Finally the chair umpire arrived. He had brought the tennis balls for our match, but he wouldn’t let me practice my serve until my opponent arrived. I hadn’t hit a tennis ball since Tuesday afternoon. The umpire seemed unconcerned that Johnson wasn’t on the court.
After 10 minutes had passed, I asked him, “Does my opponent plan to appear, do you think?”
The umpire shrugged and didn’t answer.
Finally, Charlotte Johnson arrived with her parents. She was dressed in a Teddy Tinling creation, a white dress with a pale red belt at the waist. The hem of the dress was quite short in order to show her knickers, which had alternating stripes of different shades of white and beige. I felt out of place in my plain tennis dress from Trimingham’s on Front Street with the small Bermuda flag I had inexpertly sewn onto the breast.
Johnson not only didn’t speak to me, she ignored me completely.
I said to her, “I’m Fiona Hodgkin.”
Johnson didn’t reply.
“I heard that Teach Tennant is your coach.”
No reply.
“I ask, you know, only because I’ve heard so much about Teach, and if she’s here with you, I’d like to meet her.”
This time, at least, I got a reply. “Miss Tennant no longer travels to tennis tournaments.”
“Oh.”
I regret to say I never met Teach. Father and Rachel knew her and, while I doubt either of them liked Teach, they respected her as a tennis coach.
We started to knock up, but the umpire stopped us. Johnson’s parents were standing beside the umpire’s chair, where they apparently planned to watch the match. The grass courts at Roehampton are directly next to one another, with no room for spectators. The umpire advised them to walk back to the grassy bank and watch the match from there. They weren’t happy about this.
Once we began play, I could tell that Johnson wasn’t a contender for qualifying. Don’t get me wrong – all the players at Roehampton were world-class amateurs. And Johnson was in the second round, after all. But still – in the first point, on her serve, she hit a perfect, hard backhand from her baseline. She finished with her right arm straight, racket face just past perpendicular to the net, butt of the racket straight down toward the grass, weight balanced on her right foot, head held steady, topspin on the ball – all exactly correct.
Then she looked up and, surprised, saw me a meter behind the net, just in the middle of my ad service court. Whatever was I doing there? Her backhand came straight to me. The shock of it hitting my racket twisted my chest almost halfway around, but in doing so all the kinetic energy of her shot drained away. I dropped the ball into her deuce service court. She wasn’t anywhere near it.
Her other strokes were as beautiful as her backhand, but she couldn’t knit her strokes together. It was over in 50 minutes. Straight sets, 6-4, 6-2. At the net, Johnson didn’t exactly refuse my offered handshake, but she just barely touched my hand. She didn’t acknowledge the umpire at all but trudged off toward her parents. I reached up to shake the umpire’s hand; we looked at one another; we both shrugged.
I knew what Rachel would have done if she’d seen Johnson’s incredible strokes. Rachel would have found a way to use them to win tennis games. If Johnson had spent two years – maybe just one year – with Rachel, that backhand wouldn’t have landed conveniently in my racket. Johnson wouldn’t have been surprised to see me at the net, and her backhand would have drilled a small, precise hole in the air just under my right arm. I would have stood there watching the ball go past me.
There were lots of differences between Johnson and me – thank heaven! – but the important difference was that I had Rachel.
I was one match away from Wimbledon.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON, 21 JUNE 1962
THIRD ROUND LADIES’ QUALIFYING MATCH
ROEHAMPTON
My opponent for the third round had been decided in another morning match, so I didn’t have to wait to know whom I would play. The problem was finding an open court. Mr Soames told me that there was no chance we would have a court before three o’clock, so I left Roehampton, walked up Priory Lane, and ate lunch in a pub on Upper Richmond Street.
