I hesitated. I hadn’t spoken to Mark in years, and I hadn’t been back to Wimbledon since 1962. I was on the verge of saying ‘no.’ I would give the excuse of work.
But Mark said, “Fiona. Centre Court.”
He was right; I couldn’t pass up an afternoon on Centre Court.
We took our seats between matches, and there was a ripple of applause around Centre Court, which Mark joined.
“Why are they applauding?” I asked Mark.
“For you.”
After the last match of the day on Centre Court, Mark and I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant in SoHo. In the six years since I’d last seen him, he’d adopted the calm, unflappable, seen-it-all-twice demeanor many physicians have – I recognized it because I was in the early stages of trying to adopt the same demeanor myself.
When we walked back to the Tube after dinner, he asked me to have dinner with him again that weekend, and I accepted. I met him Saturday evening in Ken High, we had dinner in a pub, and then went on a long walk in Kensington.
One night the next week, he made dinner for me in his flat. He had become quite the chef. I was standing in the tiny kitchen of his flat, drinking a cup of tea and watching him make dinner, when I mentioned that I planned to spend a week in Bermuda with my parents at the end of my surgery rotation.
Mark said, “I need to go to Bermuda myself, but I haven’t found the time. I haven’t been there since we met. But I liked Bermuda. Mostly because of meeting you.” He smiled at me. Mark could be charming when he felt like it; there’s never been any question about that.
“Why do you need to go to Bermuda?”
“Do you remember Tempest? Where we met the first time?”
“Certainly, yes.”
“My aunt passed away last year, and I inherited Tempest. It’s standing empty, and I want to check on it.”
“Oh, Mark, I’m sorry she’s gone. I hadn’t known. How did she die?”
“I was her physician. I could say she died of CHF.” He meant congestive heart failure. “That’s what I put on the death certificate. But probably it’s just as accurate to say she died of old age.”
I thought that Tempest perhaps wasn’t the grandest house in Bermuda, but it was certainly in the running. The land tax alone on Tempest was probably more than the National Health Service paid Mark as a medical resident. But then it occurred to me. The upkeep on Tempest was no doubt looked after by some clerk at the Thakehams’ firm of solicitors in the City. Mark probably hadn’t the slightest idea of what it cost to maintain his house in Bermuda.
That week I found some reason or other to ring Mark just about every day, and we took to eating hurried lunches together in hospital canteens, and talking about our patients. I noticed, a little guiltily, that I never mentioned that I had a boyfriend in Baltimore. But Mark never did anything that would have forced me to make that choice. One day at lunch I was telling Mark about a surgical site infection in one of my patients that, personally, I thought could have been avoided. While listening to me, he reached across the table and took my hand. I took my other hand, put it on top of his and went on talking.
THURSDAY, 4 JULY 1968
LONDON, ENGLAND
On the second Thursday of the fortnight, the Club Secretary rang me at Guy’s and invited me and my guest to the ladies’ final that Saturday. I accepted and telephoned Mark twice at his hospital to see if he could arrange to be off Saturday afternoon to come with me, but I couldn’t reach him either time. He was busy with patients; he had been on duty since Wednesday morning, working flat out the entire time. I finally got off from Guy’s around nine that evening and decided to stop at Mark’s hospital on my way back to Claire’s house.
I took the lift to Mark’s ward and asked a nurse where I could find him. She said he was asleep in the House Officers’ lounge, and she pointed me down a hallway toward a closed door. ‘Lounge’ was an overly grand name for this room. It was the size of a closet, and the only furnishing was a plain Army cot. There was a door to a tiny loo on the side of the room across from the cot.
A row of hooks was on a wall, with a doctor’s lab coat hanging on one hook and a pair of trousers hanging on another. I was relieved when I saw a mop of strawberry blond hair spilling out from under a sheet on the cot; at least I had found Mark and not some other sleeping SHO.
I closed the door, went over to the cot and sat down, uncomfortably, on the side rail of the cot. I put my fingers into the mop of hair, and Mark slowly came around. He looked at me and smiled. “Hello,” he said.
“Hello yourself.”
He reached up, put his hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me down to his face. I stopped him and said, “Mark, I’ll kiss you, but only after you clean your teeth. What in heaven did you have with your tea?”
He laughed. “I think it was lunch, actually. Didn’t get to have tea. Let me up, then.”
I stood, and he peeled back the sheet, got off the cot and stumbled into the loo. He was wearing only his boxer shorts. I took off my short medical student’s lab coat and hung it on a hook beside Mark’s long lab coat. His coat had in script on the left breast ‘Mark Thakeham, M.D., Cambridge Medicine.’ Mine had, ‘Fiona Hodgkin, Johns Hopkins School of Medicine.’ Each coat had a stethoscope hanging out of the side pocket. I stood there looking at the two coats hanging side by side.
Mark came out of the loo. He put his arms around my waist, I put my arms around his neck, and he kissed me. “To what do I owe the honor of this night time visit?”
“I wanted to ask you something, but now I can’t recall what it was.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of it.” He kissed me again and put his hand on my breast. I put my hand over his and pressed his hand to me. He took this as an invitation – and maybe that’s what it was. He reached behind me and fumbled with the zipper on the back of my dress.
