by Anne Digby
'The college wrote the most brilliant letter to Dr Simpson,' he explained. It seemed that his headmaster had taken him into his confidence and told him everything that was in the letter. 'They said I was an obvious Oxford candidate and had written outstanding exam papers, but had shown lamentable lack of direction during my interviews. That the courses at the university are very demanding and unlikely to be completed successfully by a student who lacks real interest and motivation. In other words, it's simply not enough to have the brains and want to go there because it seems glamorous. It's not like Brideshead Revisited any more. It's a real sweatshop!'
'So they say,' commented Rebecca. 'What else?' she asked eagerly.
'They're suggesting that I sort myself out and re-apply after A levels for a place next year! Take a year off! That's what they seem to be saying. Dr Simpson says it means they probably want me after all, as long as I find something I really want to do.'
'Oh, Robbie, isn't that good!' exclaimed Rebecca.
She didn't ask him if he'd had any ideas yet about what he did want to do. She could tell he hadn't. There was plenty of time for that, now. It was enough to see him happy again.
And so, piling into the cream cakes he'd bought, overcome by a feeling of well-being at being in such a glamorous restaurant, she blurted out her own piece of news.
'Wow!' he said.
'What d'you think it means, Robbie?'
'Maybe this man Lasky is going to offer you a contract! Maybe you're going to be a millionaire!'
'I'd better play well tomorrow then, hadn't I,' she said, trying to sound calm. 'Don't tell anyone, will you, Robbie?'
'Of course I won't. Wow!' he said again. 'What did I tell you, eh?'
As Robbie drove her back to school in Justin's little car, her mind returned to a completely different subject.
Was that Naomi Cook they saw on the way? she wondered.
When they'd left the school grounds earlier, by the back lane, it had been around three o'clock. They'd used the gates by St Mary's, the little church in the grounds, and Robbie had zoomed away up the hill, pleased to be driving again.
They'd passed what Rebecca took to be a local cyclist, flying down the hill from the opposite direction. A small girl wearing old jeans and a denim jacket, head bent over the handlebars of an oversized bike. Rebecca had only caught the merest glimpse of the face.
It was only after she'd gone past that Rebecca had wondered something. Had that been Naomi Cook?
If so, where'd she been? Juniors were forbidden to wear clothes like that when they went out, and they weren't allowed out today, anyway! Surely it couldn't have been Naomi?
She'd then told Robbie all about the First Year girl:
'Her family will be down here by now. I hope she hasn't been nipping home to see them or something,' Rebecca had said, with a worried frown. 'Oh, surely she wouldn't do anything so silly?'
'D'you think that could have been Naomi, borrowing a bike and breaking bounds?' she said out loud to Robbie now.
'Search me,' he grunted. 'You know what she looks like, Rebeck. I don't.'
FIVE
THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING WALKMAN
Sunday again. The whole day at Exonford this time. The Indoor was a round robin tournament. Eight members of the county squads took part: four seniors, two 18–Us and two 16–Us, Rebecca and another girl, Madeleine Marks. In the course of the day, everybody played one long set against everybody else. There were three sets in the morning and four in the afternoon, with good long breaks in between, of course, waiting for courts to come free.
Rebecca played very well indeed.
She got nicely into her stride during the morning and when Brenda Brogan arrived, just at the end of the lunch break, and briefly introduced herself, Rebecca's adrenalin started to flow.
She took the first set of the afternoon 6–4 from one of the 18–Us. She loved the sensation of being totally fit once more. She was glad she'd gone running with Tish every morning this week. It made a difference! But mostly she was exhilarated by the sight of that tall elegant figure in the fur coat, watching her from the shadows.
She reached her peak in the second match of the afternoon: defeating the county's Number One Ladies Senior player, 10–8, after a long and gritty battle. She sat down afterwards and towelled herself, drinking copiously. When she'd recovered, she noticed that the figure in furs had disappeared.
'Oh, has Miss Brogan gone back to London now?' she asked Mrs Ericson, in obvious disappointment.
