Still, I gave it a try. I ran. The ball was already way off the court when I managed to catch it with my racket. At full speed, I hit the ball with my forehand. I didn’t have time to aim – I just hit the ball on the run as hard as I could and hoped for the best. I was so far off the court that, at the instant my racket struck the ball, my right foot tripped on the tarp that was rolled up at the edge of the grass, just along the first row of spectators, ready to be unrolled over the court in case of rain. My racket flew out of my hand, and I pinwheeled over the tarp and slammed into the spectators’ barrier with my legs in the air.
I heard a collective gasp from the crowd and then cheers and applause. I landed in a position that was not modest for a young lady, and the BBC and several photographers captured it all on film. I rolled over, got up on all fours, reached back, and pulled my tennis dress down over my backside. I found myself looking straight at an older couple in the first row of spectators. The man leaned over. “Are you all right?”
I replied, “Did you see if my shot went in?” The spectators who heard me all laughed loudly.
There’s no rule in tennis that the ball has to go over the net; the ball is still in play if it is hit around the net – provided it lands within the opponent’s court. The point was replayed on television over and over, and I could see that the ball went wide of the net but then bounced just in the corner of House’s ad court. The newspapers the next morning all ran an almost indecent photograph of me on my back with my legs splayed above me.
When I walked off the court, there were so many people crowded around me waiting for an autograph or a photograph that finally a Coldstream Guardsman led me back to the upper dressing room.
Claire was there, having just finished the demolition of another hapless, unseeded player on Centre Court. She asked, “How was Mary Ann?”
“Not a problem. Straight sets.”
“I’m impressed. I was worried she might be a handful.” Then Claire said, “Well, we have two days off.” The Committee hadn’t yet posted the Intended Order of Play for Thursday, but probably we wouldn’t play our next matches until Saturday. “Let’s bathe, find Richard and go out for dinner. Don’t worry, I won’t attack him until he and I are back home in our flat.”
“I can’t. I have to go to a party.”
“I forgot! It’s the season, and you’re a young, unmarried lady looking for a husband!”
I laughed. “My current state of mind is to spend my life as a celibate spinster. No, this is a purely social obligation.”
“Meaning?”
“This is the party for Mark’s younger sister, Catherine. Her party is the reason I’m here in London for the season. Lady Thakeham invited me to come to Catherine’s party. All the other invitations followed. Mother would – well, I don’t know what she’d do if I skipped Catherine’s party, but it wouldn’t be good. She might make me withdraw from Wimbledon. Now I have to run because I need to get dressed.”
“You’ll be careful at the party, and after?”
“Yes, older sister, I’ll be careful.” I leaned over and kissed Claire’s cheek. “Can we practice tomorrow morning?”
“I have Court 12 at 11.” Another perquisite of being the holder: Claire decided when and where she would practice, as opposed to being told by the stewards whether she would be granted any practice time on a particular day. “Too early after a party for the season?”
“No, I’ll be asleep in bed, alone, by midnight. See you at 11.” I ran off to Albert House.
WEDNESDAY EVENING, 27 JUNE 1962
PARTY FOR LADY CATHERINE THAKEHAM
GROSVENOR HOUSE
MAYFAIR
I took the Tube from Wimbledon Park to Marble Arch, changing at Notting Hill Gate. I tell myself that I dazzled my fellow riders on the Tube that evening; I was wearing my new Tinling gown, and a small diamond necklace, which Mother had loaned me, and which reached down just to my décolletage – not that I had much décolletage to work with.
I had been eating so many meals with Claire, who was convinced that I should double my intake of food, that I had put on an extra kilo in weight. I worried I might not fit into the gown, but actually it fit better now than when Teddy had finished it.
I felt elegant and sophisticated, and I loved it. Several people on the Tube recognized me from the BBC’s television coverage of my match and congratulated me.
Catherine’s party was in the ballroom at Grosvenor House and breakfast was to be served at two o’clock in the morning. I planned, though, to stay just long enough to be polite, for which I thought about an hour would be sufficient. I would be civil to Mark and avoid hitting him again. I walked into the ballroom just before 10 o’clock. The dancing hadn’t started yet, and the guests were standing around in groups, drinking.
A young man I didn’t know turned to me as I entered the room, put his drink down on a table and began to applaud. He cheered, “Well Done!” Then others began applauding and cheering. They crowded around me, and someone called out, “Are you going to win Wimbledon?” Claire had told me how to answer that question, and I replied, “I’m only thinking about the next round.”
One of the men in the crowd wore a formal Royal Marine uniform. He was tall, with blond hair, and I guessed he was about 30 years old. He walked toward me. “May I introduce myself? I’m John Fitzwilliam. I saw you play today.”
“I’m Fiona Hodgkin. You saw the match on the telly?”
“No, I was there. My family has debentures for the first Wednesday. I was watching Claire Kershaw’s match on Centre Court, but from the cheering your match on the Graveyard sounded exciting. So I went over to Court 2. Were you injured in your fall in the second set?”
