An Ocean Apart

by Robin Pilcher

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Molly said quietly, and everyone turned to look at her.

  “Now why would you say that, Moll?” Sam asked in a surprised voice.

  Molly smiled. “Let’s just say that he had a hand in turning my game around during that last match.”

  Russ looked at Jennifer. “Well?”

  She shook her head. “Okay, Benji, you win! Go and ask him.”

  And with a whoop of joy, Benji ran off round the side of the court to fetch David.

  Dodie, who had been sniffing around the pine-trees next to the shore of the bay, let out a short bark as she saw Benji approach, and ran past David at a gallop to greet him. David looked up from his work. “Hi! How are you getting on?”

  “Great!—David?”

  “Where’s your father? I thought you were going to introduce me to him?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Benji said in a disheartened voice. “He had to go off to work.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe I’ll meet him next time.”

  “Yeah—but, David?”

  “What?”

  “Russ usually plays Dad at tennis, and Dad’s gone now.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Yeah—but Russ … well … David, would you play Russ?”

  David pushed himself off his knees and stood up, and glanced to the other end of the court where everyone was looking in his direction. He turned back to Benji. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well—for a start, I’m not wearing any of the right clothes.”

  “You can play in those, can’t you?”

  “Well, then, I don’t have any shoes.”

  “You’re wearing shoes!”

  “I know, but—well, I don’t think I should, Benji. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Mom says it would be all right. Please, David, I think she wants you to, otherwise she’ll have to listen to Russ grumbling all afternoon!”

  David smiled at him and, after a moment’s thought, nodded slowly. “Why not?”

  Benji’s face lit up. “You mean you’ll play?”

  “Yeah, if your mother doesn’t mind.”

  Benji let out another whoop. “He’s going to play you, Russ! He says he’s going to play you!” He grabbed hold of David’s hand and began pulling him as fast as he could around the side netting of the court.

  Jennifer got to her feet and walked a few paces towards the corner of the court to meet them.

  “I’m sorry about this, David. I hope you don’t mind. It was Benji’s idea.”

  “Yeah, I guessed that. Look, I’m afraid that I don’t have proper shoes to wear.”

  “I told him that the shoes he’s wearing would be okay, Mom,” Benji cut in, still holding on to David’s hand. “Dad’s would be too small for him.”

  “I expect they would be.” She looked down at David’s battered pair of boating shoes. “They’ll do fine, David.” She turned and started to move back to the others. “Well, come on, you’d better meet your opponent.”

  Jennifer introduced David to Russ and the rest of the assembled company, Molly giving him the biggest smile as she shook his hand. Gerry jumped up from his chair and spun his racket round in his hand, offering it, handle first, to David.

  “You’ll be needing a weapon.”

  David bent down and cleaned his hands by rubbing them hard on the grass, then took the racket with a smile. “Thanks.” He turned to look onto the court, where Russ was already hitting booming and faultless practice serves down to the far end. “Well, I’d better go and start doing battle.”

  After a brief knock-up, during which Russ had David running from one side of the court to the other in order to gauge the weaknesses of his new opponent, Russ felt confident enough in his appraisal of David’s game to knock all the balls down to his end.

  “Okay, we won’t toss. You just serve.” He walked over to the forehand court, giving Jennifer a smile and a wink before settling himself in readiness for the first ball of the match.

  He made no contact with the serve at all. Not with the racket at any rate. The ball came over the net like a bullet, swinging straight in towards his body. The spin kicked it up viciously from the service line causing Russ to throw his head to the side to avoid being hit in the eye, and the ball struck him with a resounding thwack just above the left cheek-bone. There was a gasp from the spectators, followed by a muffled grunt of pleasure from Sam and a much less subtle yell of joy from Benji.

  “Shit!” Russ exclaimed, standing stock-still and looking down the court at David.

  He held up his hand in apology. “Sorry about that!”

  Rubbing at his painful cheek, Russ made his way slowly across to the backhand court, and, giving his racket one quick spin in his hand, he readied himself for the next serve.

  This time, the ball slammed down into the backhand corner of the service box, without a trace of the spin that had been put on the first serve. Having expected it to slew back in towards him once more, Russ found himself having to lunge sideways to try to reach it, doing so with such force that he continued on into the side netting. Dropping his racket, he spread-eagled his hands against it to prevent his face from being shredded through the wire.

  As he turned to pick up his racket, there was a silence from the audience, save for a few throats being cleared. He walked back to the forehand court, glancing at Jennifer as he went.

  “Where the hell’s this guy from?” he whispered to her out the side of his mouth.

  “Scotland,” Jennifer said quietly.

  “Hey! I didn’t even know they played tennis there!”

  He whacked at the soles of his shoes with his racket, more to vent his anger than for any constructive purpose, and once more settled himself down to face both the power of David’s serve and the ignominy of his task.

