A Handful of Summers

by Gordon Forbes

  Then the uproar broke out. At fifteen, she was too young to play at Wimbledon and her entry was refused. The British press were very indignant. She was on all the front pages – pictures of her standing wistfully gazing up at the Wimbledon scoreboard, biting her lip. She has a beautiful puckish face – just the kind that the English like to take to their hearts and make a cause of.

  Jeannie. No one ever knew what went on in her mind while she played. She had such genius as a very young girl – and suddenly it seemed to ebb. Simply melt away. And yet her game appeared to be the same. One could hardly notice the difference; just that before she had won, and afterwards she struggled. I was sad and baffled, and though I questioned her sometimes, she always hid her answers behind her soft nature and deep, inscrutable composure.

  ‘You must go on with your own game,’ she said once, ‘and not worry about me. I’ll find my game again, some day.’ But she never really did.

  Diary Notes: Summer 1955

  Wimbledon again. Marvellous to get into the draw without the agony of qualifying. And into dressing-room ‘A’, no less! There, Bully, the old attendant, and his men are very polite and call one ‘mister’:

  ‘Your shirts are dry and ready, Mr Forbes. Got another game today, sir? You haven’t? Then you won’t be needing them, will you? Be ready for you in the morning. Good day, sir.’

  Everything about Wimbledon is like that. The most special tennis club in the world, yet for these two weeks the members and the officials treat us wonderfully well. Even old Colonel Legg, gruff as he is, usually goes out of his way to arrange your matches early if you have tickets for a London show. Basil Reay, David Mills, Peter Bridge and the others, all with that good-humoured, tolerant English reserve. Alert eyes that forever sum you up.

  And the pressmen. Lance Tingay, Roy McKelvie, Rex Bellamy, Frank Rostron, et al. With their gentle British questions. Mostly about Jean. The whole family is there – even Jack. He is in the singles too. If Jean had been born a year earlier, there would have been three Forbeses in Wimbledon.

  Today I beat Lennart Bergelin in the first round, on court two. He led two sets to love before it dawned on me what to do. From then on I gave him only backhands. No forehands. Directed my whole game to his backhand corner, like a ray-gun. When players have one favourite shot, it drives them mad if they never get the chance to use it. Of course he ran around a lot of backhands, but then left big holes in the forehand side, through which, every now and then, I slipped a fast, low one. It was very exciting to devise a scheme which could not be refuted. I feel ruthless and superior and more entitled to ask Bully to have my shoes cleaned for tomorrow.

  9-7 in the fifth! Good God!

  But in spite of that exuberant diary outburst, it was a tragic Wimbledon for us. On Tuesday, the day following my first-round triumph, Jack met me with a telegram. Our father had died. Of all times, at that moment, when for him, things must have been so interesting and full of promise. It was the first sign of treachery on the part of the tennis gods. Sod’s Law, with a vengeance. We departed that evening on the long flight back, and I left Herbie Flam with a walkover into the third round. He came up to me at Wimbledon before we left and, in his Herbie Flam-ish way, shook my shoulders and said:

  ‘Stay with it, kid. These things are sent to try us,’ and turned away.

  We returned. There was nothing we could do except comfort my mother, and stand for a while beside the lonely grave at the foot of the mountain.

  It was early July. Mid-winter and freezing. In winter the Karoo goes brown and crouches down against the cold like a wounded game-bird. I spent two months on the farm doing all the old familiar chores, and then moved back to Johannesburg and tennis. When Abie got back from Europe in October, he told me about the Wimbledon I’d missed.

  He’d beaten Rex Hartwig with some savage serving and volleying and reached the quarter-finals, and there he had lost to Kurt Nielsen. Tony Trabert had won Wimbledon that year. He was unbelievably ‘All-American’. Open-faced, smiling wide, freckles and a brush-cut. And massive groundstrokes that came at you like hurled medicine balls. He’d beaten Kurt Nielsen in the final.

  ‘It was like a tank movin’ against infantry, Forbsey,’ said Abie. ‘Trabert was drivin’ the tank. Nielsen machine-gunned him, but the bullets just bounced off!’

