The Tennis Player from Bermuda (27 page)

My point. My game. My match. One more minute, at most, and the umpire would have suspended play for darkness.

Now the umpire wanted nothing more than to get out of the cold and drizzle. He vacated the chair for cover as quickly as I’ve ever seen an umpire move. Anita and I embraced and then we stumbled toward the dressing room.

John was standing in the entryway, just under cover. I grabbed his shoulders and fainted. I went limp in his arms. Then Claire had her hands on my cheeks and was shaking me. “Fiona, wake up. Wake up.”

I opened my eyes. The Australians had found us and announced their plan to carry me around on their shoulders in the rain. Claire told them, “Not tonight, boys. Fiona’s knackered. Come back Monday, bring all your mates, and you can do whatever you like with her.”

This satisfied the Australians, and they went off in search of beer.

Claire frowned. “Aussies can be so literal-minded sometimes. You might be a bit careful around them on Monday.”

I said, “I’m going to be sick.”

“Not here. The loo,” Claire said.

There were photographers everywhere. Claire grabbed me out of John’s arms and hustled me to the ladies’ loo just inside Centre Court. She took the back of my head and pushed me over the lavatory. I threw up.

I tried to straighten myself, but Claire said, “I don’t think you’re finished.” I wasn’t.

Finally, Claire took a paper towel, put water on it, and began cleaning off my face.

“Claire.” I was choking, slightly.

“What?”

“Rachel told me not to play at Roehampton. I mean to try and qualify for Wimbledon. She said it would change me. Not for the better. That it would take too much. Is this what she meant?”

“She’ll be here on Monday. Ask her yourself,” Claire said, while she was wiping my face. But there was bitterness in Claire’s voice.

I was in the fourth round.

S
UNDAY
, 1 J
ULY
1962
M
Y
N
INETEENTH
B
IRTHDAY
B
ELGRAVIA

I don’t remember how Claire and John took me back to his flat. I don’t recall anything about that evening after being sick in the loo. But I do recall waking up Sunday morning in John’s bed.

“Happy birthday!” he said. “Would you like some tea?” He had made a tea tray, which he put down on the bed.

“I would love some tea. And I’m famished. Could we get breakfast somewhere?”

“Claire and Richard are on their way here. Claire just rang. They’re going to stop and buy breakfast. I can’t imagine why they think I couldn’t just make breakfast for us.”

“Could you?”

“No, not at all,” he laughed.

I held out my arms to him and, to be honest, I deliberately let the sheet drop below my breasts. I almost couldn’t believe that John would respond to me, but he did, and it was wonderful. He caressed me, and then reached under the bed and brought out a small package that had been gift-wrapped.

“This is for your birthday.”

I tore open the wrapping. It was a cheap cloth wash bag from Harrods. It had two small initials picked out on the corner: ‘FH.’

I loved it. I still have it.

John said, “Well, if you’re going to be hanging around the flat, I don’t want your things in the loo getting mixed up with my own.” Since John – like Father – used a regulation Royal Navy shaving kit for his razor, there was little risk of our things getting mixed up.

I put my arms around him and pulled him down to me.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Claire not only had a key to the flat, but that she didn’t bother knocking when she entered – which she did at that moment, with Richard in tow, and with plenty of bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon, red onions, and an almond coffee cake.

Claire said, “Would you two please stop for just a bit? You both have to eat sometime.”

John’s flat had no place for four people to have breakfast, so we trooped upstairs to the Fitzwilliam house to eat. On the way, we collected all the Sunday newspapers that had been delivered to the front steps. Claire made tea, and I spread out the bagels and other things on the kitchen table.

Then we sat around the table, ate, and read the newspapers. John was engrossed in
The Times Literary Supplement
. Claire was wearing her eyeglasses – which she never did in public – and she had her left arm draped over Richard’s shoulders in a proprietary sort of way.

I was wearing a bathrobe that belonged to John, which was ridiculously big for me. I lifted my legs and put my feet on John’s lap. He didn’t raise his eyes from the
TLS
. Instead, he simply pulled my feet closer to him and squeezed my toes with his hand.

We were all quiet. It was an ordinary Sunday morning. Wimbledon didn’t exist. Someone asked, “Is there more tea?” Someone else looked into the teapot. “No, I’ll put the kettle on for more.”

For just a moment, I allowed myself one wild, impossible thought: this would be a wonderful family into which to marry.

Later that day, John and I went for a walk in Belgravia Square Gardens, which is private. John took a small key out of his pocket to unlock the gate for us. It was a beautiful day after yesterday’s rain, but still quite cool for early July.

I said, “I have to go back to Albert House.”

“Why?”

“I have no clean clothes. Mrs Ward looks after my tennis dresses, but I need to organize a laundry for my other things.”

“Mother has a laundry room upstairs. You can use that. I’ll drive you over to Albert House.”

“John, I worry that I’m imposing on you at the flat. I’m sure you have other things to do than look after me. I’ll stay at Albert House.”

“You’re sleeping at my flat. I want you available to me.”

I liked the idea of being available to him; it made me feel feminine. “You’re sure?”

“Don’t be silly, Fiona. But I don’t have the keys to the 356 with me. So we’ll have to stop at the flat first before we head to Wood’s Mews.”

When we arrived at Albert House, there was a telegram for me from Mother and Father:

P
OST
O
FFICE
T
ELEGRAM

ON BOARD THE SS OCEAN MONARCH BY WIRELESS

ARRIVE SOUTHAMPTON MONDAY AM LONDON PM STOP CLARIDGES WILL SEND TO ALBERT HOUSE FOR YOUR BAGGAGE STOP ALL TALK ON BOARD SHIP IS OF YOUR WIMBLEDON WINS STOP LOVE MOTHER AND FATHER

I showed it to John. He said, “Do you think Claridge’s will be delivering your things to my flat?”

