop and I’ll give it a closer going over.”

“Thanks,” Mike said, “but it’s a rented car, and I imagine the rental company will take care of any repairs in their own shop.”

“Right you are,” said the garageman.

“I would like to use your telephone, though, if you have one.”

“That I do. If you’d care to follow us in, Willoughby’s just a short piece down the road.”

Mike climbed into the Ford and followed the tow truck into the village. The little car handled as well as ever, and there seemed to be no after-effects from the jouncing ride into the marsh. Not for the car, anyway, Mike thought, touching the growing lump on his head. But maybe it wasn’t a total loss. Maybe the bump had knocked some sense into him.

At the garage in Willoughby Mike dropped the proper coins into the pay phone and dialed 01 for London. While the receiver sputtered impatiently in his ear he hauled out his wallet and fished through the cards and scraps of paper for the number he wanted. He dialed the seven digits, then waited while the long beeps, in pairs, told him the other phone was ringing. After the fifth pair of beeps Mike began to worry that no one was home. Then there was an answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Paula, this is Mike.”

“Oh, yes. How are you, Mike?”

“I’m fine. Look, would you consider spending the rest of the day with a jackass?”

“Whom did you have in mind?”

“Me. I acted like a juvenile last night. I’m ashamed of myself, and I want to make it up to you.”

“Mike, it wasn’t all your fault. Mostly mine, actually. I know what I did to you, and there are reasons for it that I think we should talk about.”

“We can talk about them later. Are you busy this afternoon?”

“Nothing I couldn’t postpone.”

“Good. I’m supposed to go out to Hurlingham and soak up atmosphere, and I’d enjoy it a whole lot more if you went with me.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Paula said.

Mike hung up the receiver feeling years younger than he had when starting out that morning. Nothing like a girl to cheer a man up. Maybe things would still be all right between him and Paula.

As for the grim race with the Jaguar, he just might be over-dramatizing the incident as the postman and the constable seemed to think. Driving back to London he put the whole business out of his mind so he could concentrate on Paula.

The sporting club of Hurlingham, located just outside London, dates back to the rule of Queen Victoria. The main building has windows from floor to ceiling and a gabled roof with sixteen chimney pots. All around the building are beautifully tended green lawns. Lawns for playing tennis, lawns for croquet, lawns for bowling, and lawns just for sitting. Dark red-brown paths intersect the lawns and meander among the giant old copper beeches.

Tim Barrett walked along one of the paths hand in hand with Christy Noone. The sun had come out at about noon, and its diffused light gave the scene a soft-focus eighteenth-century look.

“This place seems to have been here forever,” Christy said.

“Not quite that long,” Tim said, “but I guess it’s been here for a good many years.”

Christy smoothed her short flowered skirt across her thighs. “Do you think my dress is all right?”

Tim glanced around at the women who strolled along the paths. Most of them wore big floppy hats and soft looking dresses in quiet pastels. “Your dress is perfect,” he said, grinning down at Christy.

“Oh, look over there,” she cried delightedly. “Those people are playing croquet. I didn’t know anyone actually did that any more.”

Tim watched the group of elderly men and women lining up their shots carefully and stroking the wooden balls with precision. The solid clack of mallet on ball came clearly across the lawn.

“They’re really serious about the game,” Tim said. “Last year I watched them play for a while, and you’d have thought the world championship was at stake.”

“How do you know it wasn’t?” Christy asked.

“By golly, maybe it was, at that,” Tim said, and they laughed together. Tim thought he had never felt so happy in his life. The one little worry he had was about introducing Christy to his parents. Once that chore was out of the way everything would be perfect.

The young couple strolled past a uniformed band sitting in folding chairs under a grove of trees. The band was playing something with a military sound that evoked the proud old days of the Empire.

“Where are we to meet your folks?” Christy asked.

“We’ll catch up with them,” Tim said. “First I’d like to walk down by the tennis courts, if it’s all right with you.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

Christy hugged Tim’s arm against her side and matched her step to his. Tim enjoyed a tingle of pleasure at the envious way other young men looked at him with this exceptionally pretty English girl beside him.

On the tennis courts several of the Wimbledon players were engaged in relaxed doubles with club members. On one of the near courts Vic Goukas, his hickory-brown skin a startling contrast to his tennis whites, was hitting flat, beautiful ground strokes with a white-haired former champion who wore long white flannels in the style of the 1920s. Tim led Christy to courtside where they stood and watched the still graceful moves of the older men.

“Who are they?” Christy asked.

“The one on this side is Vic Goukas, my coach. I want you to meet him.”