  So Trabert won Wimbledon that year, more easily than befits such achievements, although apparently this did not occur to him.

  Abie said that he just stood there, holding up the cup and ‘grinning at everybody, like nothing was happening’.

  Seven

  In 1956, travelling with Jean and Ian Vermaak, I played the European circuit from beginning to end. We began in Italy, at Naples, and wended our way toward England by way of Florence, Genoa, Rome, Wiesbaden, Barcelona and Paris.

  The good matches that we had played the previous year, and the dramatic ending to our Wimbledon venture, had made an impression on the tennis people in Europe. Jean and I had become ‘wanted’ players, and our black-market price had risen considerably.

  On the Continent, the term ‘expenses’ had been about for some time; perhaps because the Europeans had less feeling for the great tradition of amateurism than the British, who seemed totally preoccupied with the notion that tennis players should be gentlemen and should have no need whatsoever for money. Whatever the cause, the Europeans were far more inclined to flash a bit of the folding stuff at tennis players whom they felt might add weight to their tournaments. Jean and I were considered moderately weighty in 1956. We received, on average, about seventy-five dollars each week, as well as full board and lodging and a travel allowance. Each tournament would have a ‘settling up’ day, on which the secretary got all shifty-eyed and furtive, took one into a small, windowless room, inserted his head into a wall-safe and withdrew a money box. Lips were licked while the box was unlocked, and fat, fresh slabs of money were withdrawn.

  The Italians were by far the most impressive in these matters because they dealt in lire. These notes were enormous, and the denominations staggering. In Rome one year, Jean and I were handed the entire earnings of our Italian tour in one monumental and pungent bundle of 10,000-lire notes, accompanied by the slyest Italian wink we’d ever seen. We immediately retired to a quiet spot near court nine to sit down, count our spoils and divvy them up.

  The big stars would get fat and secret bonuses from many of the tournaments. The handing over of these would also involve elaborate cloak-and-dagger methods. One day, while watching the doubles final of a major tournament from a little ‘standing room only’ backwater, I found myself positioned close to the singles winner. I noticed the tournament secretary sidle up to him and, with the evil grin which seemed to be standard form in these transactions, I saw him slip a sheaf of bills into the player’s trouser pocket. The player then slipped his own hand into the pocket and the pair of them stood there, with their eyes on the tennis though not seeing it. Suddenly the player nudged the secretary and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘You’re one short, you know!’ Whereupon the secretary sheepishly took one more bill out of his back pocket and handed it over.

  I remember thinking then that one of the talents that I would have to develop if I was ever to become a great star was being able to accurately count sheafs of bills with my fingertips in the secrecy of my trouser pocket.

  Diary Notes: Rome 1956

  Strange, this tennis life. These cities, once in our history lessons, now at hand. Just narrow streets, hotels that smell of teak oil and the little restaurants that we get to know. And tennis courts. It’s all just travelling, tennis and waiting. I practise for hours, and all the time in the back of my mind are the matches that I have to play, lying there, like sharp points of conflict in a sea of passing time.

  Tomorrow I am to play Art Larsen: fourth match on court four. That means at about five, if the stupid Italian girls don’t lob for hours in the matches before. So
I have to pass time between now and then; work out when to practise, when to eat, how much to eat, what to eat and how to play Larsen on slow clay. So it’s monotony and patience, building up to this one point of tension.

  Now I am surprised by this rather bitter little page. I have to think back really hard to recapture that particular mood of the tennis circuit. In retrospect, one is inclined to think only of the fun and laughter. But they were there, those anxious times; always there, following like shadows the players who really cared about winning.

  In England that year, on grass, I beat Drobny at Surbiton and Lewis Hoad at Bristol – his second tournament loss that year. My game had formed itself into a very penetrating serve-and-volley thing, and I was beginning to feel the first inklings of some solid groundstrokes.