“There’s a small hook at the top of the zipper,” I said, trying to be helpful, but he couldn’t manage the hook and zipper.
After a moment, I said, “Maybe you should let me do this. Get back on your cot.” He did.
I unzipped my dress, stepped out of it and hung it on one of the hooks. I went over to the cot and sat down again on the side rail. He pulled me down to him, kissed me, then reached behind me to the hooks on my bra. He stopped, looked at me, and said, “Is this all right?”
I laughed. “Yes. Can you manage it by yourself?”
He undid the hooks on the bra, pulled it away from me and dropped it on the floor.
He said, “See? I got your bra off without any help.”
“I’m sure you’ve had lots of practice with bras.”
I stretched out beside him, half convinced the cot would collapse, but it didn’t. I said, “How exactly are we going to do this on a cot? It’s too narrow.”
He pulled the sheet over us and said, “Perhaps I should be on top of you. That might work.”
It worked exceptionally well.
Afterwards, we were on our sides, with my back snuggled against him. He was holding one of my breasts in his hand.
He said, “I’ve wanted you for so many years. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you.”
“So how was it, at long last?” I was trying to mock him, but I didn’t quite bring it off.
“Perfect.”
I felt his hand gently caressing my breast. I said, “I’m small on top.”
“You’re perfect on top. Just what I want.”
“Now I remember what it was I wanted to ask you.”
“If talking about your breasts reminded you of what it is, I can’t wait to hear.”
“Don’t be silly. No, I’ve been invited to the ladies’ final on Saturday. I wanted to know if you can get out of hospital and come with me.”
“I think so. That would be great. I can check and make certain in the morning that I can get that afternoon off.”
“I thought we might take our tennis whites to the final. The outer courts are closed for play afte
r the fortnight, but if we’re discrete we can probably get away with playing a set or two after the final. No one is likely to be around to stop us.”
Although Mark had been a member of the All England Club probably since the day he was born, and I was an honorary member because of my championship, even members were not allowed to play on the outer courts after the fortnight until Richard Hawkins and his crew had repaired the courts, which took weeks.
Mark didn’t reply. He rolled me over onto my back and took me again, and while he was touching me I cried out so loudly that he cupped his other hand gently over my mouth and whispered, “Let’s not wake the patients on the ward.”
FRIDAY, 5 JULY 1968
BELGRAVIA
I spent the night on that wretched Army cot, and in the morning I took the Tube home to Hyde Park Corner and walked to Claire’s. When I arrived, Richard had left for the City, and Claire was chasing her boys around, trying to get them ready for the swimming camp they attended on Hampstead Heath. Young Fiona was in her booster seat at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of porridge.
Claire was taking the boys out the front door to wait with them for the van that picked them up when she called back, “Fiona, will you see if young Fiona wants banana with her porridge?”
I sat down across from young Fiona and said, “Do you want me to slice some banana for you?”
She nodded solemnly, and I sliced half a banana into her dish.
I asked, “Is the porridge good?”
She nodded again. “Mummy made it for me. Will you read to me?”
Claire and Richard kept a pile of old children’s books on the kitchen table. “I will read to you but finish your breakfast first. Then pick out the book you want to read.”
Claire returned and looked at young Fiona with an appraising eye. “Do you need to visit the loo?”
Young Fiona nodded solemnly.
“I’ll take her.” I lifted young Fiona out of the seat and carried her down the hall to a small powder room.
When we returned, I put her in her seat, and she went back to eating her porridge.
Claire looked at me. “In whose bed did you spend the night?”
I was a bit disheveled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Obvious? You might as well have ‘Just Had Sex’ written in red lipstick on your cheek. So who was it?”
“Mark Thakeham.”
“Now there’s a name out of the past. How was he?”
“He certainly knows what he’s doing. I’ll say that for him.”
“He treated you well?”
“Yes. Quite well.”
“Did he make you come before he did?”
“Claire, you really are awful.”
“Just curious. What’s the answer?”
Young Fiona held up an old Raggedy Ann book and said, “This one.” The book had belonged to Claire and John when they were children; it was held together with Scotch tape; either Claire or John, or maybe both, had scribbled in it with crayons.
“Can you get down from your seat?” I said to young Fiona. “Come get in my lap, and I’ll read to you.”
“So?” Claire said.
“Yes, he took care of me before he came.” I smiled. “Both times.”
Young Fiona said, “Raggedy Ann has red yarn for hair.”
Claire cleared young Fiona’s dish. “Interesting that Mark Thakeham appears on the scene after all these years. Is he in love with you?”
“I have no idea.”
Young Fiona said, “Uncle Clem is Raggedy Ann’s friend.”
Claire said, “You could answer ‘yes,’ or you might say ‘certainly not,’ but if you say, ‘I have no idea,’ that means you think he’s in love with you.”
She was right, but I didn’t answer her. Four centuries before, Claire definitely would have been hanged as a witch. I did think that Mark was in love with me.
