The Tennis Player from Bermuda (30 page)

Saturday will be, as it were, an All-Martin final.

I was staring at Rachel, amazed. This was the most incredible story I’d ever read.

Rachel said, “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

M
AY
2011
B
ERMUDA
R
OSE
S
OCIETY
GARDEN
P
AGET
P
ARISH
, B
ERMUDA

I planned from the start to include in this narrative Rachel’s love affair with the tennis player who broke up with her the night before her Wimbledon final. It seemed to me to be part of my own story – even though I hadn’t even been born until four years later. But to include Rachel’s story I first had to worm the facts out of her.

I dug out my clipping of the old newspaper article that had been published the day before my Wimbledon final with Claire. The fellow who broke up with Rachel, this Gerhardt von Schleicher, had been a member of the German Davis Cup team. Bill Tilden had coached the German team. Rachel had met Tilden at Kooyong. Rachel had met von Schleicher at Kooyong.

I could put two and two together as well as the next pediatrician. Tilden probably introduced her to von Schleicher.

Now Rachel is elderly and frail but completely in command of her faculties. Let’s face it – elderly people enjoy reminiscing. So on a recent May afternoon, I left my clinic, took my auto, collected Rachel, and drove her to the Bermuda Rose Society Garden on Harbour Road, which I knew she appreciated. It’s a beautiful place.

I took her walking cane from her and hooked it on the side of a bench in the garden. Then I took her arm and helped her sit down on the bench. She was anxious to make sure she could reach her cane, and I showed her where it was. There were Bermuda roses in bloom all around us.

I was subtle in the way I approached the subject of 1939. “Rachel, how did you meet Big Bill Tilden? What was he like?”

Rachel snorted, found her cane, slowly managed to stand, and walked, unsteadily, to a rose bush. It was a ‘Mrs Dudley Cross.’ She put her fingers around one of the stems, carefully, to avoid the thorns.

“I’m not telling you anything about Gerhardt.”

F
RIDAY
A
FTERNOON
, 6 J
ULY
1962
T
HE
Q
UEEN
’
S
V
ISIT
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

Before the men’s singles final that afternoon, Claire and I stood in a line inside the clubhouse entrance to Centre Court with the men’s finalists, Rod Laver and Marty Mulligan. Colonel Macaulay was going to present us to the Queen, who was making her first visit to Wimbledon since 1957.

I was in my tennis dress, but Claire had put on a frock. Claire was known to be a Palace favorite, and she felt a frock might be more appropriate.

With us in line were my parents, and, at the end of the line, John. Colonel Macaulay escorted the Queen into the entrance and, one by one, presented us to her. The Queen stopped to talk with Claire for a few moments.

Colonel Macaulay said, “Your Majesty, this is young Miss Hodgkin, from Bermuda.”

I dipped my knee. I was awestruck.

“Good luck tomorrow, Miss Hodgkin.”

Colonel Macaulay and the Queen moved onto Father and Mother. The Queen greeted Father, and then the Colonel said, “Your Majesty, this is Mrs Hodgkin.”

Mother curtsied.

“It’s actually ‘Doctor Wilson,’ isn’t it?” the Queen asked Mother.

I don’t know who did research for the Palace, but the Palace must have been world class in this department.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I’m called ‘Doctor Wilson’ in my clinic.”

“I’m told your daughter plans to become a medical doctor as well. You must be proud of her.”

“Quite proud indeed, Your Majesty.”

Colonel Macaulay turned to John. “Your Majesty, this is Captain Fitzwilliam, of the Royal Marines.”

“Captain, we have met before.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“When you were awarded your Distinguished Service Cross, I believe.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The Queen smiled. “That was before you took up your” – the Queen paused – “current duties.”

John grinned and bowed his head slightly. “Just as Your Majesty says.”

The Queen looked back at Father. I sensed that she had meant to say something to Father that she had forgotten when greeting him. “Doctor Hodgkin, I understand that your DSC was awarded at sea.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Father replied. “I was lucky to be above water at the time.”

Everyone, even the Queen, chuckled at this – except Mother. She shuddered at how close she and I had come to losing him.

Then the Queen said, “I know my father would have regretted not awarding it to you personally.”

Father bowed slightly. “The King favored me with a letter soon after the war, Your Majesty.”

I had never seen this letter or even heard of it. A letter from the King wouldn’t have simply arrived in the post at Midpoint. The King’s Governor General of Bermuda would have delivered it in person, and such a letter would have been the talk of Bermuda for weeks. The Governor General would have quietly implied to his friends over cards and Black Seal rum at the Royal Yacht Club on Hamilton Harbour that the Palace had consulted him directly in the matter. But I had been just a small child then.

“I knew he did,” the Queen said.

She turned back to John and placed her hand on his arm. This was a sign of royal favor. “I’m told I can expect even more great things from you in future years, Captain.”

I would have thought that neither of the Fitzwilliam siblings would ever be at a loss for words, but I could tell that John had no idea of what to say. So he was silent.

Then Colonel Macaulay led the Queen up to the Royal Box on Centre Court.

Claire and I had decided to practice on Court 14 during the men’s final, since the reporters and photographers would be otherwise occupied watching the Queen, while Her Majesty watched Rod dismantle Marty in straight sets. Claire and I could practice in peace and quiet for once.

