The Tennis Player from Bermuda (24 page)

“So you must be staying with the Thakehams?”

“Not at the moment. How do you know the Thakehams?”

“I don’t. My mother knows Lady Thakeham – I couldn’t tell you how – and my parents were invited to Catherine’s party. They’re away in the country, and my mother insisted that I come instead. I’m too old for a party during the season, but Mother hopes I’ll find a girl to marry.” He laughed.

“Are you looking for a wife?”

“No, not at all. My career isn’t compatible with marriage.”

We arrived at the side of the room where the Thakeham family was standing in a row, saying hello to their guests. There was a short line, so John and I waited our turn. We came to Mark first, and I held John’s arm to avoid the possibility that Mark might try to take my hand.

Mark turned to me and rubbed his left cheek. “Luckily the doctors were able to save my jaw.”

“How regrettable. I hoped to inflict permanent disfigurement.”

“You came close, though.”

I felt John straightening out his left arm to drop my hand. He sensed he might be in a false position here, but I held on tight.

“John, may I introduce you to Mark Thakeham? Mark, this is Captain John Fitzwilliam.”

Catherine was now free, and I kissed her cheek and gave her my congratulations. Lady and Doctor Thakeham were next, and I thanked Lady Thakeham for inviting me to Catherine’s party.

“Miss Hodgkin, dear child, I’ve been so worried about you. You’re in a hotel somewhere. That wasn’t my intention.”

“It’s not a hotel. It’s a rooming house.”

Lady Thakeham was taken aback that I would be living in a rooming house, which had been my intent in telling her. “Dear, it would be much better for you to return to our home. I’ll have Harold collect you tonight, after the party.”

“I’m quite comfortable where I am, but thank you for the offer.” I tried to say this in a tone of voice that would convey my intent to never set foot in her house again. I looked at John, whose arm I still had in a death grip. From his expression, I guessed he was thinking that I had an interesting relationship with our hosts.

“But your parents are coming. They’ll be upset that you’re not with your aunts, or with us.”

“My parents? Where are they coming?”

“To London, of course. This Monday. I sent them a telegram telling them to stay with us, but your mother said in her telegram that they would be at Claridge’s, so I imagine that’s where they’ll lodge.”

“Why are they coming to London?”

John interjected, “To watch their daughter play at Wimbledon? No, that couldn’t be it. It must be something else.”

“Your mother said she had sent you a telegram to the address of your” – an aristocratic pause – “hotel.” You haven’t received it?”

“No,” I said, but then I thought that I had rushed dressing for the party so quickly that there might have been a telegram at the desk, and that I missed it.

Lady Thakeham said, “Your parents are bringing a friend from Bermuda as well.”

“A friend? Rachel Martin?”

“Oh, dear child, I can’t recall a name. Someone from Bermuda.”

Just then the music began. I had planned to make my exit before there was any dancing, but John asked me to dance with him. He put his arm around me on the dance floor and said, “Ah, yes. Sweetness and light in the Thakeham household, I think.”

I laughed. “You don’t know the half of it. But if my parents are coming to London, that’s wonderful news.”

“Not until Monday, though. So they’ll miss your third round match?”

“Yes, let’s hope I win. I don’t want them to come all that way and then find out that I’m no longer in the draw.”

“Oh, I think you’ll win. You were impressive this afternoon. I wish I could come see you play. When’s your next match?”

“I won’t know until the morning, when they post the intended order of play, but probably not until Saturday. Are you on duty this weekend?”

“Not that I know, although when they want me to be on duty, they usually don’t give me much advance notice.”

“Then why can’t you come? I’d like to have you there.”

“The tickets for the middle Saturday are impossible. Except for the finals, it’s the most popular day of the fortnight.”

“I think I’m entitled to a guest ticket. If I could get one, would you come?”

He stopped dancing. He wasn’t any good at dancing to begin with. “Yes, I would.”

“Then I’ll do my best to get a ticket. How may I reach you?”

He gave me a house number in Wilton Place, Belgravia. I asked, “You don’t live in barracks?”

“No, it’s quite a cushy job, actually. I come and go as I please, except when they want me to do something for them.”