'Not at all,' smiled the coach. 'She's just asked if she can use my phone. That was a fine performance, Rebecca. Well done. I shouldn't wonder if she's reporting back to Mr Lasky right now.'
Mrs Ericson had guessed correctly.
The telephone conversation was brief, but to the point.
'Well?'
'She's just beaten the Number One Senior.'
'And saleable?'
'Yes.'
"OK. Give her a lift back to school. Tell her if she has a good start to the season I'm interested.'
'Mr Lasky's definitely interested in you Rebecca,' explained Miss Brogan, as the beautiful silver-grey Porsche zipped through the countryside between Exonford and Trebizon. 'Of course, he can't offer you a contract at this stage.'
'Of course not,' agreed Rebecca, in a total daze.
She'd never been in a car like this before! Leaning back, relaxed, wrapped round in the warmth of the bucket-shaped seat. She could smell its real leather, mingled with the faint fragrance of Miss Brogan's perfume, tangy, exotic, reminiscent of dark blue skies on hot summer nights ... There was some brilliant music playing softly on the car stereo.
'He'll need to see how you shape up in the next few months. What's your next major tournament? Bristol?'
'Yes, I'm down for that,' said Rebecca eagerly.
'Good. You can count on Mr Lasky coming to Bristol in person. You'll be the second young player he'll be watching there.'
'When – when will he decide?' Rebecca wanted to know.
'After the Prudential at Easter, most likely. He'd have to consult with your parents, of course,' replied Brenda Brogan. 'Have you got GCSEs this summer?'
'Yes.'
'Well, obviously you'd have to stay on at school to finish those. And you're sixteen in July?'
'How did you know that?' exclaimed Rebecca in surprise.
'From the rankings sheet, of course!' laughed Miss Brogan. 'Well, Mr Lasky will come close to a decision at Bristol and then take a final decision at Easter, after the Prudential. That way your parents can give your school the usual term's notice. So you'd be free to leave at the end of the summer term. Straight into a contract with the best agent in the country! He'd fix you up with a coach, sponsorship deals, everything! And more tennis and more money than you've ever dreamed of, Rebecca!'
Rebecca leaned back on the head-rest and watched clouds and tree-tops whizzing by. Her scalp was tingling and she felt very slightly faint. So . . . if she played superbly well in the next few weeks, everything could happen with dizzying speed. Much faster than she'd ever dreamt; much faster than she'd ever planned. She'd leave school and turn professional this summer! She'd be playing tennis full time, with her own coach and wonderful clothes and Mr Lasky would get her sponsorships! She'd go to Eastbourne this summer as a pro. There'd be a car to drive her around. No more transport problems! Not like last summer when Mum and Dad had to hang around in the rain, not enjoying their 'little holiday' at Eastbourne one bit and glad when it was all over – even though she'd nearly reached the semi-finals!
Finally she said, in a subdued voice:
'My parents are out of the country. They work in Saudi Arabia.'
Miss Brogan swung the car off the main road as she saw the signs for Trebizon. She gave Rebecca a sidelong glance.
'Oh, that's a pity.'
'They'll be back in the summer!' Rebecca quickly explained. 'The beginning of July. They'll be back home on leave for two months.'
'Ah.'
Miss Brogan gave a quick nod. 'That's all right, then. Nothing would have to be signed before July. But of course we shall need to sound out their opinion, long before then. Mr Lasky will want to write to them and give them some idea of what's in his mind.'
'I'll write to them, as well!' Rebecca exclaimed.
'Good. Now, where are we? Can you give me directions, Rebecca?'
As the school gates came in sight, all Rebecca could think of was the car – and how glamorous Miss Brogan looked. She checked her watch. Nearly time for the Sunday evening TV Serial – the Agatha Christie! Rebecca and friends, 'the six', were all hooked on that at the moment. With luck, Tish and Sue and Co. would be crowding into the common room just as she got back.
They'd be downstairs and they'd see the car arrive! They'd see her step out of the car. What a surprise it was going to give them. And then she'd tell them her amazing news. At last she had something solid to tell them! Solid, but not definite.
The car scrunched to a halt in front of Court House.
