The Tennis Player from Bermuda (20 page)

But to tell you how unusual this was at the time, in Stan Nicholes’ gym, there was no ladies’ dressing room – Stan would have to guard the door to the men’s dressing room while Margaret took a shower after her weight session.

Claire said, “Maggie, I think you’re up right after my opening match on Ladies’ Day.”

“Can you believe it? I drew Moffitt, the girl from the States.”

“Have you played Billie Jean? I haven’t.”

“No, I haven’t either. How she plays so well wearing those eyeglasses, I can’t imagine.”

Margaret turned to me. “You and I are on the same side of the draw, so I hope we’ll meet in the third round. If the weather holds up, and we stay on schedule, that’ll be later this week.”

“That couldn’t be good for me,” I laughed.

“Don’t say that,” Margaret told me. “Wimbledon is a surprising place. You’ll do well.”

Margaret and Claire knew that almost certainly they would meet in the final, two weeks from now.

“Enough, Maggie,” Claire said. “I need to get some food into Fiona.”

Claire and I went to the buffet, where I got a salad. Claire eyed it suspiciously. “Fiona, a rabbit couldn’t survive on that.” She turned to an older lady who was serving at the buffet.

“Evie,” Claire said, “could we give this young lady some roast beef?”

“Certainly, Claire. And potatoes?”

“Definitely potatoes. Your son, I hope he’s doing well? He’s what now – 25?”

Evie beamed, because a Wimbledon champion had asked about her son. “He’s 27, married, and I’m a grandmother, as of last Christmas.”

“A grandmother? At your young age? It’s a scandal!” Claire leaned across the buffet and whispered to Evie, who reached up, put her hand on Claire’s cheek, and smiled. I guessed Claire had whispered that she, finally, was trying to start a family.

Then Evie, turning to business, put a huge slab of roast beef on my plate and enough potatoes to feed an army for three days.

This was more food than I could possibly eat. I turned to Claire to protest, but she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll eat anything left over,” and we went to find a table.

“I hadn’t thought about meeting Margaret Smith in a match,” I said. Claire was busily eating most of my roast beef.

“Don’t think about it. It wouldn’t be until your third round. Don’t think about anything but your first round match – which is Tuesday afternoon. Win the first round and then think about what comes next.”

Claire, having almost finished my lunch, pushed her chair back. “I’m going to find Colonel Macaulay and ask him where you should stay.”

I worked on the food Claire had left me, and after 20 minutes she returned with a slip of paper in her hand.

“Sorry to be away so long. Had a talk about Bermuda with the Colonel.”

“About Bermuda? Why?”

“He thinks Bermuda is part of Great Britain.”

“He’s not alone in that. But why were you talking about Bermuda?”

“Well, you should be assigned to the upper dressing room, with me. You’re the champion of Bermuda. The dressing rooms are close together, and there’s not much difference, but I’d rather have you with me.”

“That would be wonderful. Is there a problem?”

“No, the Colonel finally agreed with me. He was just confused because the LTA ranks me the number one girl in Britain, so if Bermuda is part of Britain, you should be in the lower dressing room. The upper dressing room is just for seeded players and national champions. But now he thinks you should be assigned to the upper dressing room.”

“More important.” Claire spotted a piece of beef I hadn’t eaten and speared it with a fork. “Where should you stay? Albert House, in Alwyne Road. It’s just a rooming house for young ladies. Ten minute walk down Church Road from the Club. It’s so close that the Club doesn’t bother sending an auto for you. Three girls in the draw are staying there. The Colonel knows Mrs Brown, who manages the place, and he rang her. There’s a room for you. Not fancy, but inexpensive. Agreeable?”

“Not fancy and inexpensive is good.”

“Yes! Let’s go collect your bags and bring them around to Albert House.”

Claire drove the Alfa like a wild woman along Kensington Road, and at the turn into the Frying Pan I waved to the bobby standing guard.

In front of No. 16, Claire stopped the Alfa. “Let’s get your bags.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to see Mark. What if he’s home?”

She looked over at me. “Why don’t I go in myself and get the bags?”

I reached in my purse, took out my key to the house and gave it to Claire. “Could you leave this?”

Claire ran up the front steps, rang the bell, and Harold answered the door. A moment later, Myrtle appeared like a Royal Navy dreadnought steaming out of Scapa Flow.

