The Tennis Player from Bermuda (34 page)

Mr Watson says, “Advantage, Mrs Kershaw.”

Break point. If Claire breaks me now, I’m done for.

The film is grainy. I rub my thigh. I look as though I’m in pain from the cramp. I serve. Again, it isn’t much of a serve, but at least it’s in play. Claire is determined to win this point. She blasts her return down my deuce court sideline. I just get to her return and send it back down the same line. This time, Claire goes crosscourt. I’m on the centerline of my service courts, and with my backhand I catch her shot on my racket face and drop it into her deuce service court.

Mr Watson says, “Deuce.”

On my first service, I fault. The crowd gasps. Giving Claire Kershaw a second serve is never a good idea. I set up. I serve a wide, sharply angled serve to Claire’s forehand. My serve pulls her off the court. I’m in my ad service court when her return comes over the net, and I volley it deep into her ad court. She runs but can’t make it.

Mr Watson says, “Advantage, Miss Hodgkin.”

Championship point. Centre Court is silent.

My serve is weak and poorly placed. It bounces in the center of her ad service court. She can do anything she wants with it. Still, I rush the net. Claire waits a fraction of a second for me to commit, and I drift slightly to my right, betting she’ll go down my deuce sideline. Then she blasts the ball crosscourt.

I lunge wildly for the ball with my backhand and hit it back, barely. I get my ankles tangled together, and I fall on my back, outside the sideline. The back of my head hits the ground so hard it bounces off the grass.

My backhand shot goes over the net but it’s a sitting duck for Claire. On the film, I see Claire set up perfectly: she has all the time in the world. She split-steps, takes a short, precise backswing, and hits the ball softly into my deuce service court. She’s taking no chances. Just hit the ball far away from me. I’m flat on the grass off the court. I can tell what she’s thinking: take away the championship point, get back to deuce, and then win this game.

I watch this part of the film over and over. I push up with my left hand; I still have my racket in my right hand. I’m on my feet as Claire’s shot crosses over the net, but I’m so far off the court that I could chat with the spectators in the first row of seats – and her ball is heading to the other side of the court.

On the film, I see myself shifting my racket to my left hand. It’s my only chance. I switch hands by instinct.

When Claire’s ball bounces, it barely lifts off the grass into the air. I’m sprinting across Centre Court, and my right foot lands on the centerline just as the ball begins its downward trajectory.

I’m a meter away from the ball. There’s nothing else I can do.

I launch myself into the air, push out my racket in my left hand and barely get it under the ball. I whip my left arm up, just as my forehead slams into the grass. The racket flies out of my hand.

My face skids on the grass, and now, watching it 50 years later, I can almost taste the grass, dirt, and blood. My nose is bleeding.

Claire has already turned away, heading back to the baseline. She thinks she’s saved championship point; now she’s at deuce; she’s back in this game.

My shot goes over the net by a centimeter and falls onto Claire’s court. The spectators jump to their feet with a huge roar. She hears the cheering, looks down, and sees the ball rolling past her across the grass. Her mouth is open. I know she’s thinking, how? It’s impossible that I could have gotten to her shot.

Looking at Claire’s face on the film, I can see that she’s devastated. But she drops her racket, jumps across the net, comes over to me, and kneels on the grass. I slowly get up onto my hands and knees, but I’m dazed, with blood dripping from my nose. Claire puts her arm over my shoulders, she says something into my ear, makes me sit up on my knees, and helps me stand up. She’s pinching my nose with her fingers to stanch the bleeding, and she’s saying something to me, but it’s inaudible on the soundtrack, and I can’t recall anything she said.

I’ve never asked Claire about this moment; it must have been terrible for her.

Mr Watson on the film begins the traditional recitation of the score: “3-6, 12-10, 11-9, Miss Hodgkin wins game, set, match, and” – here there’s a slight pause for effect – “championship.”

