“I’m just going to have dinner with him. I doubt he has any interest in me.”
“If he asked you to dinner, he’s interested in you.”
I was thrilled to hear her say this. “Do you really think he might like me?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. And in the middle of Wimbledon. If my brother throws you off your tennis game, I’ll poison him. Just don’t let him take you to bed until Wimbledon ends.”
“I have no intention of going to bed with anyone.”
Claire scoffed. “We’ll see about that.”
A schoolgirl in a blue jumper approached Claire and asked for her autograph. The poor girl was so shy she could barely get the words out of her mouth. There was no ‘security’ for players then. A shy schoolgirl asking for an autograph was about the most dangerous thing that could happen at Wimbledon to a tennis celebrity like Claire.
To be honest, the girl wasn’t as pretty as she could have made herself: her hair was curly and wild, and she was just a bit chubby – unusual for an English girl then.
Claire said, “How old are you?”
“I just turned 14.”
“What’s your name?”
“Edith Wright.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Claire!” I said.
Claire said, “Edith, ignore Fiona. What’s the answer?”
“No.” Edith hesitated. “I’m not that pretty.”
Claire turned to me. “What do you think, Fiona?”
“Edith’s quite attractive. She might pull her hair back. Perhaps take up field hockey in school.” I thought a season of field hockey would fix the chubbiness.
Claire handed her rackets to me, took Edith’s head in her hands, and gently turned Edith’s face this way and then that. Then Claire took Edith’s hair and pushed it back from her face.
Claire said, “Edith has strikingly good looks. The boys will be after her in a year or so.”
Edith glowed.
“Give me your programme,” Claire said.
Claire turned Edith’s programme to the ladies’ singles draw. Printed at the top of the page was: “HOLDER: MRS R.KERSHAW.” She wrote carefully on the page, “To Edith Wright, who has a LETHAL forehand. Best Regards, Claire Kershaw.”
Claire thought for a moment. Then she wrote on Edith’s programme, “LIBerty 6152.”
Claire handed the programme back and pointed to the number. “Edith, listen to me. That’s my telephone number. If you have any worries about boys, or anything else, ring me. I’ll remember you, and we’ll talk.”
She said softly, “Yes, Mrs Kershaw.”
“Edith, call me ‘Claire.’”
Edith glowed. “Yes, Claire.”
THURSDAY EVENING, 28 JUNE 1962
LONDON, ENGLAND
John said to me over the rasp of the Porsche’s motor, “Do you like Syrian food?”
“We just don’t get as much good Syrian food in Bermuda as I would like.”
“Are you teasing me?”
“Yes, I’m teasing you. I’ve never had Syrian food and have no idea what it’s like.”
“Are you willing to try it?”
“Certainly.”
We went to a small lane in Ludgate Hill, then up a dark flight of steps, and into a tiny restaurant. A young man appeared from the kitchen and greeted John in what I took to be Arabic, and John answered back in the same language. They kissed one another on each cheek. There was no menu, and after John consulted with the young man for several moments, he ordered for both of us. “Do you mind eating with your fingers?”
“Not at all. In Bermuda, we regard using knives and forks as bad form.”
“More teasing.”
The meal was served in a series of small dishes – all delicious. John taught me the name of each dish and showed me how to eat with a small, folded piece of bread in my fingers. He took a tiny piece of lamb in a piece of bread, put one hand under my chin, and with his other hand fed me the lamb. He shared Claire’s dry sense of humor but none of her rambunctiousness.
“Is the language you were speaking Arabic?”
“Yes. My friend here speaks some English, but he’s more comfortable in Arabic.”
“Where did you learn Arabic?”
“I read oriental languages at Christ Church, Oxford, before I went down and took my commission in the Royal Marines.”
“Oh.”
After dinner, we left the Porsche parked near the Embankment and went for a walk along the Thames. There was a bit of fog, and I looked up at the night sky over London.
John said, “Are you worried about rain? You don’t play until Saturday.”
“We’re right on schedule; there’s been no rain this week. If it rained tomorrow and delayed the order of play, it could set back my match on Saturday.”
We walked along, and I asked him, “How did you join the Special Boat Section?”
“One of my senior officers in the Marines once casually asked me if I’d ever thought about the Section. I replied it would be something I’d be quite interested in doing. But I heard nothing further about it. Then, a few months later, I was on a ship that’s in port, not in Britain. Somewhere else. I’m on shore one afternoon on leave, and this uncouth chap in blue jeans and a tee shirt approaches me. He says he’s a Captain in the Section, and I’m to come with him. I don’t believe him, do I? He’s got no identification. Well, that’s not true. He showed me an expired driver’s license from the States. But he sounds to me as though he’s from East London – which he was, in fact.
“So he asks, of all things, if I want to come see his helicopter. I say, certainly, I’ll come see his helicopter, which of course I assume doesn’t exist. We drive an hour or so to an airfield and damned if he doesn’t have a helicopter.”
He stopped. “Excuse me, Fiona, I didn’t mean to swear.”
“I’ll survive.”