I shivered a bit listening to him say this.

It was well past 11, and I told John I needed to leave.

“Why so early?”

“I’m practicing tomorrow morning. I need to get to sleep.”

“Yes, of course. I’ve heard that you practice with Claire Kershaw.”

I smiled. “To be honest, I’m proud she would practice with me. Claire got me into the qualifying round, so I wouldn’t be at Wimbledon in the first place without her. She’s a wonderful person.”

“I quite agree; Claire is wonderful.”

I was a bit surprised by the way he said this. “Do you know Claire?”

“Claire is my sister.”

The instant he said this I saw the resemblance between them; why hadn’t I noticed it before? I was stunned.

“Claire told me to watch your match on Court 2, but I wanted to see her match on Centre Court. On one of the changeovers, she noticed me in our seats. She glared and gestured for me to get over to the Graveyard and see what was happening. We could all hear the cheering, so I went to see you play. I got to the Graveyard just in time to see your tumble. Quite an interesting way to see you for the first time.”

Then he said, “Do you have an auto?”

“No, I’m taking the Tube.”

“Let me drive you to your rooming house – I’m sorry, I mean your hotel.” He smiled. “My auto isn’t here at Grosvenor House, but it’s in Wood’s Mews, just around the corner. Before you say ‘No,’ I’ll tell you I must insist. Claire wouldn’t forgive me for allowing her practice partner to get home on the Tube.”

“But I’m staying in Wimbledon, and you’ll have to drive there and back.”

“I’ll survive the round trip. Shall we?” he said, offering me his arm.

His garage in Wood’s Mews was so narrow that he had to back the auto out before I could get in. The auto was painted silver, with a blue cloth hood. It looked like an upside down bathtub, and the motor rasped as though it was out of breath. I’d never seen or heard one like this before.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a Porsche 356 Carrera from West Germany. I’ve only had it a year. I meant to race it when I got it, but I’ve been away on duty quite a bit recently, and I’ve only gotten to the track twice. Do you prefer the hood up or dropped? The wind might ruffle your hair.”

“Let’s keep the hood up.”

He drove like a man possessed, weaving in and out of traffic. I said, “Now I know Claire wasn’t joking when she said you taught yourself to drive.”

We pulled to a stop in front of Albert House, and John got out to open the door for me – but I noticed he kept the motor running.

He said, “I must tell you that you’re splendid in that gown. I hope I’ll see you in your third round match.” He shook my hand, said “Goodnight,” and started to walk back around the Porsche. I was going in the door of Albert House.

“Fiona!” he called.

I turned around. “Yes, John?”

“If your third round match happens to be on Saturday, would that mean that you could have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”

I smiled. “Yes, it would mean that.”

“Then I’ll hope that the match isn’t until Saturday. Will the order of play be in the news tomorrow?”

“It’s always in
The Times
and
The Daily Telegraph
.”

“If your third round is set for Saturday, I could pick you up here tomorrow at, say, seven?”

“I’ll be here.”

T
HURSDAY
, 28 J
UNE
1962
S
T
. M
ARY
’
S
W
ALK
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

The order of play went up that morning. I would be on Court 2 again for my third round match, against an American girl, Anita Castro. But not until Saturday afternoon, which meant that I would be having dinner with John that evening.

After we practiced, I said to Claire casually, “I met your brother yesterday evening.”

She looked surprised. “John? Where would you meet John?”

“I told you I was going to a party for Catherine Thakeham, Mark’s sister. John was there, and he introduced himself to me.”

Claire laughed. “Why would John be at a party? He’s not exactly the party type.”

“He said your mother wanted him to find a girl to marry.”

“Mother’s engaging in wishful thinking there. He’s not getting married, at least not anytime soon.”

“He told me his career isn’t compatible with marriage.”

She frowned. “I don’t like it when John says things like that. I wish he’d resign his commission and find another job. Father has asked him to, twice, and offered to help him find a place in the City, but John just laughs.”

“Claire, John asked me to dinner this evening.”

That stopped Claire in her tracks. “Fiona, he’s much older than you.”