Claire leads me to Mr Watson’s chair, where I reach up to shake his hand, tentatively, as if I’m still not sure where I am, and then Claire walks me to the water tank under the umpire’s chair and pours me a cup of water.

Watching the film, I see I never shook hands with Claire, which, I’m sure, is unique in Wimbledon finals – although maybe it counts for a handshake when you would never have made it off Centre Court without your opponent’s arm holding your shoulders tightly.

Claire finds a towel to hold against her face. It’s not audible on the soundtrack, but now I can recall the sound of Claire crying softly, covered by the towel.

A ball boy hesitantly comes up and offers me a bottle of Robinson’s Barley Water and a towel. I take both, sip some Robinson’s, wipe off my face, and pinch my nose with the towel.

The film shows the players’ box, with my parents and Rachel standing and applauding – they look so young! Then the camera pans down to me, and I suddenly use the remote control to freeze the film.

A news photographer had taken a shot of exactly this scene, and the photo was on the front pages of all the London Sunday papers the next morning. The photographer, later that summer, sent me a print of the photo, which I’ve kept on my dressing table ever since. It’s still in a cheap, plastic frame I bought in Hamilton just before I returned to Smith that September. I’ve glanced at it most mornings of my adult life.

In the photo, my tennis dress, with its small Bermuda flag, is streaked with grass stains, dirt, and sweat. There are smears of blood and dirt still on my face; my hair is a tangled mess. I’m standing there holding the Robinson’s bottle in the air pointed toward the players’ box. I have a huge gamine smile on my face, and I’m looking straight at my parents and Rachel. It had been the greatest ladies’ singles final ever.

I had won Wimbledon.

S
ATURDAY
E
VENING
, 7 J
ULY
1962
C
LARIDGE
’
S
M
AYFAIR

That evening, Mother vetoed for me the Wimbledon Ball at Grosvenor House, so Rod Laver, the gentlemen’s champion, had to dance with Claire rather than me. To be honest, I didn’t want to go to the Ball. Mother and Father had decided my nose wasn’t broken, but already I had a bruise appearing on my face. Mother had held an ice pack on me for 15 minutes. All I wanted was to have a bath and tea in the room I shared with Rachel and go to sleep.

Claire rang before she left her flat for the Ball to see how I was feeling. We talked for a couple of minutes about our match. I held an ice pack to my face.

Claire asked, “Have you told your parents about you and John?”

“No. Not yet. I haven’t had time.”

“Well, you need to tell my parents. Before you sail for Bermuda.” My parents and I were sailing for Hamilton from Southampton on Wednesday. Rachel was staying in England to visit her relatives in the Midlands.

Claire said, “Here’s what we’ll do. Tell your parents tomorrow. Then you and I will meet for lunch on Monday. Let’s go to The Goring, on Beeston Place. We can talk then.” Claire said this in a conspiratorial tone, as though we were planning a bank robbery. “But tell your parents that my parents want to have them for tea Monday afternoon. I’ll arrange that with Mother and Father. Then, during tea, you can tell my parents.”

I replied quietly, because Mother was still in the room. “That sounds as though I, by myself, have to tell both sets of parents.”

“Well, you’re the one who’s engaged to John, after all.”

So I agreed to Claire’s plan.

Claridge’s delivered a wonderfully full tea tray to our room, and, wearing only my bathrobe, with my wet hair hanging down my back and a nascent bruise on my nose, I stepped outside into the hall to hold the door open for the lady who was delivering the tea. I looked down the hall toward the lift and saw a London bobby standing there. He was the same bobby that John had been chatting with earlier in the week. Even though I was wearing just the bathrobe, I let the door to our room close and walked down the hall toward him.

“Good evening, Officer,” I said. “I think we’ve met, but my friend John Fitzwilliam failed to introduce us.”

The bobby smiled. “Well, Miss, perhaps the Captain was more interested in seeing you. Congratulations to you on your win today.”

