“I’ll have the rest of those fake cards, please,” the man said sternly, holding out his hand. He collected them all up while the people in the queue behind us watched, goggle-eyed. It was totally embarrassing.
“Now be off with you,” the man shouted, “or I’ll call Security!”
We slunk off back towards the car park, with everyone in the queue turning round to watch us go.
“Rosie, don’t you know how to spell tennis?” Fliss groaned.
“Of course I do,” Rosie said miserably. “Sorry, guys.”
“We’d better get our bikes and go,” Lyndz suggested, “before Fliss’s mum turns up.”
We hurried across the car park, but we had to wait as a white van turned in from the road and drove in front of us. It had Archers Catering Company written on the side in blue letters.
“It’ll be just my luck to meet my mum while we’re cycling back to Cuddington,” Fliss grumbled, bending down to unlock her bike. “If she ever knew what we’d been up to, I’d be—”
“Don’t unlock your bikes yet,” Kenny cut in. “Wait a minute.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
Kenny didn’t answer. She was watching the white van very intently. The driver had got out and gone across to speak to the man operating the turnstile. Now he got back in the van again. Slowly, the big iron gates began to open. They must have been controlled automatically by the man in the hut.
“Come on,” Kenny whispered.
We hurried over to the gates. The van drove through, and we dashed into the club after it, just before the gates started to close again.
“Hey! Come back!”
We could hear the man at the turnstile shouting behind us, but we didn’t stop.
“No chance, mate,” Kenny grinned, punching the air.
“What do we do now?” Fliss asked, panicking as usual.
“Lose ourselves in the crowd, just in case that guy comes after us,” Kenny instructed.
There were loads of people around, and once we’d moved away from the entrance, we felt reasonably safe. The place was packed. By the look of it, there were matches going on on all the courts, and there were lots of people sitting watching them. The restaurant and the clubhouse were full of people eating and drinking and having a good time. There were also a couple of big, white marquees set up on the grass, and people were standing around in the sunshine eating bowls of strawberries and cream. There was bunting in the trees, and stalls selling tennis stuff.
“Right, let’s find the M&Ms,” Kenny said, looking around.
“It’s not going to be easy with all these people,” Fliss said. Then she gave a shriek, and grabbed my arm.
“I thought we weren’t going to draw attention to ourselves,” I reminded her.
“Over there – it’s Mark!” Fliss stammered, “He mustn’t see us, or he’ll tell Auntie Jill.”
Mark was standing chatting to another man by the fountain.
“Let’s get out of here,” Kenny said urgently. She spun round, and knocked a bowl of strawberries and cream right out of the hand of the woman standing behind her.
“Well, really!” said the woman, who was another snooty type in a straw hat and a posh flowery frock.
“Sorry.” Kenny scooped the strawberries up, dropped them into the bowl and handed them back to the disgusted woman. “Come on, let’s hide!””
We ran off round the side of the clubhouse, out of sight. Then we peered round the building to see if Mark had noticed us. He hadn’t. He was still chatting to the same guy.
“That was close,” Rosie whispered.
“Quick, let’s find the M&Ms and get out of here,” Fliss pleaded.
Cautiously we came out from behind the clubhouse. But we hadn’t gone more than a few steps when we suddenly saw Mrs Proudlove and Auntie Jill, making their way towards us.
“It’s my mum,” Fliss gasped. As if we didn’t know that already!
“Look, follow me,” Kenny said quickly, leading us towards one of the marquees. We crept round the side of it, and stood there, our hearts pounding. Well, mine was, and I’m sure everyone else’s was too!
“It’s OK,” said Kenny, who was keeping watch. “They’ve joined Mark, and now they’re all going into the restaurant.”
“That’ll keep them out of the way for a bit,” Fliss said, relieved.
“Let’s go to the courts,” Rosie suggested. “The M&Ms could be watching one of the matches.”
“Good idea, Rosie-Posie,” I said. “Come on, then.”
