Mike

by Andrew Norriss

  “How are you? What are you doing here?” Barrington’s smile was getting broader by the second. “Have you got time for a drink?”

  “Not really. I’m meeting my parents,” said Floyd.

  “They’re watching a game?”

  Floyd nodded. “The Alice Webber match.”

  “That’s only just started.” Barrington looked at his watch. “They got held up by rain. You’ve got half an hour even if she gets whitewashed. Come on! You and me have a lot to talk about!”

  “Honey?” The girl in the car sounded rather bored. “You’re going to be late for practice.”

  “Who cares about that?” Barrington turned to face her. “This is Floyd! Floyd Beresford!”

  The girl looked up. “The guy from Roehampton?”

  Barrington nodded.

  “Hey!” The girl’s skirt rose even higher up her thighs as she leaned across to hold out a hand. “I’ve heard about you.”

  “Come on …” Barrington put an arm on Floyd’s shoulder. “One drink …”

  “I’m not sure, I …”

  “There’s no point arguing!” The girl in the car was looking up at Floyd with a dazzling smile. “He’s not going to let you go now he’s found you. But try not to keep him too long! He really does need to practice.” She looked at Barrington. “See you on the courts in half an hour!”

  As the car moved forward into the parking lot, Floyd found himself led across the road toward the Members’ Entrance to the Wimbledon grounds, with Barrington asking how he was, how his parents were, and what on earth he was doing these days. There was a slight delay when Barrington had to stop and sign his autograph for a group of schoolgirls, and another while he had a word with the security man before Floyd was allowed in, but then he was being led down a long corridor lined with photographs of past Wimbledon winners and up some stairs into a comfortable lounge area with tables and a bar.

  “You’re working in an aquarium?” Barrington led the way to a table in the corner. “Really?”

  “Really,” said Floyd.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Barrington looked at him. “You always did have a thing about fish, didn’t you? There was a story that your parents bought you one every time you won a match. Was that true?”

  Floyd admitted that it was, though he was surprised that Barrington knew about it.

  “Oh, there were a lot of stories floating around about you,” said Barrington. “About what you liked and what you didn’t. Everyone wanted to know!”

  “Did they?”

  “Of course!” Barrington smiled. “You were the one we were all worried about, weren’t you? We were always swapping stories about you. That’s why I was trying to psych you out in the locker room that day.” His smile widened. “That didn’t work out too well for me, did it!”

  He paused to ask a waiter to bring over a large bottle of Perrier and two glasses.

  “Look, I have to ask … What happened? I mean, you were so good, and then … How could you give it all up to … to work in an aquarium?”

  Floyd was confused. This was not the Barrington he remembered. This was not the sneering youth who had made him so angry in the locker room almost three years before. There was no arrogance, no trace of condescension, just an apparently genuine curiosity.

  “There was a rumor”—Barrington was still talking—“after you disappeared off the circuit, that you’d had a row with your dad. And another story that you’d had a breakdown because he’d pushed you too hard. But nobody really knew. And your dad never said anything.”

  “It wasn’t anything to do with my father,” said Floyd. “I … I just didn’t want to play tennis anymore.”

  Barrington frowned. “Even after that last match?”

  “I’d decided to stop before then,” said Floyd. “I only finished the tournament because my parents wanted me to.”

  “I see …” Barrington leaned back in his chair. “Well … no, actually, I don’t see at all, but … You know they still talk about that match? When I go down to Roehampton—to give a talk to kids or something—even now, I can guarantee that someone will come up to me and say, ‘You know that guy who beat you in the Under-18s? What happened to him? He could have been really good!’ ”

  “I’m sorry … ,” said Floyd.

  “Nothing to be sorry about. It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Was it?” Floyd was puzzled.

  “That match …” Barrington stopped for a moment to choose his words carefully before continuing. “Up to then, tennis was just, you know, something I seemed to be able to do and that got me in with girls … but playing you that day made me realize I hadn’t even started. You were just … it was like all of you was out there. Every single drop of you was out on that court and utterly determined to win. And I realized I’d never concentrated that way on anything. And I knew that if I wanted to win—and that was the game that made me realize how much I wanted to win—I was going to have to up the stakes.” He looked at Floyd and gave a self-conscious smile. “I tell everybody. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you.”

  Floyd wanted to speak but could think of nothing to say.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” Barrington went on. “It was, without question, the worst day of my life, but that’s when it all really started. That’s when I began to work. That’s when I decided where I really wanted to go.” He took a sip of his drink. “Mind you, I’d have done it a lot quicker if I’d had someone like your father looking after me.” He looked carefully at Floyd. “You know I asked him?”

  “Asked him what?”

  “To be my coach. It was about a month after the match and I thought, if it was true that you’d dropped out, then there was one very good coach in need of a student. So I called your dad and asked if he’d take me on.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said no. But he was very polite. And he gave me the name of someone in America he said I should contact if I was serious. So I did.”

  “Daniel Rowse …” Floyd nodded.

  “Right. Your dad put in a good word for me, so that’s where I went. And it seems to have worked out OK.”