“I knew nothing about this,” she said. (I’m sure she was thinking, ‘Or I would have put a stop to it.’) “If I speak to Doctor Thakeham, I’m confident he will insist you remain with us.”

I got out of the Alfa and hugged her, and she hugged me back.

“I’m fine. I’ve found a place to stay, in Wimbledon, close to the All England Club. It’s better for me.”

Claire and Harold emerged, Claire lugging one of my huge bags, and Harold struggling with the other two. They dropped my suitcases on the walkway beside the tiny Alfa Romeo.

Claire said, “Fiona, I go to Australia for two months in the winter to play in the run-up matches to their championship, but I take my rackets, my pocketbook, and one suitcase. A casket is smaller than any one of your bags.”

Harold cleared his throat. “Ma’am,” he said to Myrtle, “I don’t expect that Miss Hodgkin’s baggage will fit into this small roadster.”

“Good thinking, Sherlock,” Claire said dryly.

“Harold, put Miss Hodgkin’s luggage in the Bentley and follow them to Wimbledon,” Myrtle told him.

Myrtle turned to me. “Fiona, you will ring me if you change your mind about staying with us, or if you need anything. I want your word you will do so.”

I agreed.

Harold loaded my bags into the Bentley, and he followed us to Albert House. I doubt that a Bentley had ever parked in front of Albert House to discharge a guest’s luggage.

Albert House was a small, dark red brick house, with two front bays. A handwritten note was thumbtacked to the door: “
Do NOT Ring Bell After 9 At Night Or Before 7 In The Morning.”

Claire and Harold helped me carry the bags and my tennis things upstairs. My room was so small that the bags, tennis rackets, Claire, Harold, and I just about filled the room to the ceiling. Harold, I could tell, was dubious about my new living arrangements.

Claire shooed Harold out, but as he left he said to me, “Miss, please ring if you want me to come back and return you to Hyde Park Gate.”

“Thank you and goodbye, Harold,” Claire said.

Claire said to me, “Are you all right? Do you want me to stay with you?”

“I’m fine. You’ve been wonderful to me, Claire.”

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, and Claire sat down beside me. “Fiona, listen to me. You have to eat a good dinner tonight, and you have to sleep well. Will you do both of those for me?”

“Yes, don’t worry, Claire.”

“We can’t practice at the All England Club in the morning. Colonel Legg, the referee, gives all the courts to the men for practice on the first day.”

The first Monday of the fortnight was only for the men players. Then the first Tuesday – ’Ladies’ Day,’ it was called – the women played, with the defending champion leading off on Centre Court. So my first round match, and Claire’s second round match (she had a bye for the first round) would begin on Tuesday at two o’clock in the afternoon – ‘precisely,’ as the Intended Order of Play always stated.

The ‘precisely’ dated back to some of the earliest minutes of the Committee’s meetings in the 1880s. The minutes always recorded that the meetings ended ‘precisely’ at 3:30. So the word ‘precisely’ had entered the Club’s traditions. Until, of course, it had been blown away by American television, which couldn’t begin a sporting event precisely on the hour – because when would the opening commercial advertisements be shown to the television audience?

Claire said, “I expect that if we ask Queen’s Club politely, they’ll give us a court for a couple of hours to practice. Let’s meet there in the morning. Say, 11?”

“Yes. Where is Queen’s Club?”

Claire thought for a moment. “You take the Tube from Wimbledon to Earl’s Court. Change there to Piccadilly, then just one stop to Baron’s Court. You can see Queen’s just down Palliser Road when you come out.”

She kissed my cheek and said goodbye.

I was alone. I took off my tennis shoes and stretched out on the bed in my tennis dress. I was numb. I couldn’t sleep, and so I just stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Then, I heard a loud knock. I got off the bed and unlocked the door. It was Mark, who was wearing a dinner jacket.

“Go away,” I said, closing the door.

“Wait! Fiona! We’re having dinner this evening at the Westons’.”

“I’m not. How did you know where I’m staying?”

“Harold drove me here. May I talk to you for a moment? This is important.”

“Go ahead and talk,” I said, still standing in the doorway.

“May I come in?”

I stood aside and let him walk in.

“This is quite a nice place,” he said after he had looked around the room. I assumed he was being facetious. I hated being in the same room with him.

