The Tennis Player from Bermuda (16 page)

“I can’t imagine that it’s too much of a good thing. Claire’s been very helpful to me. Rachel thinks highly of Claire.”

Mark was astute enough to know that Rachel’s endorsement was, for me, the final word on the subject.

“It just seems that tennis and Claire Kershaw have taken over your visit to London.”

He was right about that. I leaned over and gave him another kiss. “Mark, my tennis this year is just a trial run. Some day, I hope to play at Wimbledon – and I hope you’ll be there to watch. Let me have some fun at tennis this year, and I promise I’ll be a good girlfriend for you.”

He kissed me and put his hand on my breast.

I laughed and kissed him back. “Within reasonable limits.”

“Fiona, everyone here is sound asleep. Let’s go upstairs to my room, or the room you’re staying in, and make love.”

“Mark, I’m only 18 – ”

“Almost 19,” he said.

“Almost 19,” I agreed.

“Fiona, I will take good care of you. I promise,” Mark said.

“Mark, I know you would take care of me, but making love would be a big step, and I’m not ready to take it. At least, not tonight.”

To give the devil his due, Mark took this in good spirit. He stood up and held out his hands. I put my hands in his, and he pulled me gently up from the sofa. I was so tired that I appreciated his help. And we went off to bed – separately.

In retrospect, I know I wasn’t fair to Mark. I should have been straightforward with him, but I wasn’t. I should have said, ‘Look, Mark, I’m going to qualify for Wimbledon this week. I don’t care what it takes – season or no season. Whatever it takes. Incidentally, I promised Mother I wouldn’t sleep with you while I’m in London.’

The question in my mind now is, if I had been straightforward, and I had told Mark exactly the truth, would my life have turned out any differently?

M
ONDAY
, 18 J
UNE
1962
F
IRST
R
OUND
L
ADIES
’ Q
UALIFYING
M
ATCH
R
OEHAMPTON

For all my bold talk to myself about getting through the qualifying rounds, on the first morning of Roehampton, I was nervous and uncertain. My first match was scheduled for noon, but I learned that, at Roehampton, with so many matches to complete in only four days, and with London’s usual rainy June weather – well, the ‘schedule’ was just a guess at which matches would be played, on which court, and when.

So, after delays, and rain, and mix-ups about courts, my first match in international competition started, not at noon, but after six that evening on a grass court that even the chair umpire said, charitably, was “damp.”

Mark was at Roehampton to encourage me, but I knew that evening was a party at White’s for his cousin, Jennifer Pemberton. I didn’t have to be told that, for Mark, this was a party at which he absolutely had to appear. If my first round match finished in an hour, we could get to Hyde Park Gate, dress, and still arrive at Jennifer’s party fashionably late.

My first round opponent was a Polish girl, Anastazja Banaszynski. In the dressing room, for six long hours, she tried to be friendly to me, but she spoke little English, and my Polish was non-existent. But I admired her. I kept thinking, ‘How much courage must it take to come to England, without speaking the language well, I’m sure with almost no money, and from a Communist country, to play in the qualifying round?’

Anastazja had qualified for Wimbledon the year before at Roehampton, and I’m sure she was disappointed to have to try and qualify again. She had lost in the first round of Wimbledon in 1961. If she had been trounced by Claire on Ladies’ Day on Centre Court, that would have been one thing. (Claire, in fact, had never played her.) But Anastazja had lost, in straight sets, on one of the outer courts to another unknown player.

The Committee had not invited her into the draw for 1962, but they had offered her another chance to qualify at Roehampton. Now I watched her in the dressing room. She weighed at least half again as much as me, and she was far stronger. But I guessed – correctly, as it turned out – that she could not match me in speed. I expected she could hit the ball incredibly hard, but, if I could get it back, and away from her, she wouldn’t be dashing around the court and hitting a return. The court, though, with the weather we’d had that day, would be slippery – not good for me.

You cannot imagine the relief associated with the call at long, long last: “Miss Banaszynski, Miss Hodgkin, you’re wanted on court, please.” We walked together past the long line of 12 grass courts; we were to play on the far court. We knocked up, and then I tossed my racket down on the grass. Anastazja called ‘rough’ and won. She didn’t know the difference in English between ‘rough’ and ‘smooth,’ but she had memorized the word ‘rough.’ When she called the toss in England, she always called ‘rough.’

