The Tennis Player from Bermuda

by Fiona Hodgkin

  “Yes, Claire. I’ll meet you on Court 12.”

  “Fiona, this American girl, Castro – I’ve never played her, but she’s not a lollipop. No one gets into the third round without being dangerous, extremely dangerous. You’ll have to beat her. It could rain today. You might have rain delays. It could be a long day.”

  “I know. I’m fine. I can take her.”

  Claire softened her tone just a bit. “So, how was John?”

  “Claire, he’s sitting right here, so let’s talk later. But he’s a perfect gentleman. He took care of me.”

  “Good, I knew he would,” she said, and rang off.

  Claire had her own match on Centre court that afternoon to think about. Instead of worrying about herself, she was taking care of me.

  With John listening, I didn’t want to tell Claire that I was hopelessly in love with him.

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, 30 JUNE 1962

  COURT 2 (THE ‘GRAVEYARD’)

  LADIES’ THIRD ROUND

  ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON

  There had been comments in the Saturday morning newspapers about the Committee’s decision to set my third round match on Court 2, rather than on Centre Court, or perhaps at least Court 1.

  I had been a bit disappointed when I had seen the order of play; I had hoped to play on Centre Court. The newspapers, to my surprise, commented that the Committee seemed to be trying to help me by keeping me away from the pressure and intensity of Centre Court. My third round opponent, Anita Castro, from Florida in the States, was in her third Wimbledon and had played twice on Centre Court. The bookies, according to the newspapers, were giving good odds in favor of Castro.

  In the dressing room before the match, Castro was relaxed and friendly. The American girls I had met so far at Wimbledon had all been influenced by Teach Tennant, even those who had never met Teach. Teach felt strongly that a player should be hostile to opponents.

  I said to Anita, “I thought Teach told the American girls not to chat with their opponents.”

  Anita laughed. “You mean the girls from the West Coast, from California.”

  “I thought it was everyone.”

  “No, Teach influences just the girls from the West Coast. I’m from Florida. Most girls in Florida have never heard of Teach.”

  Anita was a large, strong woman, and she played Jack Kramer’s ‘Big Game’ – meaning that she served hard and rushed the net, looking for a quick volley winner.

  I lacked the physical strength to play the Big Game. I had to serve spot on and then make a good approach shot off my opponent’s return of my service. Everyone thought I took too many risks. But once you hit an approach shot, there’s no going back. You can’t stand there in No Man’s Land, between the baseline and the service line. You have to go forward, into the service boxes, and take your chances. But when you go forward, you’re stuck out in the open and vulnerable to a passing shot. You have only instinct to help you; there’s no time to think.

  Rachel had told me for years that my game, assuming I placed my serve well, depended on my getting into the correct position at the net. And this was a matter of centimeters. Six or so centimeters out of the correct tactical position, and I would miss the volley altogether, or the ball would ricochet off the edge of my racket into the stands.

  There were dark storm clouds overhead when we went out on Court 2. I failed to concentrate in the first set and lost 6-2. Court 2 had been full at the start of the match, but I sensed the crowd had now decided that this was the end of my Wimbledon, and many of the spectators began to drift away. I had a sinking feeling that Anita was confident that she had this match in the bag.

  In the first game of the second set, on my serve, Anita lunged for one of my volleys when, of all things, the hooks on her bra snapped, and she hit my shot into the net. Anita’s bust was of a size that made the bra’s demise immediately obvious to the spectators. Also, her bust made continuing play sans bra not an option.

  Anita had a couple of spare rackets and a spare pair of tennis shoes. But a spare bra? No. The chair umpire – a man, naturally – had not previously been presented with this particular problem.

  A lady in the crowd called out that she had a safety pin in her purse, if that would help. Technically, it violated the rules to accept the safety pin – spectators could offer no assistance to the players – but perhaps the rule hadn’t been written with this situation in mind.