Fliss was staring at the flowerbed nearest the marquee. “Hang on,” she said, pointing at a plant with big scarlet flowers. “What’s that?”
“Fliss, this is no time for gardening questions!” Kenny hissed crossly. “We need to find the M&Ms and get out of here.”
“Not the plant, you idiot,” Fliss retorted. “That little blue box lying underneath it.”
She bent down and picked the box up. It was made of dark blue leather, and had Masterson’s printed in gold on the top.
“It looks like a jewellery box,” Fliss said eagerly. “I wonder if there’s anything inside it?”
She was just about to open it, when we heard two angry voices in front of the tent, only a metre or so from where we were standing.
“And first of all they tried to fool me with fake cards, and then they ran inside when the catering van came in!”
We all looked at each other in horror. It was the man from the gate.
“Yes, Mr Harper, you’ve already told me, several times.” I glanced at the others. I recognised that voice. Last time we’d heard it, she’d been telling us off for breaking her precious racket. Mrs Morgan! “And from your description, it sounds like those terrible girls who were responsible for ruining my Aunt Fiona’s racket.”
Kenny pulled a face. “She’s on to us!” she whispered.
“Shall I make an announcement over the tannoy, Mrs Morgan?” Mr Harper went on. “I could put out a description, and ask people to keep an eye open for them.”
I rolled my eyes at the others. Honestly, this guy was acting like something out of The Bill! It wasn’t like we were criminals or anything.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mrs Morgan said. “But, as we both know what they look like, we’d better search for them ourselves.”
We didn’t dare look to see which direction they were going in. If one of them came round the side of the marquee, we were as good as dead!
“Quick!” Kenny gasped. “Under here!”
She lifted up the canvas, and we all crawled underneath it and into the marquee as fast as we could. Fliss was trying to shove the little blue box in her pocket, and kept dropping it, which held us up a bit.
The marquee was the place where they were serving the strawberries and cream, and what looked like champagne in crystal glasses. It was packed with people, and it could have been a bit embarrassing if we’d been spotted. But luckily, there were lots of long tables, covered with white cloths dotted about, and one of these happened to be positioned right where we’d crept under the canvas. So we were able to slide under the table without anyone seeing us. The tablecloth hung almost right down to the ground, so we were pretty well hidden. We could just see people’s shoes moving about.
“What now?” Fliss whispered.
“We’ll stay here for a bit, and wait until Mrs Morgan and Mr Harper have gone off somewhere else,” Kenny said.
“I’m getting cramp in my legs,” I grumbled. The tables were pretty low, and I was so hunched up, I was starting to ache all over. It was all right for the others, they weren’t as tall as me.
“Stop moving around, Frankie,” Rosie said in a panicky voice. “You’re rocking the table.”
I groaned, trying to stretch my aching arms and legs a bit. “I’m never going to be able to stand up straight again!”
“Hey, what’s that?” Kenny jumped as something fell on to the grass, right next to her foot. She peered at it, then grinn
ed at us. “It’s OK, guys,” she whispered. “Someone’s just dropped a spoon.”
It took us about two seconds to realise that if somebody had dropped a spoon, they’d probably be bending down to pick it up. But it was too late. Someone had already pulled the tablecloth aside, searching for the spoon…
We all looked into the startled face of a woman in a straw hat and a flowery frock. The same woman whose strawberries Kenny had sent flying a little while ago!
“Aargh!” the woman shrieked, jumping backwards. I didn’t think we were that scary-looking, but I don’t suppose she was expecting to see anyone under the table, let alone five of us.
“Quick, let’s get out of here!” I gasped. We yanked up the edge of the marquee, and wriggled our way out. Then we jumped to our feet, and dashed off. A few minutes later, we were in the middle of a large crowd, and feeling a lot safer.
“Where are we?” Kenny asked, looking around.
“Near the changing-rooms.” I pointed them out. “And there are the courts.”
“If we walk along the fence, we can check out the people watching, and see if the M&Ms are there,” Lyndz suggested.