My opponent was going to be Martha Fellows. I had met her in the dressing room the first day of Roehampton, and she had surprised me by saying that Claire had mentioned me to her. Martha was about Claire’s age, and they had played one another many times, including a match at Wimbledon – “Claire thrashed me!” Martha laughed. Martha was married – Claire had been one of her bridesmaids – and had a young son. She hadn’t played tennis in international competition for several years. But now she was back.
If Martha wasn’t enough of a problem, there was Rebecca Hurst’s tea at five o’clock. My hope was that I could win my third round match in time to allow me to get to Hyde Park Gate, make myself presentable, and attend the tea. A three o’clock start held a shadow of a possibility that I could get to the tea. Three o’clock, unfortunately, came and went, with still no open court. The wait was nothing to Martha; she had waited for tennis courts many times before.
She brought her son – he was almost three – into the dressing room to show him off to the girls. Martha had him wearing a British sailor’s suit, and each of us wanted to hold him, which was fine with him; he wasn’t the least shy.
It was past five o’clock when Martha and I walked out onto the court where we would play our third round match. So much for tea at Rebecca Hurst’s. I thought about placing a telephone call to Lady Thakeham to apologize, but I decided against it. It would probably just make everything worse rather than better.
Martha won the toss and her first service game. I dug in my heels and held my service. And so it went – each of us held her service more or less easily, and we traded games until, finally, on Martha’s serve, with the games at 6 all, I got ahead in the count, 15-30. Then Martha, of all things, double-faulted, and I went ahead, 15-40. Unbelievably, though, I dropped the next two points; we went to deuce; and Martha pulled the game out of the fire. How could I have let her do that?
To make matters worse, she broke my service in the next game and took the first set, 8-6.
Wimbledon was slipping away from me. No – I had thrown Wimbledon away by not breaking her serve when I had the chance. I was furious with myself.
But at the first changeover in the second set, a remarkable thing happened: Martha got to the water tank before me, and she poured water into a paper cup. Then she handed it to me. She said, so quietly the umpire couldn’t hear, “Calm down. The first set isn’t the match. The first set is over. Focus on this set.” Then she walked to her baseline.
I stood there, watching her back with amazement. But I calmed down.
I had to make my volleys work against her – which they hadn’t in the first set. Unless I hit a pure winner, which usually I didn’t, Martha would simply put up a lob. Her lobs weren’t perfect, and most of the time I could send them back, but then I’d be right where I started – or worse, I’d be smack in No Man’s Land between the baseline and the service line.
Now I started punching my volleys harder, and deeper, and Martha began to wobble, just a bit. When she would serve wide, to keep me off the court, I started taking her serve on its rise from my service court and then rushing the net. Slowly, my game started to work better for me.
There was only one court between the court we were on and the grassy bank where spectators could sit. The match on the court closest to the bank had ended, and now the spectators were following our match.
At the changeovers, I could tell Martha was breathing hard. On her serve, I got ahead in the count, but she took the game to deuce. We were at deuce three times. Then, on my ad, Martha took my backhand volley on the rim of her racket, and the ball spun off the court.
I had broken her. The second set was basically over. In a few minutes, the sets were one all.
Martha got her second wind in the third set, and it took me extra games to beat her. But I did. We sho
ok hands at the net, and she said, “Well played. Congratulations.”
“Martha, thank you for calming me down at that changeover. I’ll never forget it.”
“Make it up by winning Wimbledon for me.”
I laughed. “Well, that’s not going to happen, not this year at least.”
We were walking along opposite sides of the net to acknowledge the umpire. But Martha put her hand on my arm and stopped me. She looked at me seriously for a moment. Then she said softly, “I’m not so sure. You might go all the way.”
