by Simon Brett
‘What do you mean?’
‘Wally is a kind of historian of the game. Knows more about it than probably anyone on the planet. Even written a book on the subject. If he’s going to tell you “all about the game of real tennis”, I’d make sure you’ve got a couple of weeks free.’
‘Oh, right. Well, thanks for the warning.’
‘And would you be able to have a couple of weeks free?’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s my rather contrived and roundabout way of asking what you do.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m a kind of alternative therapist.’
‘Healer?’
‘That kind of thing, yes.’
‘Maybe I should get you to take a look at Reggie.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, look at him.’ Oenone Playfair gestured towards the court as if pointing out a particularly uncontrollable puppy. ‘He doesn’t take care of himself at all. He’s seventy-four next year, and he’s had a couple of heart scares. I keep trying to get him to make some changes in his lifestyle, but will he? Will he hell.’
And as Jude saw Reggie Playfair puff his way to miss another ball, she could see what his wife meant. His face was redder than ever and sweat dripped off nose and chin. Individual damp patches on his white shirt were starting to join together.
Oenone raised her eyes to heaven, expressing the hopelessness of trying to make her husband change in any particular, then asked, ‘So do you do your healing work at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘And where is home?’
‘Fethering. Do you know it?’
‘Of course. Just down from Fedborough. Where the River Fether reaches the sea.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’re kept busy, are you . . . you know, with the healing?’
‘It varies.’ And with a feeling that was uncharacteristically close to guilt, Jude realized that she hadn’t actually treated any clients for a couple of weeks. Hadn’t actually been to her home, Woodside Cottage, for a couple of weeks. Since Piers Targett had come into her life. Or since she had moved into Piers Targett’s life.
Something happened on the court that prompted raucous applause and cheering. ‘Game, set and match!’ called out Ned Jackson, for the first time that morning saying something that Jude could understand. She watched the four players exchange handshakes over the low scoop of the net.
‘Reggie will be insufferable now,’ Oenone Playfair observed.
‘I’m sorry? Why?’
‘Well, they won – didn’t you notice? Means they’ll go through to the semis.’
‘Ah.’
‘And Reggie will be particularly pleased to have beaten your Piers. There’s always been quite a lot of rivalry between those two.’
‘Friendly rivalry, I hope.’
‘Oh, yes, friendly . . . not that that means it doesn’t go deep.’
They looked up at the arrival of the four players in the dedans. Reggie immediately found a bottle of red wine and poured a glass, which he quaffed with relish. Piers, crossing towards Jude, ruffled his hand ruefully through her bird’s nest of blonde hair. ‘Not my brilliant best this morning, I’m afraid.’ He grinned at Oenone. ‘See you two’ve met. What’ve you been putting in the old man’s cocoa? He was on fire.’
‘Who’ll they be playing in the semi?’
‘Whoever wins the next one.’
Jude looked with pleasure at Piers Targett. Though in his sixties, he didn’t have the kind of metabolism that put on weight and looked surprisingly trim. His hair was white but abundant and he wore it almost foppishly long with a centre parting. Eyes of a surprisingly deep blue. The recent exertions on the tennis court had not raised a sweat on his pristine polo shirt. His long white trousers were neatly creased, with a knotted striped old school tie doing service as a belt.
He turned at the approach of his young doubles partner, who had just been chatting with Felicity Budgen. The girl was pretty with black hair and ice-blue eyes. She moved coltishly as if she hadn’t quite got used to her long limbs ‘Sorry, Tonya,’ said Piers with mock humility. ‘If the way I was playing this morning doesn’t give you the message to steer clear of old men, then nothing will.’
The girl smiled nervously. On the court she had looked secure; she had been well taught, moving effortlessly into the right positions and returning the ball with a strength that was surprising in one so slender. Outside the game, however, she was awkward, aware of her juvenile status amongst so many older people.
‘Bad luck, Tonya,’ Oenone Playfair commiserated and was rewarded by another edgy grin. ‘How are Roman and Natalya?’