Claire had to visit the dressing room to change out of her frock – “I can’t recall ever wearing a dress at Wimbledon,” she said. John and I walked hand in hand to the outer courts. John was going to watch us practice, and then he was going to drive me back to his flat. With John driving his Porsche, we hoped we could evade the reporters.

John and I couldn’t have tea out because of the reporters and photographers, so I planned to make him something to eat in his flat. This was risky; I desperately wanted John to like me, and I hoped to show him that at least I could make his tea. Unfortunately, I had inherited American Grandmother’s inability to cook.

Claire appeared on the court, and we knocked up. She was about to toss her racket onto the grass when we saw Colonel Legg walking rapidly toward us on St. Mary’s Walk. This was astonishing: for Colonel Legg to leave Centre Court during the final between Rod and Marty, especially with the Queen present, was unthinkable.

Claire and I both assumed that, for some unimaginable reason, he was coming to talk with us, but instead he went straight to John and spoke quietly. I couldn’t hear what he said.

John turned and said to Claire and me, “Someone’s trying to reach me by telephone. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He waved to us and left with Colonel Legg.

Claire and I tried to play, but our hearts weren’t in the game. Something was wrong, we both knew.

About 15 minutes later, John returned. He was trying to appear casual, but I could tell that he was in a hurry.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I have to leave now.”

“Why?” Claire and I both asked at once.

“I have to go away for a bit.”

Claire’s face instantly turned ashen.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll be back for our match tomorrow?”

John laughed. “No, Fiona, I’m going to miss your Wimbledon final. But you’ll be in other Wimbledon finals, I’m sure of that.”

Claire said nothing.

“But when will I see you again?” I insisted. I was thinking only of myself. I was just 19.

“Fiona, I don’t know when we’ll see each other again.”

Claire said to John, “Tell her, you fool.”

Then I knew what he was going to tell me. He was going to say that perhaps it would be better if we didn’t plan to see one another again. He was going to break up with me.

John said nothing.

Claire said, “John. Tell Fiona. Now.”

My knees were giving way. I started to faint.

John said, “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

I was standing just in front of him. I put my left arm around his waist, then took my right hand and began fiddling with a button on his khaki uniform shirt. This was the only way I could avoid bursting into tears. I just managed to whisper, “I’m in love with you as well.”

He put his arms around me.

Claire said, “Why don’t I leave the two of you alone?”

John said to her, “Stay here with Fiona. I have to leave now.”

“John,” I said. I was looking at his chest, not his face. “When you come back, I may be in Bermuda, or in the States.”

“I’ll find you, wherever you are.”

Claire said, “Are you two sure you don’t want me to go somewhere else? This sounds as though it could get mushy.”

John and I ignored her. We were kissing.

Then I said, “John, will you marry me?”

Claire said, “Fiona, you know, usually we wait for them to ask that.”

John said, “I’m definitely going to marry you. Should I speak to your father?”

“No, my parents are old-fashioned, but I think they’re past that. I’ll talk to them.”

John asked, “How many children do we want to have?”

“Two or three? I’m an only child, and I don’t want to have just one.”

“Three sound good to me,” John said.

Claire said, “Children are expensive, keep that in mind. School fees. The nursery nurse. The weekend country house. Holidays at the sea.” Claire looked at me. “Well, Bermuda, maybe you have the holidays at the sea included.”

“Three would be perfect,” I said.

Claire said, “The way you two go after one another, you should expect a minimum of three.”

John looked at Claire. “Mother and Father need to know about this, and I’ll be away.”

“Fiona and I will tell them.”

John took my chin in his hand gently and lifted my face so that we were looking at one another. “The moment I come back, we’ll make love to celebrate our engagement.”

“I won’t think about anything else until then.”

Claire said, “I
knew
this was going to get mushy!”

John laughed and kissed Claire on her cheek.

Then he kissed me quickly, just brushing my lips, and said softly, “I love you.” I clutched at him, but he broke away.

Then I watched him saunter down St. Mary’s Walk.

As soon as he came to Court 3 and thought he was out of our sight, he broke into a dead run toward the auto park and the little silver Porsche 356.

Claire and I walked back to the dressing room without speaking. Once in the dressing room, we were alone. The draw now was down to just the two of us.

Claire said, “John’s gone off like this perhaps half a dozen times since he joined the Section. He always comes back.” Her face was still ashen.

I looked at her but said nothing.

“He has promised me, as his sister, that he always will be careful.”

“Do you believe him?”

Claire grimaced. “No. I don’t.”

“Neither do I.”

“But he always comes back. Don’t worry.”

Neither of us spoke for a minute. Then Claire said, “John told me that he’s in love with you. But he didn’t know how you felt.” Claire shook her head and laughed softly to herself. “I said to him, ‘What? Are you blind?’ I told him he was a fool not to tell you.”

“Claire, I want the Kershaw children and the Fitzwilliam children to grow up together.”

“They’ll be cousins. Certainly they’ll grow up together. I told you that I met Rachel at my parents’ house in the country. The tennis court there is old – it must date from before the first war. The lines have been picked out with chalk for so many years that the lines are raised like ridges above the court. The grass is rough; my parents don’t take good care of it. That’s where I first played with Rachel.”