I laughed. “No, not at all, except for my dignity.” I reached out and tapped my finger on a small medal on his chest. It was a silver cross bearing the Royal Cypher – ‘EIIR,’ for Elizabeth II Regina. “What an interesting medal.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Do you know the DSC?” He meant the Distinguished Service Cross, which Britain awards for gallantry in combat at sea.
“My father has one. He was a ship’s surgeon in the Royal Navy in the war. I’ve only seen him wear the medal once or twice. He wore it when the Queen came to Bermuda in 1953. The Queen walked down Front Street, and we saw her. Father wears the ribbon sometimes. On Christmas Eve, usually.”
“That’s right, I’ve heard you’re from Bermuda. Why was your father awarded the DSC?”
“I don’t know. I asked him, and he told me he couldn’t recall. But I don’t think he was being truthful. For what service were you awarded the DSC?”
“I can’t recall.”
We both laughed.
“Are you on a ship?”
“No, usually not.”
“Shore duty, then.”
“No, not that, either. I’m a Captain in the Special Boat Section.” This was, and is, Britain’s elite, small, and secretive naval commando group.
I put my hand on his arm. “Captain Fitzwilliam,” I started, but he stopped me.
“Please call me John.”
“I will, if you will call me Fiona. But, John, I need to find the guest of honor and pay my respects.”
“I do as well, but I don’t know her. Will you introduce me?” He offered me his arm. I put my hand in the crook of his elbow, and we set off across the room. “How do you come to know the Thakehams?” he asked.
“My father and Catherine’s father served together in the war, and they’re friends. Lady Thakeham was kind enough to invite me to London for Catherine’s party and for the whole season.”
“So you must be staying with the Thakehams?”
“Not at the moment. How do you know the Thakehams?”
“I don’t. My mother knows Lady Thakeham – I couldn’t tell you how – and my parents were invited to Catherine’s party. They’re away in the country, and my mother insisted that I come instead. I’m too old for a party during the season, but Mother hopes I’ll find a gi
rl to marry.” He laughed.
“Are you looking for a wife?”
“No, not at all. My career isn’t compatible with marriage.”
We arrived at the side of the room where the Thakeham family was standing in a row, saying hello to their guests. There was a short line, so John and I waited our turn. We came to Mark first, and I held John’s arm to avoid the possibility that Mark might try to take my hand.
Mark turned to me and rubbed his left cheek. “Luckily the doctors were able to save my jaw.”
“How regrettable. I hoped to inflict permanent disfigurement.”
“You came close, though.”
I felt John straightening out his left arm to drop my hand. He sensed he might be in a false position here, but I held on tight.
“John, may I introduce you to Mark Thakeham? Mark, this is Captain John Fitzwilliam.”
Catherine was now free, and I kissed her cheek and gave her my congratulations. Lady and Doctor Thakeham were next, and I thanked Lady Thakeham for inviting me to Catherine’s party.
“Miss Hodgkin, dear child, I’ve been so worried about you. You’re in a hotel somewhere. That wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s not a hotel. It’s a rooming house.”
Lady Thakeham was taken aback that I would be living in a rooming house, which had been my intent in telling her. “Dear, it would be much better for you to return to our home. I’ll have Harold collect you tonight, after the party.”
“I’m quite comfortable where I am, but thank you for the offer.” I tried to say this in a tone of voice that would convey my intent to never set foot in her house again. I looked at John, whose arm I still had in a death grip. From his expression, I guessed he was thinking that I had an interesting relationship with our hosts.
“But your parents are coming. They’ll be upset that you’re not with your aunts, or with us.”
“My parents? Where are they coming?”
“To London, of course. This Monday. I sent them a telegram telling them to stay with us, but your mother said in her telegram that they would be at Claridge’s, so I imagine that’s where they’ll lodge.”
“Why are they coming to London?”
John interjected, “To watch their daughter play at Wimbledon? No, that couldn’t be it. It must be something else.”
“Your mother said she had sent you a telegram to the address of your” – an aristocratic pause – “hotel.” You haven’t received it?”
“No,” I said, but then I thought that I had rushed dressing for the party so quickly that there might have been a telegram at the desk, and that I missed it.
Lady Thakeham said, “Your parents are bringing a friend from Bermuda as well.”
“A friend? Rachel Martin?”
“Oh, dear child, I can’t recall a name. Someone from Bermuda.”
Just then the music began. I had planned to make my exit before there was any dancing, but John asked me to dance with him. He put his arm around me on the dance floor and said, “Ah, yes. Sweetness and light in the Thakeham household, I think.”
I laughed. “You don’t know the half of it. But if my parents are coming to London, that’s wonderful news.”
“Not until Monday, though. So they’ll miss your third round match?”
“Yes, let’s hope I win. I don’t want them to come all that way and then find out that I’m no longer in the draw.”
“Oh, I think you’ll win. You were impressive this afternoon. I wish I could come see you play. When’s your next match?”
“I won’t know until the morning, when they post the intended order of play, but probably not until Saturday. Are you on duty this weekend?”
“Not that I know, although when they want me to be on duty, they usually don’t give me much advance notice.”
“Then why can’t you come? I’d like to have you there.”