He went on. “The helicopter was a sleek machine, in fact. I thought either this fellow is in the SBS, or he’s stolen this helicopter, one or the other.” John laughed.
“Was he actually with the SBS?”
“It turns out I was right on both counts. Yes, he was a Captain in the Section, and, yes, he had stolen the helicopter. He’d also stolen the car we’d driven to the airfield.”
“How did you know he’d stolen the helicopter?”
“Just then, three fellows arrived at the edge of the airfield in an auto. They opened fire on us with small arms. I asked him why anyone would be trying to kill us. He said he thought they wanted their helicopter back. He could be quite sensitive to the feelings of others, when the mood was upon him.”
“What did you do?”
“We got in the helicopter, and he said that there was an Uzi in the cockpit.”
John stopped again. “An Uzi is a light automatic weapon.”
“Thanks for clearing that up for me.”
“So I said, ‘You fly, and I’ll find the Uzi.’”
“He was a helicopter pilot?”
“Not really. The first time he ever piloted a helicopter was when he stole this one. He was what you might call a ‘self-taught’ helicopter pilot. He had particular problems with landing; he never could work out how it was supposed to be done. So he just would get within a few meters of the ground and kill the engine. His landings were a bit rough.”
John laughed again and shook his head. “Quite a chap.”
“He must be a friend of yours.”
“He was. A close friend. He’s dead now.”
My blood ran cold. We walked along the Embankment for a minute or so. “Were you with him when he died?”
John didn’t say anything. I sensed he was trying to decide whether he could tell me, but finally he said, “Yes.” He paused. “I carried his body back.”
He wanted to change the subject. He stopped and turned to face me. “Why do you wear your hair in a ponytail?”
“My parents want my hair kept long. T
hey think it looks feminine long. I want it out of my face, for tennis. So, a ponytail.”
He reached around my head and held my ponytail in his hand. “Do you mind?” Then he gently pulled off the band that held my hair back. “Shake your head.”
I shook my head, and my hair flew around my face. He took my left hand and slipped my hair band onto my wrist. It occurred to me that somehow he knew how a girl would use the band to tie her hair back. Then he pushed his fingers gently through my hair. I felt faint. He put his hand under my chin and kissed me.
He finished kissing me. “Do you want to have a cup of tea at my flat? I live in the ground floor of my parents’ house.”
“A cup of tea would be perfect. Why do you live in your parents’ ground floor?”
“Well, it’s convenient. When I have to go away on duty, they look after my flat. I don’t have to tell anyone else that I’m on duty, which is good.”
“What about Claire?”
“Oh, our parents tell her I’ve gone away for a bit.”
His parents’ home was one of a long, curved row of identical, white townhouses on a private square in Belgravia. I’ve returned to this home many times in my life, and each time I think about that Thursday evening during the 1962 Championships.
The door to John’s flat was down a winding staircase from the sidewalk. It led to a door under the entryway to the main house. There were flowers in boxes on the windowsills of the house. John unlocked the door, swung it open, and turned on the light. It was just two rooms, a sitting room and a bedroom, joined by a hallway in which there was an old kitchen. The flat was small and windowless, with a few pieces of furniture covered in English floral-print cloth.
“Don’t blame me for the decorating,” John said. “My mother had the flat fixed up when I came back to live in London a couple of years ago. Not my preference but, as I say, it’s convenient.”
I sat on a sofa in the sitting room. I had half expected that the promised cup of tea would not actually be offered, but John busied himself in the hallway kitchen putting together a tea tray. He carried it out and poured us each tea. I was permitted perhaps two sips before John took my cup away. He kissed me again, and I kissed him back. He pulled me onto his lap, and I put my arms around his neck.
John said, “Do you want to stay here tonight, or would you rather I drive you back to Albert House?” Direct, but the perfect gentleman. My decision; no pressure.
I had my face buried against his shoulder. “Here.”
“Good.” He stood up, with me cradled in his arms. He was incredibly strong; he might as well have been holding a pillow.
He was carrying me though the hallway kitchen when he asked, “How old are you?”
“I’ll be 19 on Sunday.” The hallway was narrow; he had to turn sideways to maneuver me through. My answer, I could tell, had given him pause. No doubt I was much younger than his other girlfriends.
“Fiona, have you done this before?”
I knew Claire was still skeptical about exactly what had happened with Mark, so I answered, “Maybe.”
He roared with laughter, then put me down on my feet. We were standing in the kitchen hallway. I could tell he was worried he had hurt my feelings by laughing, and he had, just a bit. He kissed me, which made me feel better.
“Fiona, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. But most people would answer that question with a ‘yes,’ or ‘no.’ It’s not a question that often elicits a ‘maybe.’”
I didn’t say anything. I put my arms around his waist and leaned my head against his chest. I sensed his next question would be on a subject that he normally wouldn’t concern himself with but that now, as a gentleman, he would feel obliged to raise. And I was right.
“Fiona, do you have a way to take precautions?”
“No. But it’s not a problem.” My period had just ended; I didn’t think I could get pregnant that night.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he said, “Look, I want you very much. But this isn’t a good idea. Let’s wait.”