Young Fiona settled herself in my lap and opened the Raggedy Ann book. I began to read: “One day Daddy took Raggedy Ann down to his office and propped her up against some books upon his desk . . . ” I used my finger to point to each word as I read to young Fiona. I leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
Claire said, “So if he’s in love with you, are you in love with him?”
I stopped reading. “I’m not in love with anyone.”
Young Fiona asked, “Is Raggedy Ann just a doll, or is she real?”
Claire answered, “She is just a doll, but she’s a real doll.”
I read: “Daddy wished to catch a whole lot of Raggedy Ann’s cheeriness and happiness . . . ”
Claire said, “You’re not in love with anyone because you don’t want to let go of John. That’s why you have this laboratory fellow in Baltimore, because you’re not in love with him, so you can still hold on to John.”
I was stricken. This was the worst thing anyone could say to me. My lower lip started trembling, but I managed to whisper, “That’s not true.”
Young Fiona asked, “Is Uncle Clem a real doll?”
Claire said, “I think it’s completely true. I think when you’re in bed alone, you imagine making love to John. Then you cry to yourself. You want to do that for the rest of your life, don’t you? But you can’t if you fall in love with someone else.”
I started sobbing.
“That’s exactly what you do, isn’t it?”
She paused. “At night, when I go upstairs to make sure the boys are under their covers, I hear you crying.”
I had tears running down my face. I nodded.
Claire came over to me, reached down, picked up young Fiona and stood her on the kitchen floor. Then Claire pulled me up and put her arms around me. “Fiona. Listen to me. You can tell John goodbye, and it won’t be as hard as you expect.”
Young Fiona looked up at me with a frown. “I want you to keep reading Raggedy Ann to me.”
SATURDAY, 6 JULY 1968
COURT 13
ALL ENGLAND CLUB WIMBLEDON
It didn’t take Billie Jean King too long to defeat Judy Tegart, and then Mark and I went to the dressing rooms to change. We agreed to slip out separately and meet on Court 13. The outer courts were deserted and eerily quiet. When I walked out on the court, it dawned on me that this was the old Court 14, where I had played my first match at Wimbledon six years before. (In 1964, it had been renumbered ‘Court 13,’ but it was the same court.) In my mind, I could see the crowds and Claire yelling and jumping up and down. It had been beside this court that John told me he was in love with me. I felt it had all happened in another lifetime.
Mark arrived, and we played a set. The day was perfect, and while the court was badly bruised from two weeks of play, it was still an old-style Wimbledon grass court – fast, unpredictable, and fun. We were changing ends when Mark said to me, “It’s just like old times.” And I agreed.
We were both thirsty after our set, but there was no water on the court. A stray ballboy, apparently off on a frolic of his own, happened to walk past, and I asked him if he might find us some water. A bit later, he reappeared with not only one large thermos of water but also another thermos of hot tea with lemon.
Mark and I sat down on a bench and poured each other cups of water, and then tea. Mark leaned over and kissed me, and I kissed him back.
He pulled away and said, “You don’t remember where we kissed the first time, do you?”
“Yes, I do. I had made a picnic lunch.”
“We were at that lighthouse. What’s it called?”
“Gibbs Hill Lighthouse.”
Then he kissed me again, and I put my arms around him.
He stopped kissing me. “Fiona, will you marry me?”
I took my arms away in surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Quite serious. I want to spend my life with you.”
“Are you in love with me?”
“Very much so.” He paused. “Always have been, actually.”
“Mark, I can’t marry you. I’m Bermudian, and I’m going to sp
end my life in Bermuda. You’re English; you’re staying here, in England. I don’t want to call England my home.” I was surprised to hear myself say so emphatically that I was going to return home to Bermuda, but once I had said it, it suddenly seemed obvious to me.
“I’ve thought about that,” Mark said. It must have seemed obvious to him as well. “When I finish my term as SHO, I won’t take a Registrar’s position. I’ll come to Bermuda and practice medicine there. We’ll have our family in Bermuda.”
I thought for a moment. “Well, there’s another problem. I have a boyfriend in Baltimore. I live with him. He’s asked me to marry him.”
Mark was plainly put off by the news that I had a boyfriend. I could tell he hadn’t considered this possibility.
“Am I that unlikeable?” I asked. “I can tell from your face that you didn’t expect me to have a boyfriend.”
“You’re likeable,” he said. He reached over and put his hand on my cheek. “I’ve liked you since I first met you.”
“To be honest, I’ve always liked you as well.”
“What did you tell him? Are you engaged to him? I hope not, since you and I slept together.”
“I told him I wasn’t ready to make any commitment.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“No. I’m not.”
Neither of us said anything for a few moments. Finally, Mark said, “You asked me about being in love with you, so I’m entitled to ask you in return. Do you love me?”
I simply said goodbye to John. Claire had been right – it wasn’t as hard as I expected. John didn’t disappear; he merely took one step further back in my memory. Now in my mind, he was covered by a fine mist, as though I were looking at him from across the Serpentine in Hyde Park early on a damp morning.
I thought for a long moment, and then I shook my head and gave a short, rueful laugh.
The Tennis Player from Bermuda Page 27