  Floyd looked at Barrington, sitting back in his chair in the tennis world’s holy of holies, looking completely at ease and at home. Tomorrow he would be going out on Centre Court to play the number one seed in the quarterfinals of the most prestigious tennis tournament in the world and … yes, you could say it seemed to have worked out OK.

  “Have you ever thought about coming back?” asked Barrington.

  “What?”

  “It wouldn’t be too late. Plenty of people dip out for a couple of years with injuries, and in twelve months they’re right back up where they were. You could do it.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Floyd.

  “Are you sure?” Barrington gestured to the room around them. “You don’t ever wonder if you made the wrong choice, giving up … all this?”

  “It wasn’t really a choice,” said Floyd. “There was a part of me that just didn’t want to play tennis.” He glanced up at one of the television screens. “Alice has lost. I’d better get back.”

  “Yeah. And I have to do my little show.” Barrington stood up. “I’ll walk you out.”

  “Thanks for the drink,” said Floyd. “And good luck tomorrow.”

  “With Malkowich? I’ll need it, won’t I?” Barrington chuckled. “But he’s not going to get a walk in the park. I’m going to make him work for every single shot. I learned that from you.” He smiled. “But if I do lose, it means I’ll have time to come and see this aquarium of yours and you can tell me what’s so wonderful about fish. Deal?”

  “OK,” said Floyd.

  “Good.” Barrington led the way to the door. “And if you ever change your mind about tennis … I’m not the only one who’d like to see you back.”

  Floyd was standing on the sidewalk outside the parking lot entrance when his parents appeared with ten-ye
ar-old Sissie in tow.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said his father. “Match was delayed by rain.”

  “I heard,” said Floyd. He had decided not to mention his meeting with Barrington. “Was it a good game?”

  “It was incredible!” Sissie was clearly on a high. “Did you know Alice Webber is only seventeen? Can you believe it? Getting to the quarterfinals of Wimbledon when you’re only seventeen?”

  As they walked to the car, Floyd listened as Sissie told him, in great detail, about both of the matches she had seen, of the mood of the crowd, of the celebrities who had been there, of the astonishing speed of play … As they climbed into the car, she started talking about Barrington Gates, and asked Floyd’s father if he thought there was a chance of his winning the next day against Malkowich, but Mr. Beresford didn’t answer that one and she went back to talking about what they had had for lunch.

  Listening to her excited chatter, Floyd remembered how it had been on his own initial visit to Wimbledon—his first sight of the lawns and the stands, the men in blazers and white hats, the women in their brightest dresses, and the buzz that ran through the crowd when the players emerged from the locker room. It was thrilling enough for anyone who enjoyed tennis, but the excitement was quadrupled if, as Sissie did, you had the dream that one day you might be one of the players to come striding out onto the court. A dream, Floyd remembered, that he had once had himself.

  As they drove home, he couldn’t help thinking about what Barrington had said. He thought of Barrington’s car and his clothes. He thought of the girls who had gathered around him at the entrance asking for an autograph, and he thought of the cheers that would go up tomorrow when he came out to challenge the number one seed on Centre Court.

  Barrington was right. It was a lot to have given up.

  And there came, sneaking into his mind, the thought that Barrington might also have been right when he said it wasn’t too late. Maybe he could choose to play again. A few years out of the game didn’t have to mean the end of a career. Some of the greatest tennis players in the world had taken a year out to recover from illness or injury. Sure, it would take him a while to get back to form—he’d have to get fit, train, put in the hours—and of course he’d have to start again at the bottom. Play in the lower league tournaments to build up points and work his way up the rankings. But he could do it. He knew he could, if only …

  The car drew up at some traffic lights and Floyd glanced out of the window to see a familiar figure standing outside the entrance to a large block of offices. It was Mike. He was looking straight at Floyd, and there was a look of horror on his face that said, as clearly as any words, What are you thinking!

  Shaking his head in weary disbelief, Mike turned around and began banging his head against the wall of the building. It looked painful, but he didn’t stop. He was still banging his head against the brickwork as the lights changed and the car moved off, though he did take one hand out of his pocket to wave good-bye.

  Floyd smiled.

  It was the only time he ever thought seriously of going back to tennis.

  One of Dr. Pinner’s theories—he had several—was that, with Mike, Floyd had somehow opened a door to a part of his mind that most of us are rarely able to reach. Mike might have started out as the simple projection of an unconscious desire, he argued, but he had since become a means by which Floyd could access other parts of his unconscious, including that part that holds the deepest intuitive knowledge of who we are and what we should be doing.

  To believe that, of course, you had to believe that there was a part of the mind that held a deep intuitive knowledge, and, despite all that had happened, Floyd was never too sure about that himself. However, he had a long-standing promise to tell the psychologist if Mike ever reappeared, so he sat down that evening and wrote him an email describing what had happened. He was not entirely surprised to get a reply an hour later asking if Floyd might be free to meet at the Sheridan the next day.

  Over their usual tea and cake, the psychologist made Floyd go over everything that had happened and, in particular, everything that Mike had done.