  I turned to Anita, and we both started laughing. I went over to the stands, and the safety pin was passed down to me through several rows of spectators.

  “Turn around,” I said to Anita. “I think we can do this and still retain your modesty.” I yanked her blouse out of the waistband of her tennis skirt and pulled it up in back. It took me a minute, but I got the back of her bra pinned together with the safety pin.

  I said quietly to Anita, “Does that feel all right?”

  “It feels great – thanks!”

  The crowd started to applaud.

  I picked up my racket and held it up in the air. “I think we should thank the lady who contributed the safety pin!” I said, loudly enough for all the spectators to hear.

  The crowd stood and applauded even more.

  The umpire – no doubt relieved that this feminine crisis was over – said into the microphone, “Second set, first game, Miss Hodgkin to serve at 30-love.”

  He had awarded me the point.

  Anita and I were still standing together, just behind the umpire’s chair. I put my hand on her shoulder, leaned over, and said quietly, “I think we should play a let.” I meant that we should replay the last point.

  “That would be great. I’d appreciate that.” Then she kissed my cheek.

  We separated and walked back to our respective baselines.

  I said to the umpire, “Anita and I have decided to play a let. The score is 15-love.”

  The umpire was taken aback and plainly concerned that I was taking over from him as the person in charge of this match.

  The crowd roared its approval.

  I held my serve, and then, in the second game, with Anita serving, the clouds opened and a heavy rain began. The groundskeepers ran to pull the tarp over the court, and Anita and I raced for the players’ entrance.

  When I made my way to the upper dressing room, John was standing at the door.

  I kissed him quickly and asked, “How is Claire’s match?”

  “She’s inside,” he said, nodding toward the door. “She’s just a game away. Easy for me to say, but I can’t see that she’s having any problem dealing with her opponent.”

  I kissed him again and pushed through the door.

  The dressing room was crowded; all the matches in progress had been suspended at once because of the sudden rain.

  Claire was sitting on a bench, and I sat down beside her. I said to her, “You’ve almost won your match, John says.”

  “Yes, I don’t think it’ll be a problem – if we can resume play. I’d like to get this match over with. And you?”

  “Not good. I dropped the first set, 6-2.”

  Claire stared at me. “What happened?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention. But I am now.”

  Anita was sitting just across from us. Mrs Ward had taken her bra and was sewing the hooks back on. Anita had a towel draped over her shoulders.

  A rumor ran around the dressing room that it had stopped raining, and we would be called back onto the courts soon. Anita leaned over and said to me, “Fiona, I’m worried they’ll call us back before my bra is fixed.”

  “Anita, I’m not playing until you’re ready to play. The umpire can’t default both of us.”

  I looked back at Claire, worried that she might think I shouldn’t agree to a possible delay that might help my opponent. I whispered, “Was that all right to tell her?”

  Claire shrugged. “Just fair play. Not worth winning otherwise.”

  The rumor was wrong. The rain delay ended up lasting longer than an hour, and the
n finally we were all called back to the courts.

  Anita and I knocked up and resumed play on Anita’s serve.

  We played out the second set, and I was so focused that I didn’t realize that Claire and John had found seats during one of the changeovers. I took the set at 10-8.

  Third set; I finally noticed John and Claire in the stands. I held both thumbs up to ask, ‘Did you win?’ Claire smiled and held both her thumbs up. She was in the fifth round, or as we would say today, the quarterfinals. Or just ‘the quarters.’

  Anita and I were on serve in the tenth game of the third set when the rain began again, hard. I looked at my watch; it was almost eight o’clock. We ran to the players’ entrance.

  In the dressing room, Anita went to the loo, and Claire immediately took my shoulders in her hands. “How are you doing?”

  “Claire, I’m exhausted,” I whispered back.

  “Fiona, she’s exhausted too. You have to play out the third set. You’ll win. You’re so close.”

  Claire asked Mrs Ward for a cup of tea. When she brought it, Claire had to hold the cup to my lips. I couldn’t even raise my hands.