“Thank you, and I’m glad to see you, but why are you here?”

“Just to make sure that anyone who gets off the lift belongs here, that’s all, Miss. Normal procedure for us. I’ll be here for a bit, and then one of my mates will take my place.”

He meant he was there to protect my privacy.

“Officer, may I bring you a cup of tea?”

“That’s not necessary, Miss.”

“I’m bringing you a cup. Milk or lemon?”

“Milk, Miss, please.”

I returned to the room, and Rachel opened the door for me. “Do we have an extra cup?” I asked.

“The lady brought two extra cups, for your parents, I expect.”

I poured a cup of tea, put milk in it and said to Rachel, “I’ll return in one moment.”

I went back in the hall. I looked ridiculous barefoot, with wet hair, a bruise on my face, wearing nothing but my hotel bathrobe. I carried the cup of tea to the bobby. I could tell he was looking at my legs. I hoped he didn’t realize or imagine that I was naked under the bathrobe. “Here you are.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

I started to go. He said, “Will Captain Fitzwilliam be here this evening?”

“John has been called away on duty.”

“Just as you say, Miss,” the bobby replied stoically. He knew what that meant.

I walked away.

“Miss!” the bobby called out.

I turned around.

“I served directly under Captain Fitzwilliam in the Royal Marines for the better part of two years. He was the finest officer in the Marines.”

“Thank you, Officer. I’m happy to say he is my fiancé.”

“Well, my congratulations to you both.”

S
UNDAY
, 8 J
ULY
1962
A
FTERNOON
T
EA
A
T
C
LARIDGE
’
S
M
AYFAIR

Winning Wimbledon certainly increases the invitations a girl has to lunch and dinner dances. On Sunday, Mother fielded four invitations for me to have lunch on Monday, and I think five invitations for dinner dances on Tuesday evening. She turned them all down.

When I walked out of Claridge’s, there were photographers, but my bobby friend would shoo them away when I came out. Father was approached by an American businessman who had plans for ‘promoting’ me in the States. Father’s curt response was decidedly negative. I knew Mother and Father were proud of me, but I sensed that the attention now being paid to me at age 19 made them uneasy.

At tea that afternoon, my parents launched their coordinated attack. They said that my winning Wimbledon had been extraordinary, they were proud of me, but they hoped I wasn’t going to forget my medical studies. Like the good mixed doubles partners they were, first one talked and then the other about my future and my responsibilities to Bermuda, but I cut them off in mid-sentence. I told them that I would be back at Smith in September to continue with pre-med.

I had gotten what I wanted from tennis.

I reached into my pocketbook and pulled out a telegram I had received the evening before. The author of the telegram suggested that, although I was an amateur, still there were certain financial arrangements that could be made, if need be, to induce me to compete at Forest Hills that August. I handed the telegram to Father. “May I ask you to reply to this for me?” He took the telegram in his hand.

“Mother, Father, there’s something you should know.” I don’t know why it is, but the phrase ‘there’s something you should know’ coming from a child instantly grabs the attention of parents.

They both looked at me intently. They weren’t going to like this, not at all, and I dreaded telling them. I knew what they would say: ‘What about medical school? Aren’t you too young to make a decision like this? Isn’t he a bit old for you? Have you had time to think about this carefully? You’ve only known him for a few days.’ I didn’t have any answers for those questions. I didn’t have an engagement ring. I didn’t even know where John was or when I would see him again. I was a pathetic excuse for an engaged daughter.

Anyway, I told them; I just blurted it out. “I’m engaged to be married to John Fitzwilliam.”

In the middle of Sunday tea in the dining room of Claridge’s, they both hugged me at once. They were from old, established English families, and they probably knew half the people having tea that afternoon at Claridge’s. Knew? They were probably
related
to half the people at tea. But still, they forgot themselves. Mother started crying. Father said, “Darling, sweetheart.”