I was wearing a bathrobe that belonged to John, which was ridiculously big for me. I lifted my legs and put my feet on John’s lap. He didn’t raise his eyes from the TLS. Instead, he simply pulled my feet closer to him and squeezed my toes with his hand.
We were all quiet. It was an ordinary Sunday morning. Wimbledon didn’t exist. Someone asked, “Is there more tea?” Someone else looked into the teapot. “No, I’ll put the kettle on for more.”
For just a moment, I allowed myself one wild, impossible thought: this would be a wonderful family into which to marry.
Later that day, John and I went for a walk in Belgravia Square Gardens, which is private. John took a small key out of his pocket to unlock the gate for us. It was a beautiful day after yesterday’s rain, but still quite cool for early July.
I said, “I have to go back to Albert House.”
“Why?”
“I have no clean clothes. Mrs Ward looks after my tennis dresses, but I need to organize a laundry for my other things.”
“Mother has a laundry room upstairs. You can use that. I’ll drive you over to Albert House.”
“John, I worry that I’m imposing on you at the flat. I’m sure you have other things to do than look after me. I’ll stay at Albert House.”
“You’re sleeping at my flat. I want you available to me.”
I liked the idea of being available to him; it made me feel feminine. “You’re sure?”
“Don’t be silly, Fiona. But I don’t have the keys to the 356 with me. So we’ll have to stop at the flat first before we head to Wood’s Mews.”
When we arrived at Albert House, there was a telegram for me from Mother and Father:
POST OFFICE TELEGRAM
ON BOARD THE SS OCEAN MONARCH BY WIRELESS
ARRIVE SOUTHAMPTON MONDAY AM LONDON PM STOP CLARIDGES WILL SEND TO ALBERT HOUSE FOR YOUR BAGGAGE STOP ALL TALK ON BOARD SHIP IS OF YOUR WIMBLEDON WINS STOP LOVE MOTHER AND FATHER
I showed it to John. He said, “Do you think Claridge’s will be delivering your things to my flat?”
“Doubtful.”
There was one other item waiting for me. The Committee knew that several lady players stayed at Albert House, and so a steward that morning had hand-delivered copies of the Intended Order of Play for the next day.
I was to play on Centre Court Monday afternoon. At ‘2 pm precisely.’
MONDAY, 2 JULY 1962
CENTRE COURT
LADIES’ FOURTH ROUND MATCH
ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON
Claire sat on the bench beside me in the dressing room. “I’ve played Dorothy many times.” My opponent Monday afternoon was Dorothy Fielding.
Claire went on. “She’s a good friend of mine. She’s British, so the crowd might favor her.” Claire chuckled to herself. “But remember what Jack Kramer once said: ‘The British would pack Centre Court to watch two rabbits play tennis.’ I don’t think Dorothy will be a problem for you. I’ll be in the players’ box watching with John.”
She kissed my cheek. “Good luck, Fiona.”
She stood and left the dressing room. Three minutes later she came back through the door. “Fiona, do you have Rachel’s sweater with you?”
“Yes, it’s in my kit.”
“Well, put it on before you walk out on Centre Court.”
“It’s warm. I don’t need a sweater.”
“The Australians are here, and I mean in force. They’re cheering for you already, and I think they want to see that sweater. It’s never good to disappoint Australians – they don’t like disappointment.”
“What are they cheering?”
“You’ll find out. Just put on Rachel’s sweater before you walk out. You can take it off after you knock up.”
She took my hand, squeezed it gently and left again. I pulled on Rachel’s sweater.
The callboy came, and Dorothy and I walked to the waiting room and then out onto Centre Court. I was met with a wall of noise from the Australians: “AUSSIE! AUSSIE! AUSSIE! FI! FI! FI! ”
Over and over again. They were calling me ‘Fi.’ They yelled this cheer until the umpire finally asked them to be quiet.
My first match on Centre Court. I wasn’t scared, exactly, but it was a big moment for me. It was a world away from the Graveyard. No one – not even Claire – was permitted to practice on Centre Court. During the first week of the Championships, I had asked Claire to knock up with me on Centre Court, just so I could see what it was like. Claire – who would do just about anything for me – shook her head. “I can’t take you onto Centre Court. You have to wait for the Committee to schedule you to play there.”
A tennis player’s first Centre Court match, like for me that Monday afternoon? – well, that would always be the first time that player had ever set foot onto Centre Court.
Fred Perry said once that a player could see the ball better on Centre Court because the dark green sighting walls (which screened the tackle used to raise the tarp over Centre Court) and the low roof put the ball against a uniform, dim background. On most of the outer courts, the ball would pop up into the player’s sight against a bright, sun-lit, multi-coloured expanse of spectators. Fred thought this difference made players in their first time on Centre Court think they had more time to swing their racket. He was right about that: it took me most of the first set against Dorothy to adjust my timing.
Centre Court was quiet. I would close in to the net, volley, and then stop and wait a half-second for Dorothy’s attempt to pass me. Centre Court, in that instant, was so strangely tranquil – I loved that moment in each point. You’re an actor on the stage of Shakespeare’s Globe, with the audience waiting for your next line – When we have match’d our rackets to these balls, we will in France (by God’s grace) play a set.
But then, Shakespeare in Henry V was speaking of real tennis.
In the third set, Dorothy and I were on service at 3-4, me to serve, and we changed ends. I waited for Dorothy to get a cup of water from the tank and then got myself a cup.
While I was drinking, I turned around to glance at John and Claire in the players’ box. Claire was standing and hugging someone, but I couldn’t see who it was. Then Claire pulled away; she had been hugging Rachel.
I yelled, “RACHEL!”
Rachel smiled at me, and gave me a slight wave, but she wasn’t going to do anything that the umpire might consider coaching. Just then, Mother appeared in the gangway to the players’ box, with Father just behind her.
I yelled again: “MOTHER! FATHER!”
Mother and Father waved, smiled, and called back, “Fiona!”
I was so excited to see them, and so proud that they could see me on Centre Court, that I pointed back to the court with my racket. “I’M PLAYING ON CENTRE COURT!” As though this wasn’t entirely obvious.
A ripple of laughter went around Centre Court, and I heard even the umpire chuckling. There was a bit of cheering.
Then someone stood and began to applaud. In an instant, every spectator was standing and applauding.
The Australians took up their cheer: “AUSSIE! AUSSIE! AUSSIE! FI! FI! FI! ”
The umpire felt this had gone quite far enough. “Quiet, please, ladies and gentlemen. The sets are one each. Games in the third set are 3-4. Miss Hodgkin to serve.”
I held my service easily.
Dorothy served at 4 all. She went up 30-love quickly, but then I followed in her second service and hit a forehand volley winner. 30-15. I looked over at Rachel. She was impassive, with her hands folded in her lap. Dorothy hit a strong first service, which I could only block back, but then she took my shot and hit her return long.
30 all. I was two points away from breaking her serve.
Dorothy took her time preparing to serve. Another strong first service, but this time I took it with my backhand and hit my return as hard as I could. I thought it might float out, but it just touched the outer edge of the line. Dorothy got to it, but hit it back wide.
The umpire said,
“Advantage Miss Hodgkin.”
Dorothy put her first service into the net. ‘Nerves,’ I thought to myself. She hit a slice second service. I hit my return right down the line and came in. Dorothy hesitated for a fraction of a second. I was on the centerline of my service courts. Dorothy decided to go crosscourt, but I cut off the ball easily and put it softly into her ad court. She wasn’t anywhere near it.
The games were 5-4. I was serving for the match.
I held my service easily; my match; I was in the fifth round.
I sprinted for the net, jumped over it, touched Dorothy’s hand, and ran toward the players’ box. Halfway there, I remembered the chair umpire, Mr Hewlett, so I turned around and ran back to the chair, reached up, and touched my racket to the toe of his shoe.
“Thanks! Well called,” I said.
Then I tossed my racket in the general direction of my pocket book, spare rackets, and Rachel’s old sweater, which were lying on the grass next to the umpire’s chair, and ran straight toward the BBC television commentary booth. This was a little shed at court level just beside, and a bit below, the scoreboard. The BBC commentator, wearing a sweater and his old-fashioned headphones, saw me racing toward him and looked alarmed.
I was just trying to reach my parents in the players’ box above the shed.
I stepped into the first row of spectators and reached up to climb onto the roof of the shed, but it was too high for me. One of the ladies in the first row put her hands under my backside and pushed. Father reached down and grabbed my right hand, while John grabbed my left. The lady spectator pushed, John and Father pulled, and I popped up on the roof of the shed.
From there, it was an easy step into the box.
Father hugged me. “Darling sweetheart,” was all he said. I kissed Mother’s cheek and then hugged Rachel. I was thrilled to see all three of them.
Claire said, “Solid, impressive play.”
Rachel nodded. In the earlier rounds, Claire had been exuberant about my wins. Now she was a bit more careful.
I guessed what Claire was thinking. By Thursday afternoon, barring rain delays, there would be only two ladies left in the draw. Claire would be one; some of the London bookies were beginning to give odds I would be the other.
John was standing back, on the other side of Claire. Without thinking that every pair of eyes in Centre Court was on me, I slipped past Claire, put my arms around John, and kissed him. I don’t mean I pecked his cheek. I gave him a full, 220-volt kiss square on his lips.
The Centre Court crowd was agog over the kiss.
I took John’s hand and turned back to face Mother and Father.
Mother’s eyebrow was arched at the kiss I had given John.
Father was wearing his DSC ribbon on the lapel of his jacket, and John was wearing his on the left breast of his khaki uniform.
“Mother, Father, please meet Captain John Fitzwilliam of the Royal Marines. John is Claire’s older brother.”
Then I said, “John, please meet my parents, Doctor Thomas Hodgkin and Doctor Fiona Wilson.”
The three of them shook hands. Father glanced at John’s DSC ribbon and then looked at John. I could tell he was gauging how old John was.
Father pointed to the ribbon. “Suez Canal?”
John nodded. “You?”
Father shrugged. “U-Boat attack east of Gibraltar. Ship all on fire.”
And that was that. Father and John were friends.
LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON, 2 JULY 1962
CLARIDGE’S
MAYFAIR
I sat on the edge of the bed in the room at Claridge’s I was to share with Rachel. Mother was unpacking my clothes and putting them away, just as she did when we traveled when I was, say, 12. Rachel was downstairs having tea with Claire.
I knew that Mother was about to rake me over the coals for my behavior in the weeks since I had left Bermuda for London. I must have insulted the Thakeham family, after Lady Thakeham had been so kind to me. That’s what Mother would say. I had been selfish. I had behaved completely contrary to the way I had promised her I would behave in London. And she would want to know what in heaven had happened with Mark?
Mother surprised me. She always did. She put the Tinling gown over Rachel’s bed and told me that she would have the Claridge’s staff brush it and then steam press it. “We dress for dinner on board the ship home, and you’re old enough now to wear a gown like this for dinner. The other passengers will be amazed.”
Then she said, “I take it you’re seeing John Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes.” Well, ‘seeing’ him was the polite word for what I was doing.
“Does he treat you well?”
“Quite well. He’s a gentleman.”
“That was my impression when I met him.” She exercised her maternal prerogative: “Are you in love with him?”
“Yes. A great deal.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“I don’t know, Mother. Probably not. He likes me, but that’s all. I’m about nine years younger than him. He may think I’m just a child.”
“Are you protecting yourself?”
Other girls get to have mothers who would never think of questioning their daughters about sex and who instead assume their daughters simply aren’t having sex. Me? No, I have to have for my mother a practical-minded physician who assumes that if her daughter is seeing a naval commando nine years her senior, sex probably enters into the equation.
“Yes. Claire took me to her gynecologist. But I don’t want you to be angry with her for that. I asked her to.”
“Since I would have done exactly the same for you if I had been here in London, I’d have a hard time becoming angry at Claire.”
“Mother, I know I more or less broke a promise I made to you.”
“I don’t care about any promise you made. I care about whether you’re safe, happy, and doing well.”
That was exactly what Claire had said Mother would say.
Then Mother asked, “Are you careful?”
“Yes.” I laughed a little. “John sets the pace, but he understands I need a minute or so.”
I assumed she’d have no idea of what I was talking about, but instead she laughed as well. “Tell me about it.”
I was amazed that she knew about these things, but apparently she did. She’d only slept with Father, she’d told me. Father set the pace the way John did? It didn’t seem possible.
Then Mother said, “But if you’re right about how he feels, that he’s not in love, you need to be careful with your own feelings.”
“I know.”
“So, are you careful with your feelings?”
“No.” I gave a rueful laugh. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re not a mess. You’re a quite normal girl.”
Mother held up one of my tennis dresses and frowned at it. I know I took five tennis dresses to England, and that sounds like a lot, but since I had arrived in London I had played tennis hard, almost every day, sometimes twice a day, and the tennis dresses, with the constant washing and pressing, were showing the wear and tear.
Teddy Tinling would have gladly – now that I was in the fifth round – given me fancy new tennis outfits for free, which I could accept and still remain an amateur. I knew, though, that Mother and Father wouldn’t approve my accepting clothing, and especially not clothing that would, no doubt – Teddy being Teddy – include brightly coloured underpants and short skirts to show off the underpants.
Mother, still holding up the tennis dress, said, “Fiona, I think we need to go shopping for some new clothes for you.”
Rachel and I were in our room when John rang that evening. Rachel answered; she had known John since he was a teenage boy. Rachel replaced the receiver and said to me, “John’s in the lobby. He wants you to come see him.”
I got my pocketbook and walked over to the dresser. I opened a drawer slightly and pulled out a clean pair of knickers for the next morning and slipped them into my pocketbook. My washbag was i
n the loo in John’s flat; I had everything I needed. I said, “Rachel – ”
She cut me off. “You go with John. I’ll think of something to tell your father.” Rachel had been a teenage girl in love at Wimbledon herself. “But I want you to get a good night’s sleep.”
I laughed. “I’m not given much control over how much sleep I get!”
Rachel said simply, “John’s waiting for you.”
John wasn’t in the lobby. He had parked the 356 on Brook Street in front of Claridge’s. It was a clear evening in London; John had put the hood down. He was in his khaki summer uniform, with shorts and high socks. John was tanned and so fit that I could see the outlines of the muscles in his legs.
He was leaning against the 356, with his arms folded over his chest, chatting with a young London bobby. It sounded to me that they must have known one another in the Royal Marines.
I put my arms around him and kissed him. John opened the passenger door of the 356, and I got in.
The bobby said, “Captain, sir. That’s a beautiful young lady you have there.”
John said, “I entirely agree, Mike.”
He jumped over the driver’s door, started the Porsche and threw it in gear. With the motor rasping, we headed into the Mayfair traffic.
TUESDAY MORNING, 3 JULY 1962
BELGRAVIA
The next morning, probably at about the same time Rachel was telling Father that I had decided to spend the night at Claire’s flat, I got out of John’s bed, pulled on a pair of his boxer shorts, and a grey, cotton t-shirt with ‘SBS’ in black letters across the front. Both the shorts and the shirt were too big for me by at least twice; I had to hold up his boxers with my left hand.
I went into the hallway kitchen and tried to make tea for John on the huge, ancient cast iron gas stove. At one time, perhaps back in the Dark Ages, this stove must have served the entire house. It had all manner of strange valves and knobs. I turned one of the knobs, struck a match, and lit the burner. Flames shot up to the ceiling.
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 20