After a few minutes Vic walked to the unoccupied umpire’s chair and picked up a towel to dry his face and neck. He said a few words to the other man and walked over to where Tim stood with Christy.

“Vic, this is Christy Noone,” Tim said. “She’s the girl I told you about.”

Vic draped the towel around his neck and studied Christy for a long moment before he spoke. “Hello.”

“We were watching you play just now,” Christy said. “You’re quite good.”

“That wasn’t playing, that was just hitting the ball back and forth,” Vic said.

“Is there a difference?”

“When you’re playing you try to win.”

“I’ll bet you could have won if you’d tried.”

Vic gave a short barking laugh. “I guess I could have, all right. A good sixty-year-old man should always beat a good seventy-year-old man.”

“You’re joshing me, aren’t you?”

“About what?”

“About being sixty years old. I don’t believe you’ve even seen fifty yet.”

Vic looked into the girl’s eyes for a moment, then laughed his deep rumbling laugh. “I’ll be damned if I don’t think I’m beginning to understand what Tim sees in you, girl.”

“You approve then?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know if Tim told you, but the fact is I don’t approve at all. It’s got nothing to do with you personally, I just don’t want to see Tim lose a good shot at the biggest tournament of them all because of some bro—girl.”

“Come on, Vic,” Tim said, “you’ll give Christy the wrong impression.”

“I don’t think so,” said the coach. Then to Christy, “But as you can see, whether or not I approve doesn’t carry much weight with the player here.”

Christy smiled at the older man, her eyes alight with mischief. “I’ll do my best not to keep the player here away from his tennis.”

“I’m sure you will,” Vic said drily. “Nice to meet you. Tim, your mother and father were looking for you. They were headed for the tent where the food’s set up.” He nodded again to Christy and walked back out onto the court to resume his tennis.

“I don’t think Mr. Goukas likes me much,” Christy said.

“Sure he does,” Tim said. “Vic just doesn’t get gushy with people. You made him laugh, and believe me Vic doesn’t laugh easily. Tennis is his life, and he’s dead serious about it. If he could, I believe he’d have a racket grafted onto the end of my arm.”

“Well, thank goodness he’s not a surgeon. Something like that could prove most uncomfortable.”

Tim smiled down at her. “You can say that again. Let’s go meet the folks, if you’re ready to get looked over again.”

“I love it. Let’s go.”

Tim and his parents caught sight of each other at the same time across one of the broad Hurlingham lawns. Even at the distance Tim could sense a hesitation in his parents’ gesture of greeting as they saw Christy.

He took Christy by the hand and they crossed the velvety lawn to where Mr. and Mrs. Barrett waited. A gaily striped tent was set up there to serve sandwiches, petits fours, strawberry tarts, and fruitcake. Tim rattled through the introductions, watching closely for his parents’ reactions.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Barrett said. “You’re not one of the girl players, are you?”

“Oh, my, no. I wouldn’t even know which end of a racket to hit with.”

“I didn’t think you were, with that beautiful complexion of yours. Most of the girls who play get sun wrinkles very young.”

“Ooh, I shouldn’t like that at all.”

“Er, do you live in London, Christy?” Jack Barrett asked, sounding unaccountably embarrassed.

“Yes, I do.” Christy cocked her head and looked at him. “You know, Mr. Barrett, I can hardly believe you’re Tim’s father. You look like you could be one of the players. I’ll bet you do play, don’t you.”

“Well, at one time I was pretty fair, I guess you could say. Still, I was never in Tim’s class. Nowadays I’m just a weekend hacker.”

“He’s just being modest,” said Fran Barrett, smiling fondly at her husband. “At our club at home he’s still the best of his age group.”

“I’ll just bet he is,” Christy said. “And I daresay he could teach a few of the younger men a thing or two.”

Tim was surprised to see a flush creep into his father’s face.

“And I can certainly see where Tim gets his good looks,” Christy went on. “He has your strong features, Mr. Barrett, definitely your nose. And Mrs. Barrett, Tim’s eyes are the same lovely shade as yours.”

“What time did you folks get here?” Tim said, thinking Christy was laying it on a little thick.

“Just a little while ago,” his mother said. “Have you children had anything to eat?”

“I’m not really hungry,” Tim said. “How about you, Christy?”

“You know me, I can always eat something,” she said, linking one arm through. Tim’s and one through his father’s. “And I’m certainly not going to pass up an opportunity to have tea with two such handsome gentlemen. Would you, Mrs. Barrett?”

“No,” said Fran Barrett. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Tim wondered for a moment at a slightly off-key quality to his mother’s voice. Then Christy Noone smiled up at him and he forgot about everything else.