“The tickets for the middle Saturday are impossible. Except for the finals, it’s the most popular day of the fortnight.”
“I think I’m entitled to a guest ticket. If I could get one, would you come?”
He stopped dancing. He wasn’t any good at dancing to begin with. “Yes, I would.”
“Then I’ll do my best to get a ticket. How may I reach you?”
He gave me a house number in Wilton Place, Belgravia. I asked, “You don’t live in barracks?”
“No, it’s quite a cushy job, actually. I come and go as I please, except when they want me to do something for them.”
I shivered a bit listening to him say this.
It was well past 11, and I told John I needed to leave.
“Why so early?”
“I’m practicing tomorrow morning. I need to get to sleep.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve heard that you practice with Claire Kershaw.”
I smiled. “To be honest, I’m proud she would practice with me. Claire got me into the qualifying round, so I wouldn’t be at Wimbledon in the first place without her. She’s a wonderful person.”
“I quite agree; Claire is wonderful.”
I was a bit surprised by the way he said this. “Do you know Claire?”
“Claire is my sister.”
The instant he said this I saw the resemblance between them; why hadn’t I noticed it before? I was stunned.
“Claire told me to watch your match on Court 2, but I wanted to see her match on Centre Court. On one of the changeovers, she noticed me in our seats. She glared and gestured for me to get over to the Graveyard and see what was happening. We could all hear the cheering, so I went to see you play. I got to the Graveyard just in time to see your tumble. Quite an interesting way to see you for the first time.”
Then he said, “Do you have an auto?”
“No, I’m taking the Tube.”
“Let me drive you to your rooming house – I’m sorry, I mean your hotel.” He smiled. “My auto isn’t here at Grosvenor House, but it’s in Wood’s Mews, just around the corner. Before you say ‘No,’ I’ll tell you I must insist. Claire wouldn’t forgive me for allowing her practice partner to get home on the Tube.”
“But I’m staying in Wimbledon, and you’ll have to drive there and back.”
“I’ll survive the round trip. Shall we?” he said, offering me his arm.
His garage in Wood’s Mews was so narrow that he had to back the auto out before I could get in. The auto was painted silver, with a blue cloth hood. It looked like an upside down bathtub, and the motor rasped as though it was out of breath. I’d never seen or heard one like this before.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a Porsche 356 Carrera from West Germany. I’ve only had it a year. I meant to race it when I got it, but I’ve been away on duty quite a bit recently, and I’ve only gotten to the track twice. Do you prefer the hood up or dropped? The wind might ruffle your hair.”
“Let’s keep the hood up.”
He drove like a man possessed, weaving in and out of traffic. I said, “Now I know Claire wasn’t joking when she said you taught yourself to drive.”
We pulled to a stop in front of Albert House, and John got out to open the door for me – but I noticed he kept the motor running.
He said, “I must tell you that you’re splendid in that gown. I hope I’ll see you in your third round match.” He shook my hand, said “Goodnight,” and started to walk back around the Porsche. I was going in the door of Albert House.
“Fiona!” he called.
I turned around. “Yes, John?”
“If your third round match happens to be on Saturday, would that mean that you could have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”
I smiled. “Yes, it would mean that.”
“Then I’ll hope that the match isn’t until Saturday. Will the order of play be in the news tomorrow?”
“It’s always in The Times and The Daily Telegraph.”
“If your third round is set for Saturday, I could pick you up here tomorrow at, say, seven?”
“
I’ll be here.”
THURSDAY, 28 JUNE 1962
ST. MARY’S WALK
ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON
The order of play went up that morning. I would be on Court 2 again for my third round match, against an American girl, Anita Castro. But not until Saturday afternoon, which meant that I would be having dinner with John that evening.
After we practiced, I said to Claire casually, “I met your brother yesterday evening.”
She looked surprised. “John? Where would you meet John?”
“I told you I was going to a party for Catherine Thakeham, Mark’s sister. John was there, and he introduced himself to me.”
Claire laughed. “Why would John be at a party? He’s not exactly the party type.”
“He said your mother wanted him to find a girl to marry.”
“Mother’s engaging in wishful thinking there. He’s not getting married, at least not anytime soon.”
“He told me his career isn’t compatible with marriage.”
She frowned. “I don’t like it when John says things like that. I wish he’d resign his commission and find another job. Father has asked him to, twice, and offered to help him find a place in the City, but John just laughs.”
“Claire, John asked me to dinner this evening.”
That stopped Claire in her tracks. “Fiona, he’s much older than you.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“With John, I doubt it’s ever just dinner.”
“Well, he was a perfect gentleman last evening. He drove me back to Albert House.”
We had to get off the court because two groundskeepers had arrived to prepare it for the afternoon’s matches. Claire pointed out to them a small patch of grass just outside the sideline that she thought was still damp from the early morning dew. They went down on hands and knees and began patting the grass dry with cotton towels.
Claire took my arm, and we went along St. Mary’s Walk toward Centre Court.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Claire said. “I love John. I probably know him better than anyone else. But he dates a lot of girls. He’s not interested in a relationship. I just don’t want you to have your feelings hurt.”
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 17