Anastazja served first. It went straight past me; her serve was unbelievably fast. I crossed to my ad court and set up again to receive. She served. I got my racket on it but just barely. The ball hit the rim of my racket and went wildly wide into the next court, where it disrupted play and forced the women there to play a let – in a match that, I’m sure, meant everything to each of them. This was the lowest form of poor play; I knew everyone was looking at me and thinking, ‘What’s this teenager from nowhere doing at Roehampton?’ I went back to the deuce court. I was asking myself whether I should be at Roehampton.

Anastazja won the first game at love. I couldn’t remember the last time I had lost a game at love. Then I served for the first time. Anastazja had a problem with my serve as well; she couldn’t tell where I was going to place it, and even when she was able to return my serve, I was already at the net to cut off her return. She wasn’t fast enough to get to my volley, most times.

With the games in the first set at 8-9, on my serve, the rain started. It was already close to eight o’clock. “Play is suspended,” the umpire called while he was heaving his considerable bulk out of the chair. The courts at Roehampton had no tarps to cover them. The rain fell straight onto the grass. I rushed for cover and found Mark. He kissed me in front of half the tennis world – and I kissed him back.

At least I had a boyfriend.

Anastazja had seen me kiss Mark. Once we were in the dressing room, and drying off, she said, “You – ” Then she stopped, trying to think of the English word. She pointed to the door of the dressing room.

“You mean my boyfriend?”

She smiled. “Yes. Boyfriend. He – ” She stopped. She couldn’t think of the word, but she made an ‘OK’ sign by touching her right thumb to the tip of her index finger.

I tried to think what she meant. “Good? Good looking?”

“Yes! Boyfriend good looking.”

I laughed and put my arms around her. For the next hour, we did our best to talk to one another, and, despite our language difficulties, we became friends. Then Mr Soames knocked on the dressing room door. “We’re resuming play, girls. Five minutes.”

When I walked back out onto the court, I couldn’t believe he had decided to resume play. The rain had stopped, but the grass was soaked. Maybe 20 minutes of daylight remained. At the rate Anastazja and I were going, we wouldn’t even finish the first set before dark. To cap things off, the temperature had dropped. It was chilly, and I reached in my kit, took out Rachel’s sweater, and pulled it over my head.

The umpire called out, “First set. Miss Hodgkin to serve. The games are 8-9. The score is 15 all. Resume play.”

So there was nothing for it but to set up and serve.

A few minutes later, Anastazja had taken the first set and had broken my serve in the second set. I had fallen to pieces. I was saved only by the umpire, who, finally, suspended play for darkness. I thought it was easily five minutes past the time the daylight had become too weak to permit play to continue. Then the rain started again.

I picked up my kit, my rackets, and my pocketbook and shuffled toward the clubhouse. Once inside, I stood off to the side, shivering. I did not feel well. Rachel’s sweater was cotton, and now that it was damp, it did little to keep me warm.

I missed Claire, I missed Rachel, I missed Bermuda, and above all, I missed my parents. Mark was nowhere to be seen. What in heaven was I doing here?

Mr Soames was standing, holding a clipboard, in the middle of a clump of players, each of whom wanted to know when her match would resume on Tuesday? On which court? Would there be practice time Tuesday morning? He was unperturbed, and I had the impression that this wasn’t the first time he’d faced a group of anxious tennis players.

Once the crowd dispersed, Mr Soames turned in my direction and walked over to me. “It’s Fiona Hodgkin, isn’t it? Are you all right?”

I tried to stop shivering but couldn’t. “I’m fine.” I was nearly in tears, and I must have looked like a drowned mouse.

Mr Soames glanced at his clipboard. “You’re from Bermuda. Where are you staying in London?”

“In Hyde Park Gate. With friends of my family.”

“How are you getting to their home tonight?”

“The Upper Richmond bus to East Putney and then the Tube.”

It was a walk of a kilometer up Priory Lane to Upper Richmond Street, in the rain.

Mr Soames called, “Mr Raymond!”

One of the tournament stewards appeared at Mr Soames’ elbow.

“Mr Raymond, this is Miss Hodgkin. Please arrange for her to be driven to Hyde Park Gate, now.”