“Fiona, Mother has told me what she said to you, and I’m sorry. I had no idea she would do such a thing.”

I was certain Mark had known; that’s why he had been absent from the house this morning. “It’s not important. I’m better off here. Now leave.”

“Fiona, we are expected at the Westons’. This is an important dinner for Catherine. You must be there.” The Westons, I knew, were giving the dinner for Catherine and the Thakeham family as part of the celebrations leading to her big party that Wednesday night.

“I couldn’t care less. I want you to leave now.”

“Fiona,” he began, but I cut him off. “Mark, it’s humiliating for me to even be in the same room with you. The least you can do is go away and leave me alone.”

“You’re not upset about last night, are you?”

“You took advantage of me. It was horrible. I’m ashamed.”

“Oh, Fiona, don’t be that way. I didn’t take advantage of you. I just had a bit too much to drink.”

“Go away, now.”

“I think we should wait to talk about this when you’re not so upset.”

I was determined not to cry. I hated him.

“Mark, if you don’t leave now, I’m going downstairs to ask Mrs Brown to call a bobby.”

“Fiona, I really must insist that you come with me this evening. Everyone is expecting you. It will be embarrassing if you’re absent.”

“Even if I were willing to go with you, which I’m not, I wouldn’t go out this evening, because I’m going to practice with Claire in the morning.”

He scoffed. “Look, you can’t be serious about this. I mean, it’s exciting that you made it to Wimbledon, and we’re proud of you. I’m especially proud of you. But you said yourself this is just a trial run, this year. They’ve put you up against a top seeded player. You have to be realistic, you can’t get past the first round. Eventually you’ll win Wimbledon; I’m sure of it. But your first year, as a qualifier, you don’t have a chance. I don’t believe any lady qualifier has ever come close to winning. This is just for experience. You can’t win. So why not come out tonight with me?”

The worst thing anyone could have said to me at that moment was that I couldn’t win. I slapped him as hard as I could; he staggered and his cheek turned bright red where I had hit him.

“Get out,” I yelled.

He turned and left.

M
ONDAY
, 25 J
UNE
1962
Q
UEEN
’
S
C
LUB
W
EST
K
ENSINGTON
, L
ONDON

I woke Monday morning and found I wasn’t pregnant. It was like a huge stone had been suddenly lifted off my shoulders. I told myself not to cry, and I didn’t. I had breakfast in a tea shop and then took the Tube to meet Claire at Queen’s.

When I saw Claire parking the Alfa, I went over to her and said, “I’m not pregnant.”

She smiled. “I didn’t think you were. But I didn’t tell you in case I might be wrong. Your boyfriend was drunk, wasn’t he?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. But he was quite drunk.”

“Yes, well, I’ve seen that, plenty of times. And close up. They don’t like to admit it, but when they’re drunk, usually the most they can do is make matters unpleasant for the girl. They can’t perform.”

“What do you mean, ‘can’t perform’?”

Claire laughed. “Let’s hope you don’t have reason again to find out for yourself!”

Still laughing, she led me into the Queen’s clubhouse, where she located the old groundskeeper in his tiny office. He was heating water in an electric kettle for tea.

The instant he caught sight of Claire, he said, “Absolutely not.”

“I have a difficult draw on Ladies’ Day,” Claire said.

“I’m sure. Probably your Ladies’ Day opponent is some hapless girl who’s ranked number 10 in Mongolia.”

“Tingay ranked me number 10 once.”

“Yes, Lance did, back when you still wore your hair in pigtails and slept with your teddy bear under your arm.”

Claire frowned. “I didn’t have a teddy bear.”

There was an ancient couch in the groundskeeper’s office. The fabric was worn; the springs were poking out. The groundskeeper arched his eyebrow and pointed to the couch.

“A small, furry toy bear? You sound asleep after practicing with Rachel? Remember?”

Claire pouted, or pretended to. “Perhaps I did sleep with teddy.”

“I’m not giving you a court. The grass is too worn from the tournament last week – in which you didn’t compete. You, I noticed, were off somewhere else.”

“Eastbourne paid my expenses. Queen’s didn’t.”

“What expenses? Your flat is two stations on the Tube from here. We give you tea for free.”

“I promise I’ll never play at Eastbourne again. I’ll always play Queen’s the week before Wimbledon. If you’ll let me practice today.”