  I thought, ‘How can I even play, much less win?’

  Claire put her arm around my shoulder. She placed her lips close to my ear so she could talk to me privately. We were in a gray zone of the prohibition against coaching. “Fiona, you have to win before it’s dark. You can’t give her a day to rest.”

  “I can’t play. I have to quit.”

  Claire took my chin in her hand. She shook my head, not hard, but not gently either. She spoke right into my ear so no one else would hear her. “You’re a champion. Now’s the time a champion proves who she is.” Claire gave me another sip of tea. “Run her around.”

  “Claire, I’ve already – ”

  She cut me off. “Fiona,” she whispered, “she’s almost done in. Volley to one corner, make her run there, and then volley to the other corner. She’s almost finished. But win before it gets dark. Don’t give her a day to rest.”

  At half past eight, our chair umpire knocked on the door of the dressing room. Mrs Ward answered the door, and the chair umpire asked, “May I speak with Miss Castro and Miss Hodgkin?”

  We went outside the dressing room. The umpire said, “Well, Monday’s going to be a train wreck of a schedule anyway with this rain. Colonel Legg just met with the Committee, and they’d like to finish your match this evening, if possible. It would make Monday a bit easier. It’s not raining now, but clouds are so dark the light isn’t perfect, I’ll admit that. Colonel Legg told me that you’ll both have to agree to play in the fading light. It’s your right to have good light for play. If either of you don’t want to play, well then, somehow we’ll just do it on Monday.”

  There was never play at the All England Club on Sunday. This was to avoid disturbing the local churchgoers on their way to St. Mary’s.

  I looked at Anita. ‘Claire’s right,’ I thought. ‘She’s even more done in than me.’

  I reached over and put my hand on Anita’s arm. “Anita, this is your decision. I’m happy playing now, but it’s whatever you want to do.”

  Looking back on all the extraordinary things that happened to me at Wimbledon 50 years ago, what I remember best is Anita’s reply that rainy evening.

  She hugged me. “Let’s play it out now, Fiona.”

  This, I knew, was her thanks to me for helping her earlier in the match. Anita was a sport. I had helped her. Now she would play even though I’m sure she knew she’d be better off waiting until Monday.

  We went out on Court 2. The Committee’s definition of ‘not raining’ was interesting, since in Bermuda we would have classified the weather on the court that evening as ‘light drizzle.’ The grass was slippery. Plus, it had suddenly turned quite chilly during the rain delay. Anita put on a cardigan, and I took out Rachel’s old sweater and pulled it over my head, freed my ponytail from underneath the sweater, and walked out on the court.

  There were five or six Australians in the stands, still in mourning over Margaret Smith’s loss on Tuesday. When they saw ‘KOOYONG’ on my sweater, they were thrilled. From then on, I had a small but loud and boisterous cheering section.

  I concentrated on making Anita run from corner to corner, over and over again, as Claire told me to, and it worked. After each point, I looked at the sky and the fading light. I had to win tonight and that meant winning quickly, before it became too dark.

  But Anita was out of fuel. I could tell because she started hitting more crosscourt shots – she needed the additional margin of error a crosscourt shot provides.

  I drilled down on my volleys.

  I would have lost to Anita if the rain hadn’t come. Or, probably, if Anita had elected to wait until Monday to finish the third set.

  It was just luck.

  But as it happened, minutes before the umpire would have had to suspend play for darkness, I broke Anita and then got a match point on my serve at 7-6. There were only a few spectators left in the stands on Court 2, including the Australians. John and Claire were there, both soaked to the skin, both shivering and both cheering for me.

  What did I ever do to deserve these two people?

  I tossed the ball, swung my racket and hit the ball down the center. Anita just reached it and hit a return. Not strong, but short and low. I reached the ball, bent so far down that my right knee was skidding on the wet grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Anita shifting a bit toward the deuce court; she was guessing I’d go crosscourt. But I didn’t. I flipped the ball over the net into the near ad court.