‘Oh, you know. Grandpa’s lost it a bit, really.’
‘Yes, so I’d heard. Oh, sorry, this is Jude.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said the girl politely.
‘Anyway, Tonya,’ said Piers, ‘let me get you a drink by way of apology for my appalling tennis. What would you like?
‘Oh, just a Coke, please, thank you.’
‘Sure. And what about you ladies? Oenone . . .?’
‘Wally’s getting drinks for us.’
‘What a gentleman that Wally is.’ Piers grinned ruefully at an approaching young man in a smart blue tracksuit. ‘Sorry, George, my volleying was all over the shop this morning. Forgot everything you told me in that last lesson.’
The man grinned back. ‘Can’t win ’em all.’
‘No, winning some would be nice, though. George, must introduce you to a friend of mine. Jude, this is George Hazlitt, the club’s senior pro.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too.’ The professional smiled the smile of a man who had never doubted his attractiveness to women.
‘George used to be top five in the world,’ said Piers.
‘A while ago, mind.’ This was said with a self-depreciating grin. Close to, George Hazlitt was older than he had first appeared, probably well into his forties. It was his extreme fitness that made him look young.
He moved away. ‘I’ll take over the marking for this one, Ned,’ he said. ‘You go and get a cup of coffee.’
‘Thanks, George.’ The younger pro slid off his bench. As he moved through the crowd, he came face to face with Tonya Grace. Jude noticed the two of them exchange a private grin. Then the girl blushed and turned away.
A new pair of doubles was now knocking up on court, so George Hazlitt’s marking skills were not yet required. To Jude’s amazement she saw him pick up a bag from beside the bench where he was sitting and start sewing. Yes, no question about it. He had some pieces of yellow felt which he was sewing together with a large needle. His movements were practised, automatic; he hardly looked at what he was doing.
Jude nudged Oenone Playfair and nodded her head towards the Pro. ‘Does he have a side line in embroidery?’ she whispered.
The older woman grinned. ‘No, he’s making balls.’ Seeing Jude’s puzzlement, she went on, ‘Real tennis balls are handmade – and they don’t last long. It’s part of the professional’s job to keep up the supply.’
‘Ladies, your drinks,’ announced the marinated voice of Wally Edgington-Bewley. ‘Now, Jude, move along a bit, make room for me . . . and I will regale you with the complete history of the ancient game of real tennis . . .’
It must have been about half past twelve. Jude was on her third glass of Chardonnay and feeling no pain. From the club room area behind the dedans wafted intriguingly spicy smells. Piers had promised her that ‘the lunches are always very good for the Sec’s Cup – there’s an Indian member who does these amazing curries on the Sunday.’ The smells made her realize that she was very hungry. She’d only snatched a slice of toast by way of breakfast at Piers’ Bayswater flat. And that had been before seven o’clock.
Still, Jude was quite content. Though Wally Edgington-Bewley had continued to ply her with dates and statistics, she hadn’t taken any of it in. She had remained sitting with Oenone Playfair, but their circle had widened as Piers introduced her t
o more of the real tennis fraternity. She was struck by how nice they all were. And a little surprised by how mixed. Though she heard a good few hyphenated names and cut-glass vowels, there were plenty of members whose voices suggested much humbler origins.
But the main thing that impressed Jude was how much they all seemed to like Piers Targett. The whirlwind of their romance over the previous few weeks had not involved much socializing with other people. But Piers had been committed to participating in the Secretary’s Cup before they’d met, so this was really the first time he had introduced Jude to any of his friends. And she enjoyed seeing him in a context where he so clearly felt at ease.
On the court Reggie Playfair and his partner were playing their semi-final match. And they were finding the going tougher than they had in the previous round. Their opponents were both fit men in their thirties and though, according to Piers, they were ‘giving away a lot in the handicap’ (whatever that meant), they were making few mistakes and slowly grinding down the older pair. His partner was coping with the pressure better, but there was now an air of desperation about the way Reggie hurled his ageing body around the court.