  Defeating Hoad was extraordinary. He was a majestic player, with a superb and flawless selection of strokes, and a court presence as arresting and fearless as that of a handsome god. Blond-headed, contemptuous of caution, nervousness or any mannerisms remotely connected with gamesmanship, meanness or tricky endeavour. I worshipped him then, as only the young can worship, and remember my defeat of him as something which took place in a dream – uneasy, ecstatic, triumphant – the bringing down of an idol. He was off form, I suppose, and I exceptionally sharp, but even the defeat of an off-form Hoad was enough to lift my heart.

  To add to the triumph, Trevor Fancutt and I beat Hoad and Bob Howe in the doubles final. I travelled back to London for the Queen’s Club tournament, convinced that I had the grass court game totally and completely buttoned up.

  At Queen’s Club I met Rex Hartwig in the second round and he beat me 6-0, 6-0. As we shook hands afterwards, he apologised and mentioned that he’d played the whole match with his eyes closed. I was struck dumb. I’d never seen such a torrent of outright untouchable winners. Neither had Hartwig. We both ordered tea after the match and sat there, shaking our heads. Hartwig was like that. If, while playing him, he struck one of his purple patches, one was best advised quietly to leave the court and order tea. He once led Rosewall 6-0, 5-1 at Wimbledon before running out of purple.

  At the Hurlingham garden party that year, Abie Segal avenged himself of all his humiliating losses at poker – morally, rather than financially, but none the less a very sweet revenge.

  Beside the courts at Hurlingham is a beautiful eighteen-hole putting course, with very long, tricky holes that undulate and fall away in the best tradition of English courses. It was well known to Abie and me that both Rose and Woodcock were keen putters and never missed the opportunity for a game . . . and there always arose the little question of a wager.

  On the preceding Saturday afternoon during the finals of the Queen’s Club tournament, who should we meet watching the tennis, but Harold Henning, who was at the time, with Gary Player, South Africa’s brightest golfing star, and recognised as one of the world’s best putters. We often ran across Harold in England, for he was one of our staunchest supporters and came to watch the tennis whenever he could. We in turn admired his golf and eagerly looked forward to his company, for he could always be relied upon for high spirits and a good many laughs. We took him in hand, fed him some strawberries, spent the afternoon with him and then discovered that he was staying at the same hotel as we were. That evening at dinner I saw a thinking look come over Abie’s face and he asked suddenly:

  ‘Harold, what are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Why, nothing special,’ replied Harold.

  ‘Then you’re coming to Hurlingham with us,’ said Abie firmly; and all at once I began to understand.

  We arrived at Hurlingham the next day, greatly at our ease, bringing with us a friend from South Africa who wore dark glasses. As luck would have it, who should we see standing upon the first tee of the little golf course, swinging their putters, also greatly at their ease, but Rose, Woodcock and George Worthington. We approached, whistling, with our hands in our pockets.

  ‘Big Abie,’ called Rose. ‘We were just waiting for someone to come along to play with us. Now then, they say you’re an expert putter . . .’

  Abie stopped whistling. ‘Mervyn!’ he cried happily. ‘Well, now. We might just have a little game with you. There’s Forbsey here, myself and this buddy of ours from back home, and three South Africans together are always unbeatable.’

  ‘Forbsey doesn’t bet,’ said Rose contemptuously.

  ‘Forbsey’s changed,’ said Abie. ‘He’s come into money. He’ll take a little bit of a gamble if he knows he can’t lose.’

  ‘OK,’ said Rose, looking at me dubiously. ‘What do you say? Would a fiver a hole scare you guys?’

  ‘Make it ten!’ said Abie. ‘Forbsey says he’s a great golfer.’

  We went off to get our putters while the three of them rubbed their hands and beamed at one another. I felt a twinge of apprehension, never having played golf for so large a sum, and whispered to Harold as we selected our clubs: ‘Do you think you can play that course, Harold?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he whispered back. ‘I’m a guide on this stuff. This is my territory!’

  Nonetheless, I looked at the selection of putters with certain trepidation. They were old, lead-headed affairs with warped wooden shafts and didn’t seem to me to be at all the ideal equipment for precise competition. Especially with £180 at stake.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ I began again.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Harold firmly. ‘Only don’t worry about the first hole or two. We must behave with finesse.’

