The Tennis Player from Bermuda (17 page)

I took the third set. The umpire called, “8-10, 6-4, 6-3, Miss Hodgkin wins game, set, and match.”

Anastazja was already at the net when I ran forward. I extended my hand but then saw she was on the verge of tears. I leaned over the net and hugged her. She put her head on my shoulder and began to sob.

I returned to Hyde Park Gate in time for tea, which was attended by 20 or so young ladies. The only ones I had met before were Catherine and two of my cousins on the Spencer side of my family. Several of the guests distinctly reminded me of Madeline Bassett, a humorous character in the P.G. Wodehouse ‘Jeeves’ novels.

I was in the second round at Roehampton.

T
UESDAY
E
VENING
, 19 J
UNE
1962
E
LIZABETH
S
PENCER’S
P
ARTY
B
ROWN’S
H
OTEL

Harold drove Mark and me to Brown’s in the Bentley. Catherine and Lady Thakeham were going to another party, and Harold would return to Hyde Park Gate to collect them after he left us at Brown’s. Mark was polite but distant.

I was thinking only of my second round match. When we had left home, the BBC was reporting that the two girls in my bracket were still battling it out on a court at Roehampton, even though it was almost dark. I would play the winner in the second round. Defeating Anastazja had given me a much-needed boost of confidence, but still I was so nervous about the second round that I was almost wringing my hands.

I knew how Claire would deal with the uncertainty. She would ignore it. ‘There’s nothing for you to do about it,’ Claire would say. ‘So why worry?’ I tried not to worry but couldn’t help it.

As Harold pulled the Bentley to a stop at Brown’s, I worked at pulling myself together for my cousin’s party. My dress was a long, pale green gown that had last seen service at a dinner dance at the Mid-Ocean Club years ago. I was certain Mother would receive letters from my relatives giving detailed, and critical, accounts of my dress and, most important, whether I had been seen talking with – or, better yet, dancing with – any good husband candidates. Harold came back and opened the door on my side, and I stepped out. Mark was already out of the Bentley, and he took my arm.

Mark was wearing white tie, and he looked dashing. We swept into Brown’s side by side.

I was getting used to the routine of a party during the season. First, there were cocktails, conversation, and paying respects to the hosts. Then dancing. Finally, breakfast, always well past midnight. After breakfast, many of the young people would pile into autos and go off to a nightclub or café to finish the evening.

This schedule was a contrast with Bermuda, where the island is usually closed, locked, and asleep by 11 o’clock at the latest –
maybe
midnight during Cup Match, the two-day cricket meet each July between Somerset Parish and St. George’s Parish, which originated as a celebration of the abolition of slavery in Bermuda. During Cup Match, everyone wears the colours of one team or the other – red and navy for Somerset, pale blue and dark blue for St. George’s – and gambles at Crown & Anchor, while the entire island throws a huge party.

I had been surprised that Mark did not know as many of the guests at the parties we had attended together as I had expected.

“Not my crowd, now,” he said. “Too young. My friends are going down from university and beginning to find places in the City or the FO” – he meant the Foreign Office – “or somewhere else in Whitehall. Most of them have already found the girl they want. No reason for them to attend the season.”

“So why haven’t you found the girl you want?” I couldn’t help asking.

He didn’t rise to the bait. “Medicine. I’m still in university.” The medical course of study at Cambridge was five years; Mark had one more year to complete before he began his internship.

“But,” he went on, “there are the nurses.”

I rolled my eyes. “I hope you’re trying to be humorous and simply failing.”

“Not at all. The nurses are wonderful people.”

“I’m sure you’ve made the acquaintance of many of them.”

We made our way to our hosts. When I had been 12 or so, my parents and I had spent a long weekend with the Spencers at their house in Devon. The house was so large that I had been given my own room – during the English Civil War, a small army of Cavaliers had been quartered in this house, apparently quite comfortably – but after Elizabeth and I had played in the garden for two hours on Friday afternoon, we had decided to move me into her bedroom. Together we had a delightful weekend, of the flashlights-under-the-covers variety. I hadn’t seen Elizabeth again until I arrived in London for the season, but we had exchanged Christmas cards for years, and we liked one another.

I said hello to Elizabeth’s parents – I couldn’t begin to explain how we were related, except that it was through English Grandmother – and they asked after my parents. I introduced Mark, and I could tell my relatives were impressed that a young colonial – me – had snared such a prize.

Later, after the dancing started, I lost track of Mark for a few minutes, but I saw Elizabeth talking with a young lady, a bit older than us. She was an exotic creature, in a stunning gown, with a figure that made me feel as though I was a Boy Scout. Her hair was dark, and swept up, and her eyes were a shade of green I don’t think I’d ever seen before. I went over to Elizabeth, who introduced us. Her name was Margarite. She was Spanish, but her English was fluent, with only a slight accent.

Elizabeth was called away by her mother, and Margarite turned to me. “I see you are escorted by Mark.”

“Mark Thakeham, yes,” I said. “You must know Mark?”

“We know one another at university.”

“You were at Cambridge, then?”

“I am at Cambridge. I went down last year, but now I’m a fellow at Trinity.”

Even I knew that going straight from being an undergraduate to a fellowship at Trinity College wasn’t something that happened every day, or even every decade.

“Are you in medicine? Is that how you know Mark?”

Margarite smiled. “No, I’m not in medicine. I could never stand the messy parts. I’m in mathematics.”

The only other mathematics fellow of Trinity I could recall was Isaac Newton. Good thing I hadn’t mentioned to Margarite how relieved I was to be finished with freshman calculus at Smith.

Now Mark reappeared at my side. Neither he nor Margarite said hello to one another. Instead, Mark put his hands on her shoulders, and they kissed one another on both cheeks. She murmured something into his ear, and Mark chuckled. I imagined that she had told him something about me, probably something witty, in a Cantabrigian way.

It dawned on me that Margarite and Mark had been lovers – perhaps, for all I knew, they still were.

Mark asked me, “Have you been introduced?”

“Yes. Elizabeth introduced me to Margarite.”

Margarite said, “You two should be dancing.”

“No,” I said. I had the sense that Margarite did not have an escort for the evening. “Mark, you should dance with Margarite.”

Mark did not require further encouragement. He took Margarite’s arm and led her onto the dance floor. Before I could ask myself whether it had been a good idea to push them into dancing with one another, a young man I didn’t know approached me and, after the usual nonsense about not having been properly introduced, asked me to dance – and he turned out to be quite an accomplished dancing partner.

Suddenly, it was one o’clock in the morning, and I needed to get to sleep, even though breakfast wouldn’t be served for another hour or so. I found Mark and suggested we say our goodbyes.

“We really should stay for breakfast.”

“I need to get some sleep, in case I get to play my second round tomorrow.”

He wasn’t pleased by this, I could tell. I said, “Mark, would it be rude for me to take a taxi home? Then you could stay for a bit longer, and we could see one another in the morning.” To coat this pill, I gave him a kiss.

“You don’t need a taxi. I’m sure Harold is waiting for us. He’ll take you home, and I’ll find my own way.” Mark, I thought, had agreed to the idea of my leaving on my own more readily than I had expected.

So Mark walked me out of Brown’s and, as predicted, Harold was waiting at the curb with the Bentley. Mark kissed me, turned around, and headed back to Elizabeth’s party. I got in the Bentley, and Harold pulled away into the London traffic.

“Harold, did you by any – ” I started but then stopped. I shouldn’t give the Thakeham household even more reason to think my only concern was Roehampton.

“Yes, Miss, I did,” Harold said. “Those two girls finished their match this evening in three sets. Your opponent will be the American. I think her family name is Johnson.”

W
EDNESDAY
, 20 J
UNE
1962
R
OEHAMPTON
– I
N THE
R
AIN

On Wednesday, it poured rain all day, relentlessly, across London. Not a single tennis ball was hit at Roehampton. I spent most of the day in the dressing room, which was crowded with girls. We had to be there in case the rain stopped and, somehow, the courts dried quickly enough for matches to begin. I tried not to be too obvious in looking around for my opponent, but finally one of the other girls said to me, “If you’re looking for Charlotte Johnson, don’t bother. She’ll not be here.”

“But we all have to be here.”

The girl shrugged. “Johnson’s parents have taken a flat in Fulham, close by. They’ve employed a former Roehampton steward to alert them by telephone if she’s going to be called. Johnson can be here in 10 minutes. That way she doesn’t have to wait in the dressing room for her match.”

“Have you played Johnson?”

“Once, outside San Francisco, a year or so ago. I won in straight sets. But Charlotte’s strong and, I think, getting better. Her coach is Teach Tennant.”

“Tennant must be quite elderly.”

“I suppose. But all the American girls, at least the ones from California, seem to want her as a coach.”

At four o’clock that afternoon, I went to find Mr Soames, the referee.

“Mr Soames, I have a family tea at five. If it appears we’re not going to play any matches today, might I be released?”

“I was just about to release everyone. Even if it stopped raining now – which seems unlikely – the grass wouldn’t be sufficiently dry for any play this evening. Certainly, Miss Hodgkin, leave for your family tea.”

I thanked him and walked back toward the dressing room. Then he called to me, “Miss Hodgkin!”

“Yes, Mr Soames?”

He was looking at his clipboard intently. “We may have drier weather tomorrow, Miss Hodgkin. If so, I’ll have you and Miss Johnson out first. So please plan to be here well before 11 in the morning.”

“I’ll be here.”

“If you win your second round, Miss Hodgkin, and if the weather holds dry, I’ll have to set your third round for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll try to give you a couple of hours rest, but I can’t promise it.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“You’ve attracted the Committee’s attention, Miss Hodgkin.”

I was startled to hear this. “Have I done something wrong?”

“The contrary, Miss Hodgkin. You defeated Miss Banaszynski. And under difficult conditions. The Committee expected you to lose.”

I started to say something, but he cut me off. “Have a good evening, Miss Hodgkin. Get a good night’s sleep. I may give you a long day tomorrow.” He turned away.

Catherine, Lady Thakeham, and I returned from tea around seven that evening. Lady Thakeham said, “You young ladies should rest and then dress for dinner at the Savoy. I’ve asked Harold to bring the auto around a bit after nine.” I knew a formal dinner probably wouldn’t conclude until midnight, perhaps later, and there might be cocktails at a café after dinner.

Catherine went upstairs to her room, and Lady Thakeham went into the drawing room and began removing her gloves. I followed her.

“Lady Thakeham, may I have a word?”

“Certainly, dear child.”

“It’s about Roehampton, Lady Thakeham. If the weather is better tomorrow, my second round match will be early, perhaps before noon. And if I’m lucky enough to win, then I’ll have to play my third round match in the afternoon.”

“Well, child, we’re to be at Rebecca Hurst’s home at five tomorrow for tea.”

I hadn’t thought of that engagement. I said, “I’m sure my match would end well before tea.” I had no idea if this was true. For all I knew, my third round – if I got into the third round – might not even start until after five. But that wasn’t my immediate problem.

“Lady Thakeham, because my match may be early tomorrow, I’d prefer to go to sleep early this evening. Do you think I might be excused from dinner?”

She stiffened. “Miss Hodgkin, our hosts are expecting us. And, without you, Mark would have no partner for dinner.”

“I know, and I regret so much having to ask, but it’s terribly important for me to play well in the morning.”

Lady Thakeham was icy. “Miss Hodgkin, Mark is your escort for dinner, not me. You should discuss this with him.”