  My point. My game. My match. One more minute, at most, and the umpire would have suspended play for darkness.

  Now the umpire wanted nothing more than to get out of the cold and drizzle. He vacated the chair for cover as quickly as I’ve ever seen an umpire move. Anita and I embraced and then we stumbled toward the dressing room.

  John was standing in the entryway, just under cover. I grabbed his shoulders and fainted. I went limp in his arms. Then Claire had her hands on my cheeks and was shaking me. “Fiona, wake up. Wake up.”

  I opened my eyes. The Australians had found us and announced their plan to carry me around on their shoulders in the rain. Claire told them, “Not tonight, boys. Fiona’s knackered. Come back Monday, bring all your mates, and you can do whatever you like with her.”

  This satisfied the Australians, and they went off in search of beer.

  Claire frowned. “Aussies can be so literal-minded sometimes. You might be a bit careful around them on Monday.”

  I said, “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Not here. The loo,” Claire said.

  There were photographers everywhere. Claire grabbed me out of John’s arms and hustled me to the ladies’ loo just inside Centre Court. She took the back of my head and pushed me over the lavatory. I threw up.

  I tried to straighten myself, but Claire said, “I don’t think you’re finished.” I wasn’t.

  Finally, Claire took a paper towel, put water on it, and began cleaning off my face.

  “Claire.” I was choking, slightly.

  “What?”

  “Rachel told me not to play at Roehampton. I mean to try and qualify for Wimbledon. She said it would change me. Not for the better. That it would take too much. Is this what she meant?”

  “She’ll be here on Monday. Ask her yourself,” Claire said, while she was wiping my face. But there was bitterness in Claire’s voice.

  I was in the fourth round.

  SUNDAY, 1 JULY 1962

  MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY

  BELGRAVIA

  I don’t remember how Claire and John took me back to his flat. I don’t recall anything about that evening after being sick in the loo. But I do recall waking up Sunday morning in John’s bed.

  “Happy birthday!” he said. “Would you like some tea?” He had made a tea tray, which he put down on the bed.

  “I would love some tea. And I’m famished. Cou
ld we get breakfast somewhere?”

  “Claire and Richard are on their way here. Claire just rang. They’re going to stop and buy breakfast. I can’t imagine why they think I couldn’t just make breakfast for us.”

  “Could you?”

  “No, not at all,” he laughed.

  I held out my arms to him and, to be honest, I deliberately let the sheet drop below my breasts. I almost couldn’t believe that John would respond to me, but he did, and it was wonderful. He caressed me, and then reached under the bed and brought out a small package that had been gift-wrapped.

  “This is for your birthday.”

  I tore open the wrapping. It was a cheap cloth wash bag from Harrods. It had two small initials picked out on the corner: ‘FH.’

  I loved it. I still have it.

  John said, “Well, if you’re going to be hanging around the flat, I don’t want your things in the loo getting mixed up with my own.” Since John – like Father – used a regulation Royal Navy shaving kit for his razor, there was little risk of our things getting mixed up.

  I put my arms around him and pulled him down to me.

  Unfortunately, it turned out that Claire not only had a key to the flat, but that she didn’t bother knocking when she entered – which she did at that moment, with Richard in tow, and with plenty of bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon, red onions, and an almond coffee cake.

  Claire said, “Would you two please stop for just a bit? You both have to eat sometime.”

  John’s flat had no place for four people to have breakfast, so we trooped upstairs to the Fitzwilliam house to eat. On the way, we collected all the Sunday newspapers that had been delivered to the front steps. Claire made tea, and I spread out the bagels and other things on the kitchen table.

  Then we sat around the table, ate, and read the newspapers. John was engrossed in The Times Literary Supplement. Claire was wearing her eyeglasses – which she never did in public – and she had her left arm draped over Richard’s shoulders in a proprietary sort of way.