“Good idea,” I began. But then I nearly died as a hand grabbed my shoulder from behind.
“What do you girls think you’re doing?” said a stern voice.
We all turned as white as ghosts. But when we looked round, it wasn’t Mrs Morgan standing there. It was a shorter, thinner woman wearing glasses and carrying a clipboard.
“N-nothing,” I stammered. “We’re not doing anything.”
“Exactly!” the woman said crossly, rolling her eyes. “What are you hanging around here for? Haven’t you been told what to do?”
I glanced at the others. We didn’t have a clue what this woman was going on about, but at least she didn’t seem to know that we were being hunted by Mrs Morgan.
“Er – no,” I said, trying to look as if I knew what she meant. “Not exactly.”
The woman tutted loudly. “Come with me,” she snapped. “We don’t have much time.”
She bustled over to the changing-rooms, taking us with her.
“Go and get changed,” she said impatiently. “And hurry up about it. I’ll wait for you here.”
“What?” I stared at her. Get changed? Into what?
“Your uniforms are in the junior changing-rooms,” the woman said. “Now get a move on. We haven’t got all day.”
Feeling a bit dazed, we all trailed into the changing-rooms.
“We need to get away from that mad woman!” Kenny said urgently. “Is there another way out of here?”
I stopped by a door labelled:
JUNIOR CHANGING-ROOM – GIRLS
“Let’s look in here. There might be a window we can climb out of or something.”
We went in.
“Look.” Fliss pointed at five pairs of dark green shorts and five green sports shirts, hanging on pegs near the door.
“Are those our uniforms?” Lyndz asked, puzzled. “What are we supposed to be?”
“She thinks we’re ballgirls,” Fliss gasped.
“Pardon?” Rosie said.
“Ballgirls,” Fliss repeated. “You know, ballboys and ballgirls run around the courts and collect the spare tennis balls during a match.”
“What!” Lyndz squeaked anxiously. “I wouldn’t have a clue what to do!”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Kenny said urgently. She went over to the window, climbed on to the bench and tried to open it. “Oh, rats, it’s locked.”
“What are we going to do?” Rosie wailed. “She’s waiting for us outside.”
“We’ll just have to go and tell her we’re not the ballgirls,” I said.
“I’ll do it,” Kenny offered. She went over to the door, walked out and then leapt back in again. “She’s talking to Mrs Morgan!” she hissed.
We all nearly died.
“Mrs Morgan’s probably telling her all about us,” Fliss whispered.
“It’s OK,” Rosie pointed out. “She thinks we’re the ballgirls.”
“We’ll have to go along with it for the moment, until we can leg it,” Kenny said. “Come on, get changed.”
We all started taking our clothes off, and putting the ballgirls’ uniforms on. We had to do a bit of swapping around to make them fit, and even then mine was too tight, and Rosie’s shorts were too long.
“It’s OK, Mrs Morgan’s gone,” Kenny said, peering round the door. “Come on.”
“Are we really going to have to be ballgirls?” Lyndz asked.
“’Course not,” Kenny replied. “We’ll try and get away as soon as we can.”
But it wasn’t as easy as that. The woman was still waiting for us outside, and she herded us over to the courts. One of them, Court 3, was absolutely packed with people waiting for a match to start, and as we got closer, we heard the umpire talking to the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to our gala afternoon. Today we have a very special match for you. The winner of the women’s club championship last year, Barbara Browne, will be playing the winner from the previous year, Marina Warner.”
There was loud applause.
The woman with the clipboard stopped right by Court 3. “Go on, then,” she said, pushing the door open. “They’re ready to start.”
“What, here?” Kenny gasped, shooting the rest of us a panicky look. “But there’s about ten million people watching!”
“So?” The woman looked at us suspiciously. “You know what to do, don’t you? You are ballgirls. Aren’t you?”
We were all too nervous to say anything, except Fliss. For once, she didn’t panic.