“Yes, sir,” the steward replied.

“Miss Hodgkin, Mr Raymond will arrange for you to be collected by auto in the morning. We’ll need you here by noon, so perhaps the auto should come for you by 11.”

I thanked him – gratefully – and walked away with Mr Raymond.

I let myself into 16 Hyde Park Gate, walked into the study, and flopped down in an armchair. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands.

There was no way I could defeat Anastazja.

Harold had heard the door open, and he came into the study. “Miss Hodgkin, young Mark apologizes to you, but he has already left for Miss Pemberton’s party. He asked that I drive you to White’s as soon as you dress.”

“Harold, I’m not feeling well.”

“Doctor Thakeham is at Miss Pemberton’s party – should I call him home to see you?”

“Harold, thank you. There’s no need to bother Doctor Thakeham.”

“May I make you a cup of tea?”

“Yes please. That would be kind of you.”

Harold left the study. I started sobbing.

The Thakehams had only a single telephone, which was in the first floor pantry. I heard the telephone ring in the distance.

Harold returned. “Miss, the telephone rang for you.”

I walked back to the pantry, still crying, and picked up the receiver.

“What happened today?” It was Claire, who didn’t bother with saying hello. “The BBC said you’re down a set.”

“I can’t win.” I bit my lower lip in an effort to stop crying.

“Complete twaddle. Pull yourself together. Certainly you can win, and you will. Did you play any of the second set? The BBC didn’t say.”

“Yes. She broke me. Then play was suspended.”

I sensed that even Claire was concerned by this news. But she said, “Don’t worry about it. Eat something and then go to bed. Then get the break back tomorrow and win.”

“Harold says I’m supposed to go to a party.”

“Who is Harold? Don’t tell me you’ve met
another
boy.”

“Harold is – ” I hesitated. It dawned on me that I had no idea what Harold’s position was in the Thakeham household.

Harold had come into the pantry with my cup of tea and overheard me. “I’m Doctor Thakeham’s gentleman.”

“Harold is Doctor Thakeham’s gentleman,” I told Claire.

“Fiona, you’re at Roehampton, damn it, you’re not a character in a P.G. Wodehouse novel. You’re not going to a party tonight. Hit the ball where she isn’t. Just do that 30 times, and you’ve won. A break is nothing. Play your own game, and she can’t beat you.”

I felt better after talking with Claire.

Harold’s response to any problem, including a weeping female houseguest, was to call for Miss Hanson. She appeared, wearing a worn, blue bathrobe. Miss Hanson took one look at me and turned to Harold. “Miss Hodgkin is not going out tonight, Harold. You may as well go to White’s now and wait there for Doctor and Lady Thakeham.”

Miss Hanson took me by the hand and led me into the kitchen, where I’d never been. “Sit down at table. I’ll make you a sandwich, and then I’ll draw your bath. I want you asleep in your bed in half an hour.”

T
UESDAY
, 19 J
UNE
1962
F
IRST
R
OUND
L
ADIES
’ Q
UALIFYING
M
ATCH
R
OEHAMPTON

I was alone at breakfast Tuesday morning. Mark either was still asleep or else he had already left for hospital. In any event, he didn’t appear at breakfast. A young lady served me tea, toast, and a boiled egg, and Harold brought me the morning papers. At exactly 11, an auto from Roehampton was in front of 16 Hyde Park Gate.

The weather on Tuesday was still overcast, but it wasn’t raining, and it didn’t seem as though rain was imminent. It was warmer. Rachel’s sweater stayed in my kit. When Anastazja and I knocked up at noon, the grass was nearly dry and less slippery than the evening before.

The umpire called the score: “The sets are 1-love in favor of Miss Banaszynski. Second set. Miss Banaszynski to serve. The games are 2-love. Play.”

It wasn’t even close. My volleys began to click, and Anastazja couldn’t reach them; I just volleyed to where she wasn’t. I took her break back early in the second set and then I broke her again. I won the second set easily. In the third set, Anastazja faded. I started taking even more chances at the net, and most of the time my gambles paid off.

There was no room between the courts for spectators, and there were hedges behind the fences at either end of the court. The only place for spectators was a grassy bank at the other end of the row of courts, closer to the clubhouse. I doubt anyone other than the umpire could see my match with Anastazja.