“Doubtful.”

There was one other item waiting for me. The Committee knew that several lady players stayed at Albert House, and so a steward that morning had hand-delivered copies of the Intended Order of Play for the next day.

I was to play on Centre Court Monday afternoon. At ‘2 pm precisely.’

M
ONDAY
, 2 J
ULY
1962
C
ENTRE
COURT
L
ADIES
’ F
OURTH
R
OUND
M
ATCH
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

Claire sat on the bench beside me in the dressing room. “I’ve played Dorothy many times.” My opponent Monday afternoon was Dorothy Fielding.

Claire went on. “She’s a good friend of mine. She’s British, so the crowd might favor her.” Claire chuckled to herself. “But remember what Jack Kramer once said: ‘The British would pack Centre Court to watch two rabbits play tennis.’ I don’t think Dorothy will be a problem for you. I’ll be in the players’ box watching with John.”

She kissed my cheek. “Good luck, Fiona.”

She stood and left the dressing room. Three minutes later she came back through the door. “Fiona, do you have Rachel’s sweater with you?”

“Yes, it’s in my kit.”

“Well, put it on before you walk out on Centre Court.”

“It’s warm. I don’t need a sweater.”

“The Australians are here, and I mean in force. They’re cheering for you already, and I think they want to see that sweater. It’s never good to disappoint Australians – they don’t like disappointment.”

“What are they cheering?”

“You’ll find out. Just put on Rachel’s sweater before you walk out. You can take it off after you knock up.”

She took my hand, squeezed it gently and left again. I pulled on Rachel’s sweater.

The callboy came, and Dorothy and I walked to the waiting room and then out onto Centre Court. I was met with a wall of noise from the Australians: “
AUSSIE! AUSSIE! AUSSIE! FI! FI! FI!
”

Over and over again. They were calling me ‘Fi.’ They yelled this cheer until the umpire finally asked them to be quiet.

My first match on Centre Court. I wasn’t scared, exactly, but it was a big moment for me. It was a world away from the Graveyard. No one – not even Claire – was permitted to practice on Centre Court. During the first week of the Championships, I had asked Claire to knock up with me on Centre Court, just so I could see what it was like. Claire – who would do just about anything for me – shook her head. “I can’t take you onto Centre Court. You have to wait for the Committee to schedule you to play there.”

A tennis player’s first Centre Court match, like for me that Monday afternoon? – well, that would always be the first time that player had ever set foot onto Centre Court.

Fred Perry said once that a player could see the ball better on Centre Court because the dark green sighting walls (which screened the tackle used to raise the tarp over Centre Court) and the low roof put the ball against a uniform, dim background. On most of the outer courts, the ball would pop up into the player’s sight against a bright, sun-lit, multi-coloured expanse of spectators. Fred thought this difference made players in their first time on Centre Court think they had more time to swing their racket. He was right about that: it took me most of the first set against Dorothy to adjust my timing.

Centre Court was
quiet.
I would close in to the net, volley, and then stop and wait a half-second for Dorothy’s attempt to pass me. Centre Court, in that instant, was so strangely tranquil – I loved that moment in each point. You’re an actor on the stage of Shakespeare’s Globe, with the audience waiting for your next line –
When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, we will in France (by God’s grace) play a set.

But then, Shakespeare in
Henry V
was speaking of real tennis.

In the third set, Dorothy and I were on service at 3-4, me to serve, and we changed ends. I waited for Dorothy to get a cup of water from the tank and then got myself a cup.

While I was drinking, I turned around to glance at John and Claire in the players’ box. Claire was standing and hugging someone, but I couldn’t see who it was. Then Claire pulled away; she had been hugging Rachel.

I yelled, “RACHEL!”

Rachel smiled at me, and gave me a slight wave, but she wasn’t going to do anything that the umpire might consider coaching. Just then, Mother appeared in the gangway to the players’ box, with Father just behind her.

I yelled again: “MOTHER! FATHER!”

Mother and Father waved, smiled, and called back, “Fiona!”

I was so excited to see them, and so proud that they could see me on Centre Court, that I pointed back to the court with my racket. “I’M PLAYING ON CENTRE COURT!” As though this wasn’t entirely obvious.

A ripple of laughter went around Centre Court, and I heard even the umpire chuckling. There was a bit of cheering.

Then someone stood and began to applaud. In an instant, every spectator was standing and applauding.

The Australians took up their cheer: “
AUSSIE! AUSSIE! AUSSIE! FI! FI! FI!
”

The umpire felt this had gone quite far enough. “Quiet, please, ladies and gentlemen. The sets are one each. Games in the third set are 3-4. Miss Hodgkin to serve.”

I held my service easily.

Dorothy served at 4 all. She went up 30-love quickly, but then I followed in her second service and hit a forehand volley winner. 30-15. I looked over at Rachel. She was impassive, with her hands folded in her lap. Dorothy hit a strong first service, which I could only block back, but then she took my shot and hit her return long.

30 all. I was two points away from breaking her serve.

Dorothy took her time preparing to serve. Another strong first service, but this time I took it with my backhand and hit my return as hard as I could. I thought it might float out, but it just touched the outer edge of the line. Dorothy got to it, but hit it back wide.

The umpire said, “Advantage Miss Hodgkin.”

Dorothy put her first service into the net. ‘Nerves,’ I thought to myself. She hit a slice second service. I hit my return right down the line and came in. Dorothy hesitated for a fraction of a second. I was on the centerline of my service courts. Dorothy decided to go crosscourt, but I cut off the ball easily and put it softly into her ad court. She wasn’t anywhere near it.

The games were 5-4. I was serving for the match.

I held my service easily; my match; I was in the fifth round.