CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Tennis Match
It was a delightful Wednesday morning, exactly one week before Christmas, and Rosewood House was bathed in a festive mood. Under a blue sky, birds were singing nearby in the trees, and the small field of lavender was being caressed by the playful air. Under one of the estate’s giant rustling trees lay a small and shaded expanse of green lawn, with its recently erected tennis net flapping about gently in the breeze. The harmonious scene was set. The conditions were perfect for a game of tennis, and all that was now missing from the picture, were the players themselves.
Just as Mother Nature was smiling upon the glorious prospect below her, George Brearly’s warlike cry of, ‘Let the battle commence!’ bludgeoned the fragile tranquillity of the moment, echoing the words throughout the countryside, alarming his fellow participants and causing a scattering of birds in all directions.
‘George,’ his brother warned, ‘I know you’re dressed for a championship final, but this is going to be a leisurely game of tennis. There’s no need to be quite so belligerent.’ He followed his younger brother out to the makeshift tennis court. ‘And do the ladies the courtesy of disposing of that cigarette. You don’t know how vulgar you look with that infernal thing hanging out of your mouth.’
George ignored Michael’s remarks, and clutching his beloved racquet and several balls, he took a running jump and dexterously bounded over the net, with all the lightness and grace of a gazelle.
As his brother had indicated, George was smartly dressed in his tennis costume, comprising a striped blazer, tennis-shoes, white flannel trousers and a peaked cap. Needless to say, George Brearly took his tennis seriously, perhaps a little too seriously. In this impetuous and rather agitated state, he had no patience for his fellow players, who were strolling towards him, chattering amongst themselves.
‘Well, come along!’ he cried churlishly. ‘Time is ticking away, you know!’
‘Why the hurry, Mr Brearly?’ asked Frances, sweeping her plait off her shoulder and securing a straw hat to her head. ‘Do you think the net will blow away if we don’t get to the court in time?’
The tennis party laughed, including George, who always appreciated good humour.
‘Very well, I’ll be patient,’ he said. He drew his cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply.
‘Good!’ Michael remarked. ‘Now that George has done the unthinkable, and agreed to be patient, it’s time to find ourselves a partner.’
Frances instinctively looked towards the doctor, hoping that he would choose her as an acknowledging gesture of their new friendship, but to her dismay, she found him singling out Agnes. Frances glared at them as they crossed the lawn and took up their positions on the other side of the court. She then caught sight of her aunt and cousin Charlotte, who were happily ensconced in their wicker chairs some distance away. For a fleeting moment Frances wished she was with them.
George, however, had bounded over to Frances’s side, and whilst bouncing a ball off his racquet, he addressed her. ‘Well, Miss Norwood,’ he began jauntily, ‘isn’t this an awfully fortunate arrangement? I was afraid I would be lumbered with Agnes. Have you ever played tennis with her? She is an absolutely frightful player. Still, we can’t all be as gifted as myself.’
‘Perhaps your tennis skills compensate for your other personal deficiencies,’ Frances suggested.
George chuckled. ‘Quite possibly. Now, enough about my talent, which I hasten to add, is considerable. We need to discuss tactics. Should we formulate a plan of attack?’ Without waiting for an answer, he went on. ‘Going on past experience I find it useful to ascertain each player’s weakness, which in Agnes’s case shouldn’t be too challenging. Once we know what their vulnerabilities are, we exploit them! What do you say?’ Again Frances did not answer. She was too busy looking daggers at the doctor and Agnes to reply. ‘Now,’ George was saying in hushed tones of secrecy, ‘I’m just trying to remember the details of Michael’s game. It’s been years since we last played together, but as I recall, he was rather weak at the net. Or was it his serving? All I know is he plays tennis much better than he plays cricket.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Brearly,’ Frances eventually replied, ‘we should wait until we actually start playing. Then we can ascertain our opposition’s faults, and make a plan based on the new information. I think it would also be beneficial to us if you extinguished your cigarette, not that I’m telling you what to do. It’s merely a suggestion. If we’re going to win, we need to focus all our attention on the task at hand.’
‘Quite right!’ George said, reflecting on her proposal. ‘Well said! Yes, we’ll do that.’ He flung the stump of his cigarette to the ground and trampled on it, without giving it a second thought.
He then hurried over to the net and suggested to his brother that they have a pre-match practice session. Michael agreed with him, and as soon as George finished an elaborate series of muscle stretches, all four players started to play. After a short-lived flurry of sweeping racquets and erratically flying balls, the real game got under way, and it wasn’t long before George’s real temper on the court was exposed. Off the court he was a sanguine, charming young man, but on the court he was transformed into a particularly undesirable character. He was an exacting and pedantic player who was intolerant of the defects in the other players. Every point was played with such concentration and forcefulness that he soon became a formidable opponent and partner, disconcerting even Frances with his torrid and irrational outbursts.
As the game progressed, however, Frances began to suspect her partner of cheating. She kept these suspicions to herself and watched with increasing amusement as George’s line calls became more and more outrageous. During one particular point, Michael’s serve came dangerously close to the line, but being under the impression that his serve was good, he adjusted his glasses and began his next serve. The sound of George’s voice soon brought him to a standstill.
‘And what the blazes do you think you’re doing?’ George demanded. ‘Even a dead dog could see that that ball was clearly out!’
‘What absurdity!’ Michael retorted. ‘It was in by the length of my foot.’
‘Your foot? You lying hound! I saw it with my own eyes, or should I say, we saw it with our own eyes. It was clearly out, wasn’t it, Miss Norwood?’
All eyes were drawn to Frances. Given that she had not witnessed the serve, she was not the best person to ask for an opinion, but unfortunately for Michael, Frances was still smarting over being rejected as Michael’s tennis partner, and without hesitation she made her reply.
‘Yes, Doctor Brearly,’ she declared, ‘it was definitely out. A most appalling shot.’
George guffawed. ‘There, I told you!’
‘Well of course she’s going to say that,’ Agnes sneered. ‘She’s on his team. And as for your remark, cousin, it was not an appalling shot. To my mind, Michael positioned it very skilfully.’
‘What would you know?’ George retaliated. ‘You can’t even hold your racquet properly. And for your edification, Miss Wentworth, if one’s serve goes beyond the line, then it is out. As for your benighted partner, tell him to get himself a pair of new spectacles!’
Muttering a derogatory comment under his breath, George returned to his position on the base line. In the background a disgruntled Agnes and her partner were deep in discussion. To keep the peace, Agnes ruled that the previous point was to be replayed and rewarded fairly, but she was powerless to do anything about the ill-feeling and swelling resentment that both sides harboured for one another. Despite Agnes’s earlier outburst, she was now the only one who was in good spirits. As she had previously asserted, she played sport for the fun of it, and whether she won or lost was of little consequence to her.
Frances, in direct contrast, had had just about as much as she could take of her cousin’s behaviour. Her calmness had bordered on apathy, and on many occasions, when Frances’s shots seemed too difficult to hit, Agnes simply let them go through. Like George, F
rances was an advocate of good, competitive tennis, and her cousin’s lack of effort seemed to fly in the face of all Frances’s exertions. She tried directing her shots to Michael, but being the gentleman he was, he persistently moved out of the line of the ball and encouraged Agnes to hit it instead. Again and again, Agnes left the ball well alone.
Finally, Frances’s patience came to an end. She was still dwelling on her cousin’s insulting remark from the day before, and resolving to get her revenge, she pounced on Michael’s next serve. She directed the ball at Agnes with all the strength she could muster, and before her cousin could take evasive action, the ball struck the left side of her face with a sickening thud.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 13