So we got back in the Porsche, and he drove me to Albert House. He opened the door of the 356 for me, and when I got out, he put his arms around me and kissed me.
“John, may I ring you tomorrow?”
“I hope you will.”
“Give me your number, then,” I said. He popped open the glove box of the 356 and found a scrap of paper. “Turn around,” he told me. I turned around, and, using my back for support, he wrote out his number.
Then he kissed me again, said goodnight, and stepped over the door of the Porsche into the driver’s seat. He didn’t bother opening the door to get in. He waved at me, threw the 356 into gear and raced off.
FRIDAY, 29 JUNE 1962
ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON
Earlier in the week, the upper ladies’ dressing room had been crowded all the time, with a constant babble of talk among the girls. Now the draw was much smaller. Each round sliced the draw in half. Claire and I were alone in the dressing room Friday morning.
Claire asked, “How was dinner?”
“Claire, I need a diaphragm. Can you help me?”
“I take it we’re talking about my brother?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday you said you weren’t going to sleep with anyone.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“It must have been quite a dinner. Fiona, I love John, but is this a good idea?”
“I know, I know. He has plenty of girls, he’s older than me, I shouldn’t fall for him, I’ll get hurt.”
“Well?”
“So I won’t fall for him.”
“I think you’ve fallen for him already.”
“I’ve fallen for him already. Will you help me?”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No, but only because we didn’t want to until I can take what he calls ‘precautions.’ Or, more accurately, he didn’t want to. I was prepared to be more flexible.”
“See? I did teach my brother some things. Fiona, John is a good person, basically, but sometimes he toys with women. Maybe most of the time. He sees a lot of girls. A couple of them are movie actress types. He’s not going to be interested in a relationship. And he’s nine years or so older than you. I just think this is a bad idea for you to see him, much less sleep with him. I don’t think you should get involved. I think you’re going to get hurt.”
I just looked at her.
“I’ll ring my doctor now and see if I can get you an appointment today.”
That afternoon, Claire took me to her gynecologist. She was sitting in the waiting room when I came out half an hour later. “Well?”
In reply, I opened my pocketbook and showed her the small blue plastic box inside. She embraced me.
“Excellent!” Then she said suspiciously, “Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes, my grandmother explained it all to me.”
“Your grandmother told you how to use a diaphragm?”
“She’s an unusual grandmother.”
“I’ll say.”
When I got back to Albert House, I went to the telephone in the downstairs entryway and rang John. “May I come see you?”
“Are you at Albert House? Why don’t I come get you?”
“No, I can easily take the Tube. The Friday afternoon traffic will be frightful.”
“The Tube to Hyde Park Corner?”
“Yes.”
“Come out the exit on Grosvenor Place. I’ll wait for you there.”
Two hours later I was in his bed.
I got up on my knees and whispered to John. “May I spend the night?”
John was dozing. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying close at hand and naked. I’ll want you again later tonight.”
I kissed him on his ear. “Now.”
“Fiona, I am entitled to a break now and then. It’s in my contract somewhere, I think.”
I shook my head. My hair hung down over his face. “No.”
/> “No? Don’t you have an important tennis match tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes, I have a match in the afternoon. And no, you’re not entitled to a break.” I kissed him again, and he reached up for me.
SATURDAY MORNING, 30 JUNE 1962
BELGRAVIA
We were sitting in bed with a tea tray John had made and reading the Saturday morning papers, which John had collected from his parents’ front steps, when the telephone rang.
John picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, and said, “Claire, dear, what makes you think Fiona would be here?” Then he had to hold the receiver away from his ear. His sister was yelling at him over the telephone.
John held the receiver out to me. “Claire wants to speak with you.”
Claire didn’t begin with any pleasantries, like ‘hello.’ Instead, she said, “How much sleep did you get?”
I giggled.
Claire yelled, “I knew it. I can’t believe John’s done this. Let me talk to him.”
I handed the receiver to John. “Your sister wants to talk to you.”
“Claire, I wanted Fiona to get some sleep. This wasn’t entirely my fault.”
He had to hold the receiver away from his ear again. Claire said so loudly that I could hear: “Has she had breakfast? I mean, a real breakfast?”
“Well, I was just going to boil her an egg and perhaps make some toast.”
He held the receiver away from his ear. I could hear Claire yelling, “A boiled egg? You couldn’t boil an egg. You have no idea how to boil an egg.”
“Yes, I do. You take a pot of water and – ”
She cut him off. “You don’t own a pot, much less do you have an egg. Let me speak to Fiona.”
John handed me the receiver. “My sister wants to speak with you.”
“Fiona, are you there?”
“Yes,” I said meekly.
“Listen to me. I want my brother to take you to a tea shop, right now.” She paused. “And I mean right now. No more fooling around. I want you to have a full English breakfast. Drink a lot of tea and water. Have John take you back to Albert House. Go to bed – alone. Ask Mrs Brown not to let you sleep past noon. Then I want to knock up at one o’clock sharp. We have Court 12. You’ll be there? You’re on the Graveyard at two o’clock. They’ll call for you a bit before two so we’ll have half an hour, maybe a little more, to practice.”
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 18