  We selected three putters and returned to the first tee. Coins were spun and the appropriate noises made. Their team won the honour. All three of them were reasonable golfers, and after several practice swings they made respectable putts, Rose’s ball drawing to within three feet of the hole. Then it was our turn. Abie positioned himself with a great show of strength, but with his usual lack of forward planning, so that it was only after he had placed his ball and lined it up that he realised that he was left-handed, whereas the putter was right-handed.

  ‘This isn’t goin’ to be easy,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing is ever easy, big Abie,’ said Woodcock.

  There were no left-handed putters to be had, so Abie re-positioned himself, made a few awkward passes and let fly with a stiff, two-handed jab. His jab happened to centre the ball perfectly, and it was still gaining speed as it passed the hole, finishing well placed for a two on the third green, some forty yards further on.

  ‘Too much gun,’ said Rose reflectively. ‘Try breathing out as you hit and remember that the Thames is just over that last rise.’

  ‘Fuck me!’ exclaimed Abie. ‘Those little balls really move along!’

  Harold, putting next, was all feet and elbows. He seemed unable to swing the head of his putter past the toes of his shoes without fouling them. When it finally did get past, it gave the ball such a feeble tap that it moved only halfway to the hole.

  ‘Shortish,’ said Rose, ‘but a good line. Should be down in five.’

  I was next. I lined up determinedly, had a long look at the line which served only to confuse me further, kept my head down, and putted. The ball rambled down the fairway, curving over the little mounds and hillocks and finally finishing eighteen inches from the hole. Silence reigned.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Abie at last. ‘For ten pounds, Forbsey would walk on water.’

  I squared the hole with Rose, both of us getting twos. Then they won the second hole with a three, when I missed from two feet.

  On the third tee, a remarkable change took place. Harold’s feet and elbows suddenly began to sort themselves out. His stance looked good and his putter went back in a very orderly fashion, stroking the ball, following through and directing it towards the hole as though it had suddenly become equipped with a built-in guiding system. It lipped the cup, stopped, then changed its mind and gently disappeared in to the hole.

  ‘D
ear me,’ said Rose.

  Harold looked up with an apologetic smile, so twisted that the corner of his mouth moved in below his ear. He muttered something about ‘a very lucky shot’, and stepped down.

  ‘OK, Forbsey,’ said Abie, ‘you can relax on this hole.’

  Harold then proceeded to produce a succession of so-called ‘lucky shots’, and by the time we had reached the ninth hole, we were four up.

  It was then that I noticed our opponents looking at Harold more closely with suspicious little frowns. Suddenly Woodcock asked:

  ‘What was it you said your name was?’

  ‘Henning,’ came the reply. ‘Harold Henning.’

  There was silence for some time, then Woodcock nudged Abie and said with a rueful laugh which the others slowly joined, ‘You caught us, hey big Abie, you caught us, you beggar!’ And we had to admit that he was right. The smile which appeared on big Abie’s face remained there for days!

  Diary Notes: Summer 1956

  We’re at Wimbledon. Jeannie has drawn Louise Brough and will have to open Centre Court on Ladies’ Day. The papers are raving, and Teddy Tinling has made her a special dress. Fate and her clever little tricks. It is last year that this should have happened, last year, not now! Then, she could have coped; had that extraordinary feel for the game. This year I am afraid for her. She says nothing, of course – tells me to worry about my match. But on Sunday she asked me whether I thought that we could find a grass court to practise on. So we found one at last – a ropey one at Hurlingham, but a grass court none the less. Oh, she plays well enough. We practised for an hour at least, and she kept asking me for backhands. Said she had forgotten how she used to feel when she hit backhands. Didn’t know exactly where they were going to bounce. She kept trying to get depth, then suddenly changed to her deft little dropshots. I can’t tell whether she’s doing them as well as before or not. Afterwards we bought Cokes and sat on the grass beside the court, drinking them. Jean, as usual, folded up her legs and sat on them. Suddenly, she looked up at me with her calm eyes and said: