Rachel snorted, found her cane, slowly managed to stand, and walked, unsteadily, to a rose bush. It was a ‘Mrs Dudley Cross.’ She put her fingers around one of the stems, carefully, to avoid the thorns.
“I’m not telling you anything about Gerhardt.”
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, 6 JULY 1962
THE QUEEN’S VISIT
ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON
Before the men’s singles final that afternoon, Claire and I stood in a line inside the clubhouse entrance to Centre Court with the men’s finalists, Rod Laver and Marty Mulligan. Colonel Macaulay was going to present us to the Queen, who was making her first visit to Wimbledon since 1957.
I was in my tennis dress, but Claire had put on a frock. Claire was known to be a Palace favorite, and she felt a frock might be more appropriate.
With us in line were my parents, and, at the end of the line, John. Colonel Macaulay escorted the Queen into the entrance and, one by one, presented us to her. The Queen stopped to talk with Claire for a few moments.
Colonel Macaulay said, “Your Majesty, this is young Miss Hodgkin, from Bermuda.”
I dipped my knee. I was awestruck.
“Good luck tomorrow, Miss Hodgkin.”
Colonel Macaulay and the Queen moved onto Father and Mother. The Queen greeted Father, and then the Colonel said, “Your Majesty, this is Mrs Hodgkin.”
Mother curtsied.
“It’s actually ‘Doctor Wilson,’ isn’t it?” the Queen asked Mother.
I don’t know who did research for the Palace, but the Palace must have been world class in this department.
“Yes, Your Majesty, I’m called ‘Doctor Wilson’ in my clinic.”
“I’m told your daughter plans to become a medical doctor as well. You must be proud of her.”
“Quite proud indeed, Your Majesty.”
Colonel Macaulay turned to John. “Your Majesty, this is Captain Fitzwilliam, of the Royal Marines.”
“Captain, we have met before.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“When you were awarded your Distinguished Service Cross, I believe.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The Queen smiled. “That was before you took up your” – the Queen paused – “current duties.”
John grinned and bowed his head slightly. “Just as Your Majesty says.”
The Queen looked back at Father. I sensed that she had meant to say something to Father that she had forgotten when greeting him. “Doctor Hodgkin, I understand that your DSC was awarded at sea.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Father replied. “I was lucky to be above water at the time.”
Everyone, even the Queen, chuckled at this – except Mother. She shuddered at how close she and I had come to losing him.
Then the Queen said, “I know my father would have regretted not awarding it to you personally.”
Father bowed slightly. “The King favored me with a letter soon after the war, Your Majesty.”
I had never seen this letter or even heard of it. A letter from the King wouldn’t have simply arrived in the post at Midpoint. The King’s Governor General of Bermuda would have delivered it in person, and such a letter would have been the talk of Bermuda for weeks. The Governor General would have quietly implied to his friends over cards and Black Seal rum at the Royal Yacht Club on Hamilton Harbour that the Palace had consulted him directly in the matter. But I had been just a small child then.
“I knew he did,” the Queen said.
She turned back to John and placed her hand on his arm. This was a sign of royal favor. “I’m told I can expect even more great things from you in future years, Captain.”
I would have thought that neither of the Fitzwilliam siblings would ever be at a loss for words, but I could tell that John had no idea of what to say. So he was silent.
Then Colonel Macaulay led the Queen up to the Royal Box on Centre Court.
Claire and I had decided to practice on Court 14 during the men’s final, since the reporters and photographers would be otherwise occupied watching the Queen, while Her Majesty watched Rod dismantle Marty in straight sets. Claire and I could practice in peace and quiet for once.
Claire had to visit the dressing room to change out of her frock – “I can’t recall ever wearing a dress at Wimbledon,” she said. John and I walked hand in hand to the outer courts. John was going to watch us practice, and then he was going to drive me back to his flat. With John driving his Porsche, we hoped we could evade the reporters.
John and I couldn’t have tea out because of the reporters and photographers, so I planned to make him something to eat in his flat. This was risky; I desperately wanted John to like me, and I hoped to show him that at least I could make his tea. Unfortunately, I had inherited American Grandmother’s inability to cook.
Claire appeared on the court, and we knocked up. She was about to toss her racket onto the grass when we saw Colonel Legg walking rapidly toward us on St. Mary’s Walk. This was astonishing: for Colonel Legg to leave Centre Court during the final between Rod and Marty, especially with the Queen present, was unthinkable.
Claire and I both assumed that, for some unimaginable reason, he was coming to talk with us, but instead he went straight to John and spoke quietly. I couldn’t hear what he said.
John turned and said to Claire and me, “Someone’s trying to reach me by telephone. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He waved to us and left with Colonel Legg.
Claire and I tried to play, but our hearts weren’t in the game. Something was wrong, we both knew.
About 15 minutes later, John returned. He was trying to appear casual, but I could tell that he was in a hurry.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I have to leave now.”
“Why?” Claire and I both asked at once.
“I have to go away for a bit.”
Claire’s face instantly turned ashen.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’ll be back for our match tomorrow?”
John laughed. “No, Fiona, I’m going to miss your Wimbledon final. But you’ll be in other Wimbledon finals, I’m sure of that.”
Claire said nothing.
“But when will I see you again?” I insisted. I was thinking only of myself. I was just 19.
“Fiona, I don’t know when we’ll see each other again.”
Claire said to John, “Tell her, you fool.”
Then I knew what he was going to tell me. He was going to say that perhaps it would be better if we didn’t plan to see one another again. He was going to break up with me.
John said nothing.
Claire said, “John. Tell Fiona. Now.”
My knees were giving way. I started to faint.
John said, “I’ve fallen in love with you.”
I was standing just in front of him. I put my left arm around his waist, then took my right hand and began fiddling with a button on his khaki uniform shirt. This was the only way I could avoid bursting into tears. I just managed to whisper, “I’m in love with you as well.”
He put his arms around me.
Claire said, “Why don’t I leave the two of you alone?”
John said to her, “Stay here with Fiona. I have to leave now.”
“John,” I said. I was looking at his chest, not his face. “When you come back, I may be in Bermuda, or in the States.”
“I’ll find you, wherever you are.”
Claire said, “Are you two sure you don’t want me to go somewhere else? This sounds as though it could get mushy.”
John and I ignored her. We were kissing.
Then I said, “John, will you marry me?”
Claire said, “Fiona, you know, usually we wait for them to ask that.”
John said, “I’m definitely going to marry you. Should I speak to your father?”
“No, my parents are old-fashioned, but I think they’re past that. I’ll talk to them.”
“Two or three? I’m an only child, and I don’t want to have just one.”
“Three sound good to me,” John said.
Claire said, “Children are expensive, keep that in mind. School fees. The nursery nurse. The weekend country house. Holidays at the sea.” Claire looked at me. “Well, Bermuda, maybe you have the holidays at the sea included.”
“Three would be perfect,” I said.
Claire said, “The way you two go after one another, you should expect a minimum of three.”
John looked at Claire. “Mother and Father need to know about this, and I’ll be away.”
“Fiona and I will tell them.”
John took my chin in his hand gently and lifted my face so that we were looking at one another. “The moment I come back, we’ll make love to celebrate our engagement.”
“I won’t think about anything else until then.”
Claire said, “I knew this was going to get mushy!”
John laughed and kissed Claire on her cheek.
Then he kissed me quickly, just brushing my lips, and said softly, “I love you.” I clutched at him, but he broke away.
Then I watched him saunter down St. Mary’s Walk.
As soon as he came to Court 3 and thought he was out of our sight, he broke into a dead run toward the auto park and the little silver Porsche 356.
Claire and I walked back to the dressing room without speaking. Once in the dressing room, we were alone. The draw now was down to just the two of us.
Claire said, “John’s gone off like this perhaps half a dozen times since he joined the Section. He always comes back.” Her face was still ashen.
I looked at her but said nothing.
“He has promised me, as his sister, that he always will be careful.”
“Do you believe him?”
Claire grimaced. “No. I don’t.”
“Neither do I.”
“But he always comes back. Don’t worry.”
Neither of us spoke for a minute. Then Claire said, “John told me that he’s in love with you. But he didn’t know how you felt.” Claire shook her head and laughed softly to herself. “I said to him, ‘What? Are you blind?’ I told him he was a fool not to tell you.”
“Claire, I want the Kershaw children and the Fitzwilliam children to grow up together.”
“They’ll be cousins. Certainly they’ll grow up together. I told you that I met Rachel at my parents’ house in the country. The tennis court there is old – it must date from before the first war. The lines have been picked out with chalk for so many years that the lines are raised like ridges above the court. The grass is rough; my parents don’t take good care of it. That’s where I first played with Rachel.”
She laughed. “We’ll turn Rachel loose on our children on that old tennis court.”
She leaned over, kissed my cheek, and we embraced.
Claire said, “We’re going to be sisters-in-law.”
I gathered my rackets and my pocketbook and left the dressing room. As I walked down the hallway, I saw Richard Hawkins, the long time Chief Groundskeeper – this was a senior position in the complex All England Club hierarchy. Last Tuesday, Rachel had surprised me by stopping to talk with Hawkins; he had been a ball boy at her final with Alice Marble in 1939. Except for the war years, he had been at the All England Club ever since. He and his family lived in the Lodge beside Court 1.
Hawkins stepped aside for me and said, “Good day, Miss Hodgkin.”
Twelve days before, no one at the All England Club had known me. I had been ignored. Claire had to show me where the buffet was, where the dressing room was, where the order of play was posted, and how to obtain a competitor’s pass. The only reason I didn’t have to stand in line to request a court for practice was that Claire simply announced when and where she preferred for us to practice.
Now this gentleman stepped aside for me.
I knew exactly what Claire would have said to him, so I decided to say the same thing.
“Mr Hawkins, may I call you ‘Richard’?”
“Certainly, Miss Hodgkin.”
“And I would be happy if you would call me ‘Fiona.’”
He beamed. “Thank you, Fiona.”
“Will you be here tomorrow, Richard?”
“Yes, of course, to look after Centre Court for your match with Claire. I’ll be sitting on the court, to the side of the players’ entryway. If you have any problem with Centre Court, just motion to me.”
“Then I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Richard.”
“Good luck, Fiona.”
I smiled at him and continued on my way down the hallway.
He called out to me. “Fiona!”
I turned to look at him. He said, “We haven’t had any lady like you here since Claire first came to us.”
“Thank you, Richard. You can’t know how much it pleases me to hear you say that.”
SATURDAY, 7 JULY 1962
ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON
Mother, Father, Rachel, and I walked out of Claridge’s to the auto that was going to drive us to Wimbledon. The auto had a small pennant on its radiator in the colors of the All England Club – mauve and green. When we came out, we could see a huge crowd of fans, reporters, and photographers. There were five or six bobbies waiting to escort us to our automobile. Mother held my hand tightly. The crowd cheered wildly, and the bobbies linked arms to protect us while we walked the few steps to the auto.
Mother clutched Father’s sleeve. “Tom, I don’t like having our daughter exposed in this way.”
“Let’s get in the auto and be off, Fiona.” He was speaking to Mother, not me. We got in the auto, with Father in the front and Mother, me, and Rachel in the rear. We would pack Claire and Richard in the rear as well; there were small jump seats.
The crowd was large and noisy. A bobby knocked on the side window where Father was sitting. Father rolled down the window. “Sir,” the bobby said, and then saw the DSC ribbon on the lapel of Father’s suit coat. He said “sir” again, meaning it this time. “We’re going to use a siren to get you out of here. Is that agreeable, sir?”
Father said, “As you think best, officer.”
We roared off behind a police auto with its siren blaring.
The fans and the press hadn’t thought that the challenger would be giving the defending champion a lift to Wimbledon, so no one was waiting on the street in Knightsbridge where Claire and Richard lived. They were standing in front of their flat. Claire had her pocket book, tennis kit, and rackets; her blond hair was neatly held in place by her barrette; she was calm, relaxed, and confident.
She sat in the jump seat, leaned toward me and took my hands in hers.
We arrived at the Doherty Memorial Gates to a mob scene. There were dozens of people, both men and women, jumping and screaming, on Church Road just outside the gate, plus all the photographers. There must have been ten bobbies trying to keep the crowd back. I looked over at Mother; she was as unnerved as I. She was holding Father’s arm tightly.
Rachel said, “Fiona, let’s go.” I didn’t move. Claire took me by the arm, not gently, and pulled me out of the automobile, with Rachel following me. Two military officers snatched us and hustled us through the gates. I just managed to touch the iron of the gates with my fingers. I felt I had to brush the Doherty Gates, if for just an instant, to have even the slightest chance of winning Wimbledon.
Then the auto with Mother and Father pulled away, with the bobbies slamming the door as the automobile left.
I had no idea they would drive off. My parents, in an instant, were gone. I yelled, “No! Mother! Father!”
Rachel said to me, “Fiona, you’ll see them in the players’ box in an hour. Don’t worry.” Then Claire half-dragged me down South Road to the South West Entrance to Centre Court. Neither Rachel nor Claire seemed bothered by the wild scene.
Then it occurred to me; they both h
ad done this before.
As if she could read my mind, Rachel turned to me and said quietly, “You wanted to be here. This is what it’s like.”
Colonel Macaulay had offered Claire to move me to the lower dressing room for the final, so that we each could have privacy, but Claire had declined. Claire sat me down on the bench in the dressing room, while Rachel asked Mrs Ward for tea.
We drank our tea in silence. Finally, the telephone rang. It was Colonel Legg asking us to come to the waiting room. The three of us stood.
Rachel turned to me. “Stay in the point you’re playing. Don’t think of anything else. Win each point one by one.”
She put her hands on my shoulders. “Fiona, you’ll win Wimbledon this afternoon if you make your volleys work for you.” Then she kissed my cheek.
Rachel turned to Claire. “Put your first serve in, hard and wide. Fiona’s inexperienced, but she’s dangerous if she can rush the net.”
Claire nodded.
Rachel paused. “Claire, Fiona will win Wimbledon someday, I’m sure of it. But don’t let her win today. She’s just 19, she’s a finalist at Wimbledon; no one could want more than that.”
Which was all Rachel had gotten for herself.
Then Rachel kissed Claire’s cheek and left us.
I walked down the narrow, dark corridor, carrying my rackets and my pocketbook. Claire followed me. In the waiting room, Colonel Legg was holding two large bouquets of flowers, one from Colonel Macaulay for Claire and the other from himself for me.
Colonel Legg said to us quietly, “Are you girls all right? I was at El Alamein under Monty with the gent in the Ministry of Defence who rang for John yesterday. When he told me he needed to speak with John immediately – well, it’s an open secret that John’s a senior officer in the – ” And then he stopped.
Claire had her arm around my shoulders. She said, “Colonel, we’re worried, but we’re fine. John will come back. He always does.”
I nodded.
Claire kissed my cheek. “Good luck, Fiona.”
“Good luck, Claire.”
The stewards lined us up, me first, then Claire several steps behind me.
Colonel Legg said, “Well, girls, we’d better get on Centre Court.”
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 22