'Now, Rebecca,' said Miss Brogan, reaching for her handbag, 'if you could just give me your parents' address.'
Rebecca glanced through the passenger window, towards the common room. A few flakes of snow were falling. Surely one of her friends would look out at any moment and spot the car! One was always interested when cars rolled up at Court House, especially if they looked like this one!
Keeping half an eye on the front of the building, Rebecca recited the address while the woman wrote it down carefully in a notebook. Sure enough, two faces had appeared at the common room window. But they were just a couple of Fourth Years, Belinda Burridge and Wanda Gorski. No sign of her friends. Oh, come on! Surely they'd all come crowding to the window, now that she'd been spotted?
'Right.' Miss Brogan snapped her notebook shut. 'Must dash. It's a long drive back to London.' She leaned across and opened the passenger door, giving Rebecca a warm smile. 'Off you go, then. It's up to you now! No promises. Nothing definite – not yet. But everything to work for, Rebecca!'
As the car disappeared from view, Rebecca turned away feeling empty and walked through the snowflakes to the front door, carrying her sports grip. She felt a silly pang of disappointment that her friends hadn't seen the car, after all.
She looked into the common room. The TV serial was just beginning.
'Who was that?' asked Belinda.
'What a fantastic car!' exclaimed Wanda.
'Just a lift, that's all,' said Rebecca, quickly withdrawing.
Nobody in there. Where were they? It wasn't like them to miss the serial!
She raced upstairs towards the Fifth Year quarters on the top floor.
There they were – on the top landing! They were all in a huddle, talking to someone. Something was going on.
'Hiya! I'm back!' she called out excitedly, powering up the last flight of stairs.
But none of them turned round; they were too busy talking to have heard her.
There seemed to be a rival attraction.
As Rebecca reached the top landing, she saw who was the centre of all the attention.
It was Holly Thomas.
Sue Murdoch tended to feel slightly responsible for Justin's little sister, mainly because Justin always wanted to hear news of her when they met. Holly was a Second Year now. Although she'd settled in quite nicely at Trebizon, after the dramas of the previous summer, she still tended to be accident–prone. Everything always happened to Holly!
Rebecca could see now that her face was badly tearstained. However, the fact that she was holding Tish's old cassette recorder in her arms, the one which Tish had had since the Second Year, seemed to be cheering her up.
'May I really borrow it, Tish?' she was saying.
'Yes, yes,' said Tish. 'I keep telling you! There's nowhere to fit headphones. We're not allowed them up here without headphones! Fifth Year rules. It's duff! It's useless!'
Rebecca smiled in surprise, remembering how pleased Tish had been with it, at Holly's age.
'Shoo, now!' Sue was saying. 'Time to get back to Juniper! Miss Morgan will be wondering where you are. And we're going to miss our serial! Rebeck! You're back!'
'What about your action committee?' Holly was protesting as they bundled her downstairs. 'You're good at solving mysteries!'
'Too busy for Action Committee!' scolded Mara. 'We've got our GCSEs to think about. You will have to form one of your own, Holly!'
Rebecca dumped her sports bag on the landing and doubled back down, to join them.
'Being generous, aren't you, Tish?' she whispered. 'What's going on?'
'Somebody's pinched Holly's Walkman. It's walked! It's brand new. She got it for Christmas. She left it on the table downstairs at Juniper, over the weekend, sometime. Now it's definitely gone.'
'That's awful,' said Rebecca. 'But guess what, I've got some news too. I can't wait to tell you!'
And so as Holly left the building, Rebecca sat at the bottom of the stairs, with her friends gathered round her, and told them what there was to tell.
After that, the mystery of the missing Walkman faded into insignificance.
Somebody was interested in Rebecca! An agent! The one who managed all the famous teenage stars!
Rebecca had a contract in the offing! She might be good enough to turn pro this summer. She'd be rich. She'd be famous. She'd have to leave Trebizon . . .
How had the agent noticed her? He must have seen the film, that was it. Yes, surely, that must have been it . . .
What a shame they missed seeing the woman and the Porsche! Never mind, they'd be seeing them both again sometime, by the sound of it.