  “It was Barrington that Mike wanted you to meet,” said Dr. Pinner. “That’s the key. And if Mike wanted you to meet Barrington, it must be because there was something you needed to hear from him. You’re sure all he talked about was the past? He didn’t have any advice for you—any suggestions for the future?”

  “You mean apart from saying that it wasn’t too late for me to get back into tennis?” asked Floyd. “No. Nothing I can think of, anyway.”

  But later that evening, on Dr. Pinner’s advice, he actually sat down and tried to write down as much as he could remember of the conversation he had had with Barrington Gates in the Members’ Bar at Wimbledon.

  It left him none the wiser.

  Two days after the trip to London, Barrington appeared at Waterworld. How exactly he had found the place, Floyd never knew, though there were probably not that many aquariums in Sheffield. It was the middle of the afternoon, and Floyd was busily cleaning off the marks of sticky fingers and runny noses from the glass front of one of the tanks when he looked up to find Barrington, spinning a pair of sunglasses in his fingers and smiling amiably down.

  “Hi,” he said. “I lost yesterday, so … here I am.”

  Barrington had indeed lost his quarterfinal against Malkowich, but only just. The match had been closer than anyone had expected. It went to five sets, with three tiebreakers, and the crowd had gone wild. Television coverage had been huge and Barrington, despite losing, was a new British hero.

  “You played well, though,” said Floyd. “Everyone said. You played very well.” He had watched the highlights of the match on the television in his bedroom, and supper with his parents that evening had been a particularly subdued affair.

  “I made him work for it, didn’t I?” Barrington looked up and down at the tanks that lined the corridor. “OK … are you going to show me around?”

  Floyd gave him the Waterworld tour. While rattling off the names and types of fish on display, he told him some of the stories and details of how they had been acquired. He showed him the electric eel, and then did his trick of putting an octopus on his fist before peeling it off, and Barrington watched and listened politely through it all, though with a slightly bemused expression on his face.

  “I hope you won’t be offended,” he said as Floyd finally led him upstairs to the coffee bar. “I mean, it’s all very interesting and you’re a great guide, but I still don’t quite get it. You actually gave up tennis for … for this?”

  “Well …” Floyd hesitated. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Why?” Barrington was genuinely puzzled. “I mean … they’re fish!”

  Floyd did his best to explain. He told Barrington how he could still remember that first time he had walked into a pet shop when he was five and been mesmerized by the sight of the creatures swimming around in the tanks. How he had been instantly drawn to them, wanting to know more about them and the world in which they lived. How that desire had grown over the years, how he had read and studied, and even collected, a growing number of specimens for himself.

  Barrington listened in silence as he sipped his coffee. “So this is it?” he asked, when Floyd had finished. “This is where you’re going to be working the rest of your life?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Floyd. “I mean, I could if I wanted, but … no.” He paused and then, in an effort as much as anything to give the impression that his life was not entirely devoid of opportunity, added, “I’ve had an offer to go to America.”

  “To do what?”

  “I know someone who’s doing this research trip in the Gulf of Mexico. On the causes of hypoxia. That’s when the oxygen level in the water goes down and the fish start dying. He’s trying to find out why.”

  “Great. When are you going?”

  “Well, it’s not definite or anything. I can only go if I get scuba diving qualifications. Then I
’d have to get a visa. It’s quite complicated.”

  “Complicated?” Barrington stared at him. “Are you kidding? Complicated is training six hours a day for ten years to be a professional tennis player. Learning to scuba dive and getting a visa is something people do every year just to go on vacation.” He looked at Floyd. “How come you were offered this job, anyway? Because of the work you do here?”

  “Not exactly.” Floyd found himself blushing slightly. “The man organizing the trip is the father of this girl I met a few years back. I think she suggested it. I’m not sure why.”

  “I give up”—Barrington leaned back in his chair—“I really do. A girl asks her father to give you a job, and you don’t know why?” He pointed a finger at Floyd’s chest. “You get on and do it, OK? Because if you don’t, I’m coming back here and I’m going to buy your favorite octopus and eat it.”

  At that point one of a group of girls who had been hovering at a nearby table stepped forward and asked Barrington if he really was Barrington Gates because she’d watched the match the day before and thought he was so wonderful and could she please have an autograph?

  Floyd went over to the machine to get another coffee and, while he was there, the Chief appeared beside him and pointed to Barrington.

  “Is that him?” he murmured. “The tennis guy?”

  Floyd agreed that it was.

  “He a friend of yours?”

  “I’m not sure he’s a friend, exactly,” said Floyd. “I played tennis against him once.”

  “Did you … ?” The Chief looked across at Barrington, surrounded by giggling girls. “No shame in losing that one, eh?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Floyd, “when I played him, I won.”

  The Chief gave one of his rare smiles. “Yeah. ’Course you did!”

  That evening, Floyd wrote to Dr. Lamont saying that he had signed up for a scuba diving course, that he had written to the U.S. embassy to apply for a visa, and that he would very much like to accept the offer of a place on his marine research trip the following January.