FRIDAY MORNING, 22 JUNE 1962
16 HYDE PARK GATE
When Harold came into the breakfast room with The Times, I practically snatched the newspaper out of his hands. I rifled through the pages searching for the ladies’ draw at Wimbledon. I found the men’s draw; I had almost forgotten that the other sex also played at Wimbledon. Then, the next page carried the headline:
THE LADIES’ SINGLES CHAMPIONSHIP DRAW
HOLDER: MRS RICHARD KERSHAW
Just under the headline, in the first line of the draw I saw, in bold type:
MISS MARGARET SMITH (AUSTRALIA) NO. 1 SEED
This wasn’t a surprise; Claire had known since she had lost the Australian Championship to Margaret Smith that probably Smith would be the top seed at Wimbledon. I looked down at the bottom of the page and found Claire’s name:
MRS RICHARD KERSHAW (GREAT BRITAIN) NO. 2 SEED
I ran my finger up the players above Claire’s name – I wasn’t there. I was frantic; had there been a mistake? Without thinking, and for no reason, I simply assumed that I would be in Claire’s bracket of the draw.
Then it dawned on me that maybe I was in Smith’s side. The Committee, after all, simply pulled the names of the unseeded players out of an old cloth bag to establish the draw. I looked up at the top of the page under Smith’s name. Finally I found, in tiny letters, the most thrilling words I’ve ever seen in print:
MISS FIONA HODGKIN (BERMUDA) Q
The ‘Q’ meant Qualifier.
Unbelievably, incredibly, I was going to play in the Championships at Wimbledon.
And, I knew this wasn’t likely, but it might happen – I could get to play a match on Centre Court.
Later that morning, Myrtle brought me a telegram:
POST OFFICE TELEGRAM
MEET SATURDAY 11 AM AELTC TO GET YOUR PASS AND PRACTICE COURT 8 STOP WILL PRACTICE SUNDAY HURLINGHAM STOP WHEN I PLAYED YOU LONGWOOD I KNEW YOU WOULD QUALIFY WIMBLEDON STOP
CLAIRE
Claire forgot to mention in her telegram that she had won the final at Eastbourne in straight sets.
FRIDAY EVENING, 22 JUNE 1962
LONDON, ENGLAND
I didn’t see either Mark or Lady Thakeham during the day on Friday. I assumed that I was persona non grata with Lady Thakeham and probably with Mark as well, because I had missed both my social obligations the day before. If Mark had gone to the party last evening, he must have done so alone, without an escort. Given his tone with me Wednesday evening, when I had begged off dinner at the Savoy, I expected that I was in a deal of trouble with him.
I went out during the day and sent my parents a telegram telling them that I had qualified for Wimbledon. In the few words of a telegram, I tried to sound as though it was just a minor thing I had managed to do on the side, in between parties and teas.
That afternoon, Mark came home from hospital just before tea and, to my surprise, he took me in his arms and congratulated me on qualifying for Wimbledon. When I apologized for failing to appear the evening before, he said, “Oh, Fiona, you’ve qualified for Wimbledon. That’s the important thing. I’m extraordinarily proud of you.” He sounded sincere.
“I know I left you without an escort last night, and I’m sorry. I was being selfish.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” he said cheerfully.
I didn’t like the way he said my absence hadn’t been a problem. “Did you go to the party?”
“Certainly. Margarite has been in London all this week. I rang her. She dressed at the last moment, and Harold collected her in the Bentley.”
For a moment, I couldn’t think what to say. Finally, I said, “Well, do you want me to go with you this evening?”
“Yes, if you would like. But it’s your decision.”
“Perhaps you’d prefer to go with Margarite again.”
“Now, Fiona. Don’t be that way. I told you in Bermuda that I’d broken up with Margarite several years ago.”
At first, this bewildered me. I hadn’t heard of Margarite until earlier that week. Then it dawned on me. “She was your first lover? You told me about making love to her, your first time?”
Consternation crossed his face. He must not have recalled that he had told me that the unnamed girl he broke up with several years before had been his first – and somewhat unhelpful – lover. He hadn’t meant to permit me to deduce her identity.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “Your secrets are safe with me. But if you’d rather take Margarite tonight, please do so. It’s not a problem for me.”