In spite of everything Piers had told her and the information overload supplied by Wally Edgington-Bewley, Jude still hadn’t grasped the basic rules of real tennis. During the rallies, she could vaguely understand what was going on, but the scoring and the reasons why the players kept changing ends left her completely baffled. She didn’t mind, though. Calmed by Chardonnay, she settled into cheerful incomprehension and let her mind wander.
Suddenly there was a commotion at the far end of the court. Jude missed the first impact, but it looked as though Reggie Playfair had slipped and crashed into the side wall. The consternation among the spectators, however, suggested something more serious. Oenone seemed frozen in shock. George Hazlitt was instantly up from his bench and in charge of the situation. ‘Henry, you’re a doctor. Go and check him out. I’ll get the defibrillator.’ And the professional was suddenly running up the passageway alongside the court.
At the far end, on the painted floor, Reggie Playfair lay very still.
TWO
As it turned out, the defibrillator wasn’t needed. After a couple of moments of agonizing stillness, life returned to Reggie Playfair. He sat up, propping himself against the wall, and looked with some befuddlement at the ministering George Hazlitt and the doctor called Henry. Oenone had also rushed on to the court, her paralysis of shock dissipating when she saw her husband move.
The doctor gave Reggie a fairly detailed examination, though from the dedans Jude couldn’t hear what he was saying. There was still tension in the spectators muttering around her, but they had relaxed a bit when they realized there wasn’t a corpse on the court.
Reggie Playfair’s rising to his feet was a cue for a round of applause. He shook himself, waved and bowed towards the dedans, as if to indicate that the crisis was over. Then he picked up his racket from the floor and called out, ‘Sorry about that little hiatus. Now what was the score?’
There ensued quite an argument between Reggie, the doctor and George Hazlitt. The player was insisting that he was fine to carry on, that he didn’t want to let down ‘his old mate’ of a playing partner and that next time he’d ‘remember where the bloody walls are’.
It was George Hazlitt who finally dissuaded him from continuing. As the court’s professional, he was responsible for the players’ safety. And since quite a few of the members were in their seventies and even eighties, it was a responsibility that he took very seriously.
So Reggie and his partners’ opponents were declared the winners of the game, and the little group filed off the court towards the dedans. Oenone was holding her husband’s arm, but he shook free of her, not wishing to look as if he needed support. ‘God, I need a drink after that,’ he announced.
‘I’m not sure that that would be a good idea,’ said Henry the doctor.
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘I think that might be what caused the problem in the first place.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I think the wine you’d already drunk might have made you unsteady, which is why you lost your footing and fell against the wall.’
This was a moment that could have erupted into something unpleasant. Reggie Playfair was not the kind of man who took kindly to being told what to do, least of all by doctors half his age. He was about to come back with some scorching riposte, but the gentle pressure of Oenone’s hand on his arm made him think better of it.
‘Oh, well,’ he said grumpily. ‘Not sure I can manage watching the rest of the day’s play without a drink.’
‘I don’t think you should watch the rest of the day’s play,’ said Henry bravely. ‘You’ve got mild concussion. The best thing you can do is go back home and spend the rest of the day in bed.’
‘Look, I’m not ill. I just had a fall.’
‘Reggie,’ said Henry, ‘you should take things carefully. You’re not as young as you were.’
‘Oh, now you’re telling me I’m about to pop my clogs, are you?’
‘No, I’m just saying—’
‘Well, if I’ve booked a one-way ticket to the crem, there are a good few things I want to do before I get there.’ Reggie Playfair’s voice was getting quite loud now and attracting uneasy attention from other people in the dedans. Jude saw the pained expression on the face of Felicity Budgen, a woman in whose presence, she got the feeling, everything had to be ‘nice’.