“Of course we are,” she said coolly.
“Good.” The woman glanced at her clipboard. “Don’t forget that one of you has to be in charge of the scoreboard.”
Fliss nodded. “Come on, girls,” she said confidently, pushing the door open.
We trailed on to the court behind her, trying to make ourselves look as small as possible. The umpire was introducing the players to the audience, so no one was taking much notice of us.
“Look,” Fliss said urgently. “You know how to be ballgirls, don’t you?”
We all shook our heads.
“You’ve seen Wimbledon, haven’t you?” Fliss asked, beginning to look desperate.
We shook our heads again.
“OK, listen to me,” Fliss went on. “Two of us have to be at the end of the net, one on each side of it, to collect the balls that don’t go over.”
“Frankie and me can do that,” Kenny volunteered.
Fliss nodded. “Then there has to be one person at each end to pass the balls for the players to serve.”
“That sounds easy,” Rosie said hopefully. “Maybe me and Lyndz can do that.”
“All right,” Fliss agreed. “But remember, you have to do it like this.” She raised one hand high in the air, and pretended to bounce an imaginary ball towards a player. “And I’ll do the scoreboard,” she went on.
The scoreboard was in the corner, and was just a black board, with white numbers on it, a bit like a cricket scoreboard. It wasn’t an automatic one, so the numbers had to be changed by hand. Fliss went over there, and Lyndz and Rosie each went to different ends of the court. They both looked terrified. Meanwhile Kenny and I went over to the net, and hung about. The two players were busy unpacking their sports bags, and having a drink before the match began.
I nudged Kenny. “Fliss is trying to tell us something,” I said.
Fliss was pulling faces and pointing at us.
“What’s she going on about?” Kenny wanted to know.
Fliss was pointing at her knees, and bending up and down.
“Oh, I get it,” I said. Even though I used to hate tennis, I’d seen bits of Wimbledon when my mum was watching it. “She’s telling us to remember to crouch down when the match starts.”
The players were coming on to the court now, ready to warm up. Marin
a Warner went down the end where Rosie was standing, and Barbara Brown took the other end. They started knocking the ball around to each other, and practising their serves.
“Hey, Frankie, look,” Kenny whispered suddenly. “It’s the M&Ms!”
She pointed at the crowd. The M&Ms were sitting in the middle of a row near the front. They were staring at me and Kenny, their faces absolutely crimson with fury.
“They’re really annoyed,” Kenny said gleefully. “Wave at them, Frankie.”
We flapped our hands at the M&Ms, and they stared back at us, stony-faced. We’d obviously really wound them up. I bet they never dreamt we’d turn up at the club as ballgirls. Then again, neither did we!
“Do you mind!” Marina Warner came over, glaring at us. “Stop distracting me. And aren’t you supposed to be picking these balls up?”
With a bad-tempered look on her face, she pointed her racket at a ball lying by the net. We’d been so busy waving at the M&Ms, we hadn’t noticed that there was a ball waiting to be collected.
“OK, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Kenny retorted, and she strolled on to the court and picked the ball up.
“I think we’re supposed to do it a bit quicker than that!” I told her.
“What do I do now?” Kenny said, staring at the ball in her hand. “Shall I put it in my pocket or what?”
Fliss was jumping up and down by the scoreboard, trying to attract our attention as the umpire announced that the game was about to start. I squinted at her.
“I think she’s saying you roll it down the court to Lyndz,” I told Kenny.
“OK.” Kenny shrugged, and rolled the ball down to one end of the court. Unfortunately, Lyndz wasn’t looking.
“Lyndz!” Kenny hissed. “Lyndz!”
Lyndz jumped, looked down at her feet and saw the ball lying there. At last she picked it up.
“Miss Browne to serve,” said the umpire.
The whole court went quiet. Barbara Browne, who looked a whole lot nicer than grumpy Marina Fleming, turned to Lyndz, waiting for a ball to be passed to her so she could serve. Lyndz just smiled at her.
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