But Mark said he wanted me to go with him, and we went. The party that evening was for a girl I hadn’t met, Elsabeth Norton; it was at Grosvenor House (where the Thakehams were giving Catherine’s party the next week); and it followed the formula with which I was now quite familiar. To my relief, Margarite wasn’t there.
Mark wanted me to have a cocktail with him before the dancing began, but I declined, which displeased him. But I was determined, for once, to stay out as late as Mark wanted, even though I was meeting Claire at the All England Club in the morning.
As Mark and I were dancing, I couldn’t help asking him, “Did you and Margarite go anywhere after the party last night?”
Mark laughed. “Fiona Hodgkin, I think you’re jealous of Margarite!”
I must have turned red in my face, and I tried to break away from him, but he held onto me. “Fiona, I’m teasing you. There’s nothing between Margarite and me. We’re only friends.”
I relented, and remained in his arms, but I said, “I certainly don’t mind either way.”
“I’m sure that’s true.”
We didn’t arrive back at Hyde Park Gate until almost three in the morning. Once we were in the front hallway, to my surprise, Mark simply picked me up in his arms and carried me into Dr. Thakeham’s study, where he sat on the couch with me on his lap. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. He reached up to my shoulder and pulled the strap of my gown down.
“Mark!” I practically hissed. “What are you doing? Anyone could walk in here.”
This made no difference to Mark. He said, “There’s really no reason for you to be in your gown. Let’s take it off.”
“Absolutely not.”
He kissed me and pulled up the hem of my gown. This, I thought, was rapidly getting out of hand. I tried to make a joke of it. I pushed away from him, put my hands on either side of his face, kissed him, and smiled at him. “Behave yourself.”
He was exasperated, but he did stop trying to undress me. “Fiona, really – ”
I put my hand lightly over his mouth. “Let’s sit here and kiss for a few more minutes, and then go off to our rooms – separately.”
“Fiona, you know I want you, and I think you want me.”
“You’re certainly right that I want you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you tonight.”
He lifted me off his lap and sat me on the couch. He stood up and said, “Well, then. I’ll see you in the morning. Do you plan to go to the dinner party tomorrow evening?”
I stood up as well. “Yes, I’d like to go to the party with you, but I don’t want you to be upset with me.”
“I’m not upset with you, but I’m certainly unaccustomed to having a girl repeatedly turn me down when I want to sleep with her.”
He was incredibly arrogant to say this, and I was angry. “I’m sure Margarite didn’t just say, ‘OK, of course,’ when you first tried to get her into
your bed.”
“No, she didn’t say that. Actually, Margarite didn’t say anything. She reached behind her neck and began unzipping her dress.”
He turned and left me alone in the study.
SUNDAY, 24 JUNE 1962
HURLINGHAM CLUB
FULHAM, LONDON
When Claire arrived for our practice time Sunday morning at Hurlingham, I was already sitting on the bench beside our practice court. I must have looked awful, and I certainly felt awful. She put down her pocketbook and rackets and looked at me. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
“I would never have guessed. Which bus ran over you?”
“Claire, don’t make fun of me. I’m so ashamed of myself.”
“You qualified for the Wimbledon draw. You did it on your own. So, what’s there to be ashamed of? Every tennis player in the world would love to spend the Sunday before the fortnight at Hurlingham.”
“Last night, Mark slept with me.”
“Good! Finally! How was it?”
“Horrible. I was humiliated.”
Now she knew I was serious. She sat down beside me and put her arm around me. “Tell me what happened.”
“We were at a party, and I had three cocktails. I don’t even know what was in them.”
“Good preparation for the first round at Wimbledon.”
“I know. I can’t believe I drank cocktails. But Mark was drinking, and he said I should have one, and then another, and I wanted to please him.”
“Have you had anything to drink before?” “At Christmas dinner, my parents would always give me a glass of champagne.”
“And that’s it?”
“Yes.”
“And last night you had three cocktails?”
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 13