“It’s just dinner.”

“With John, I doubt it’s ever just dinner.”

“Well, he was a perfect gentleman last evening. He drove me back to Albert House.”

We had to get off the court because two groundskeepers had arrived to prepare it for the afternoon’s matches. Claire pointed out to them a small patch of grass just outside the sideline that she thought was still damp from the early morning dew. They went down on hands and knees and began patting the grass dry with cotton towels.

Claire took my arm, and we went along St. Mary’s Walk toward Centre Court.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Claire said. “I love John. I probably know him better than anyone else. But he dates a lot of girls. He’s not interested in a relationship. I just don’t want you to have your feelings hurt.”

“I’m just going to have dinner with him. I doubt he has any interest in me.”

“If he asked you to dinner, he’s interested in you.”

I was thrilled to hear her say this. “Do you really think he might like me?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. And in the middle of Wimbledon. If my brother throws you off your tennis game, I’ll poison him. Just don’t let him take you to bed until Wimbledon ends.”

“I have no intention of going to bed with anyone.”

Claire scoffed. “We’ll see about that.”

A schoolgirl in a blue jumper approached Claire and asked for her autograph. The poor girl was so shy she could barely get the words out of her mouth. There was no ‘security’ for players then. A shy schoolgirl asking for an autograph was about the most dangerous thing that could happen at Wimbledon to a tennis celebrity like Claire.

To be honest, the girl wasn’t as pretty as she could have made herself: her hair was curly and wild, and she was just a bit chubby – unusual for an English girl then.

Claire said, “How old are you?”

“I just turned 14.”

“What’s your name?”

“Edith Wright.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Claire!” I said.

Claire said, “Edith, ignore Fiona. What’s the answer?”

“No.” Edith hesitated. “I’m not that pretty.”

Claire turned to me. “What do you think, Fiona?”

“Edith’s quite attractive. She might pull her hair back. Perhaps take up field hockey in school.” I thought a season of field hockey would fix the chubbiness.

Claire handed her rackets to me, took Edith’s head in her hands, and gently turned Edith’s face this way and then that. Then Claire took Edith’s hair and pushed it back from her face.

Claire said, “Edith has strikingly good looks. The boys will be after her in a year or so.”

Edith glowed.

“Give me your programme,” Claire said.

Claire turned Edith’s programme to the ladies’ singles draw. Printed at the top of the page was: “HOLDER: MRS R.KERSHAW.” She wrote carefully on the page, “
To Edith Wright, who has a LETHAL forehand. Best Regards, Claire Kershaw
.”

Claire thought for a moment. Then she wrote on Edith’s programme, “
LIBerty 6152
.”

Claire handed the programme back and pointed to the number. “Edith, listen to me. That’s my telephone number. If you have any worries about boys, or anything else, ring me. I’ll remember you, and we’ll talk.”

She said softly, “Yes, Mrs Kershaw.”

“Edith, call me ‘Claire.’”

Edith glowed. “Yes, Claire.”

T
HURSDAY
E
VENING
, 28 J
UNE
1962
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND

John said to me over the rasp of the Porsche’s motor, “Do you like Syrian food?”

“We just don’t get as much good Syrian food in Bermuda as I would like.”

“Are you teasing me?”

“Yes, I’m teasing you. I’ve never had Syrian food and have no idea what it’s like.”

“Are you willing to try it?”

“Certainly.”

We went to a small lane in Ludgate Hill, then up a dark flight of steps, and into a tiny restaurant. A young man appeared from the kitchen and greeted John in what I took to be Arabic, and John answered back in the same language. They kissed one another on each cheek. There was no menu, and after John consulted with the young man for several moments, he ordered for both of us. “Do you mind eating with your fingers?”

“Not at all. In Bermuda, we regard using knives and forks as bad form.”

“More teasing.”

The meal was served in a series of small dishes – all delicious. John taught me the name of each dish and showed me how to eat with a small, folded piece of bread in my fingers. He took a tiny piece of lamb in a piece of bread, put one hand under my chin, and with his other hand fed me the lamb. He shared Claire’s dry sense of humor but none of her rambunctiousness.