They were several minutes late for the Agatha Christie. There'd been another murder at the vicarage, apparently. Three corpses in one evening!
SIX
A BAD SIGN
Rebecca yawned through lessons on Monday morning. It was not so much the physically tiring day at Exonford, but the fact that she'd then stayed up late scribbling letters: to Robbie, to her grandmother and then to Cliff. She wanted to share her news with them as quickly as possible. They'd all be thrilled, in their different ways!
The letter to her parents would take a bit more thought, so she'd put that off for a while. She wasn't sure whether they'd be pleased or not.
Also she decided she didn't want it filtering through to the staff at Trebizon, not even Mrs Barrington, her house mistress. Not yet. She'd sworn the rest of 'the six' to secrecy.
After all, it wasn't definite.
As if all this activity weren't enough, or perhaps because it was too much, Rebecca hadn't been able to get to sleep for ages. She lay looking up at the skylight above her bed, at that square of darkness, wondering if there might be more snow during the night. There'd only been a few flurries so far. She'd fixed up a game with Joss tomorrow lunch hour. If it snowed they wouldn't be able to play! she fretted.
No wonder Rebecca was tired the next morning. She got ticked off in German for not paying attention. She'd been staring dreamily through the window, realizing that snow clouds had moved away to be replaced by wintry sunshine. Good! The court would be playable . . .
Her thoughts were turning to Naomi Cook. It would be nice to have someone pick up balls today. She'd offered, hadn't she? Why not take her up on it?
Not only that. It would be a chance to talk to her. To probe a bit. Rebecca had been worrying about the First Year girl and the fact that she might be breaking bounds. There was something not quite right about the whole set-up with Naomi, something odd. Rebecca had sensed it. Tish and Sue had been sweet to Holly. Well, maybe Naomi needed a bit of kindness, too. If she were doing daft things like popping home, the sooner she stopped it the better, before she was found out!
'Rebecca, for the last time, please give me the Dative!' exploded Herr Fischer.
At lunchtime, in her quiet way, Naomi seemed pleased to come and ball-girl for Rebecca and Joss. She obviously hadn't planned on doing anything else. Still no particular friends, Rebec
ca noted.
But it was a godsend not have to pick up the balls today!
Joss gave her a wonderful game. Rebecca won, 7–6. Possibly.
When Joss had gone, Rebecca stayed behind on the pretext of seeing to the net and told Naomi she wanted to talk to her.
'Can I tell you something first?' asked Naomi, collecting up the last two balls and putting them in the box.
'Of course,' said Rebecca, in surprise.
Naomi came across with the box. Her cheeks were paler than usual. She was having to summon up her courage. She didn't want to upset Rebecca! Maybe Rebecca wouldn't ask her to come again.
'Well?' she prompted. The First Year girl had suddenly become tongue-tied. 'What is it?'
'You didn't win!' Naomi blurted out.
Rebecca felt angry and at the same time dismayed, by her own anger.
'What on earth d'you mean?'
'That last shot Joss did – you said it was out. But it just touched the line. I saw it!'
'Oh.' Rebecca was slightly appalled. 'Are you sure?'
'Positive.'
'Oh. I made a mistake then. I'll tell Joss later.' Then she added: 'Thanks for telling me.'
Once again, she had to hand it to Naomi. She was certainly honest!
'Your family's moved down here now, then?' Rebecca asked casually, as they left the court. 'Do you feel it makes any difference?'
'Well –' Naomi gave her a guarded look. 'It's better knowing they're not far away. Of course, I can't see anybody or anything. But they'll be able to come to things. I mean, supposing I get in the netball team. And it won't be far to go home, at half-term, will it? But I wish . . .'
She broke off, looking unutterably sad.
'There do have to be rules,' said Rebecca, as gently as she could. 'There are hardly any day-girls. Miss Welbeck doesn't like having them. Because it is a boarding school. And if boarders who had families living quite near could pop home when they wanted, it would be unsettling for everyone else, wouldn't it? I mean, me, for instance.' She smiled. 'My parents are in Saudi Arabia.'