‘I’m not the kind of person,’ Reggie went on vociferously, ‘who believes in the idea of carrying secrets to the grave. No, my instinct has always been to come clean and confront people with—’
‘I think you should go home and spend the rest of the day in bed,’ Henry the doctor repeated firmly.
Reggie Playfair swung round to face him, as if about to burst into another tirade.
‘Better do as the doctor says.’ Oenone Playfair’s voice was soft but forceful and it had the desired effect. Miserably, her husband let himself be led away to collect his clothes and sports bag from the changing room. When, a few minutes later, he and Oenone left the court, he was given a rousing round of applause from the dedans.
Meanwhile the doubles pair who had profited from Reggie Playfair’s default kept saying how guilty they felt about it, and how that wasn’t the way they would have wished to reach the final (though the way the game was going before Reggie had his accident, they would probably have won anyway). Jude was once again struck by how nice and well mannered everyone in real tennis seemed to be.
Just before the second semi-final started Piers took Jude through for lunch in the club room. This was a large space with tall mullioned windows looking out on to the well-kept Lockleigh House gardens. At one end sagging leather sofas were gathered round a fire that burned away merrily, though more for comfort than because it was needed, the weather being mild for early October. Doors to either side of the fireplace led off to the men’s and women’s changing rooms.
At the other end the space was dominated by a large refectory table surrounded by chairs. It was loaded with bread and cheese, salads, chutneys and poppadoms. And a great many bottles of wine. From the adjacent kitchen the smells of curry were almost unbearably tantalizing.
In glass cases along the walls were displayed discoloured, cracked rackets from earlier centuries, along with other real tennis memorabilia. There were also rows of honours boards, recording in gold leaf the names of the champions in the club’s various competitions. Piers couldn’t prevent himself from pointing out to Jude the date, some thirty years previously, when the Sec’s Cup had been won by ‘R.A.G. Playfair and P.H. Targett’. Round the same time a board recorded that he’d won another doubles title, partnered by Wally Edgington-Bewley.
Members came and went at the lunch, drifting in and out from watching the tennis. As places at the table became empty, they were quickly and informally filled. Nobody gave any sign of minding who they sat next to an
d all of them seemed to know each other.
Jude and Piers had their plates loaded with craters of sharp yellow rice into which the curry was generously ladled. Then they took their places at the table and the cheery banter continued around them. A lot of the talk, being of course on the subject of real tennis, was incomprehensible to Jude, but she didn’t feel in any way excluded. The curry was just as good as it had been puffed up to be, and meanwhile the Chardonnay flowed unstintingly.
She was feeling extremely mellow when Piers led her back to the dedans to watch the closing stages of the second semi-final, which was won by two women of about Jude’s age. According to Piers, they had only just taken up real tennis, but both of them had once been ‘county standard at lawners’. As a result, they were ‘rather bandits in the handicap’. Once again Jude hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
But the women’s banditry in the handicap stood them in good stead. Though the pair they were up against in the ensuing final were much better players, some incomprehensible system of taking points from one pairing and giving them to the other meant that the two men couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Unfortunately for them, they did make a few, just enough to tip the balance in the women’s favour. The female pairing were declared the winners, and then came the presentation of the Secretary’s Cup.
This took place on court. First the club chairman spoke. His name, according to Jude’s ever-helpful guide, Piers Targett, was Sir Donald Budgen and he had retired a few years back after a long career in the Foreign Office which had ended up with his achieving the status of one of Her Majesty’s ambassadors. A tall thin man with greying hair, he wore a suit and tie that gave the impression he never ‘dressed down’. The existence of a pair of jeans in Sir Donald Budgen’s wardrobe somehow seemed an impossible incongruity.
The chairman said what a jolly occasion the weekend tournament had been, and how much the thanks for that were due to George Hazlitt and his junior pro, Ned Jackson. He then added thanks to all the people who had helped with the catering and other organization, finishing up with an accolade to all of the players who had ensured that ‘the occasion lived up to the fine traditions of good sportsmanship which is so much part of the ethos of real tennis.’