  By the time that four games had been played, Russ realized that he was no match for his opponent, never once being able to premeditate what he was going to do. If he powered a serve down towards him, David would take all the speed off the ball and plant it at such an angle across the net that Russ was invariably left stranded somewhere in the middle of the court. If he relied on his slower spin serve, then David would come in like an express train to hit the ball so early that it would be thumping hard against the back netting before he’d even had the chance to move off the baseline. Swearing in frustration to himself at being four games down and avoiding now the looks of the hushed spectators, he hit the balls hard down to David’s end to prepare himself for the coup de grace.

  At that point, things started to go very wrong with David’s game. Serves began to go inches wide or whack against the white tape of the net, and his returns either ballooned over the baseline or hit the side of the racket and skidded off to the edge of the court. Russ, encouraged by his sudden change in fortune, began to play once more to his audience, winking at them when he managed to win a point, or yelling out “Yes!” every time that David double-faulted. Within twenty minutes, Russ was poised at match point, victory and vindication for his earlier inabilities within his grasp. He swung a service down to the backhand court, and David, moving to the wrong side, missed the ball completely. Russ threw his racket in the air and ran to the net, and stood with his hand outstretched, happy to end the match at that point. David approached him and grasped his hand.

  “Well played, Russ, that was good fun.”

  “Yup, good game. Damned lucky I began to read your game right. I thought you had me there for a minute.”

  They both walked off court to applause and many congratulatory comments on the standard and enthralment of the game. Benji, however, approached David with a profound look of disappointment on his face.

  “We thought you were going to beat him, David, but you started to play like me!”

  David laughed. “That’s what happens in tennis, Benji. Things go right for a time, and then suddenly, whoosh! everything goes wrong.”

  Russ threw
his racket on the ground and went over to the icebox and took out a beer. “Do you want one, David?”

  “No, thanks. That’s very kind, but if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just finish off what I was doing.”

  “You won’t go brooding on defeat now, will you?” Russ said, flipping off the bottle-top and taking a mouthful of beer. “It was pretty evenly matched throughout.”

  “No, I won’t do that.”

  Jennifer looked up at him from her chair. “You really don’t have to go back to work, David.”

  “Well, actually, I do. I really need to get the rest of those shrubs in by this evening, otherwise there’s every chance they won’t last.”

  “Okay—but thanks again for giving Russ a game.”

  David nodded, then walked back around the court to continue his work in the flower-bed.

  By five o’clock, the final shrub was in place. He gave each of the new plants a final watering, then, gathering up his tools, he made his way back around the side of the court, giving Dodie a whistle as he went. There was no one left at the summer-house, the tennis party having finished an hour before.

  As he reached the corner of the hedge, Jennifer appeared around it, accompanied by Gerry. They stopped as he walked towards them.

  “All done?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yeah, they’re all in.”

  Jennifer smiled. “David, I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced to this mad Irishman, Gerry Reilly.”

  David stepped forward, and transferring his tools to one hand, stretched out the other. “Hullo, Gerry, pleased to meet you.”

  “David,” Jennifer continued, “Gerry has a recording studio here in Leesport, and he’s just had a … what is it again?”

  “A new mixing console.”

  “Right—well, he’s just had a new mixing console delivered, and he can’t manage it into his studio by himself, so he was wondering if you might be able to give him a hand. That is, if you haven’t got any other plans.”

  “No, I’d be delighted. I’ve got nothing at all on this evening.”

  “Oh, that would be great, David!” Gerry said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s just that I’ve got to get it ready for this group coming in tomorrow, and I’d be struggling by myself. Look, I’ll go and get my things from the house and meet you round at the back. Have you got a car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, so you can just follow me. Are you sure this is no imposition?”

  “Not at all. As I said, I’m doing nothing else.”

  “Great—well, see you at the cars, then!” He turned and ran back up the steps onto the terrace and disappeared into the house.

  Jennifer made a move to follow him, then stopped and turned back to David. “You could have beaten him, couldn’t you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Come on, you know what I mean. You could have beaten Russ, couldn’t you?”

  David smiled and began to waggle his head from one side to the other. “Well … maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Well, I just thought that it might not be, erm…”

  “Diplomatic?”

  “Yeah, that sort of thing.”

  Jennifer flicked at a piece of grass with the toe of her tennis shoe. “Well, it’s totally un-American, but nevertheless a very kind thing to do. My life would’ve been hell on Monday morning if Russ had lost.”

  David nodded. “Yes, well, I guessed he might not take it in the best spirit.”

  Jennifer laughed quietly. “You guessed right.” She folded her arms and once again looked down at her feet as she smoothed over the grass with her shoe. “Well … I suppose I’ll see you next week then.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  She turned and made her way back to the steps, and David watched her as she stretched her long legs out to take them effortlessly two at a time. Then, giving Dodie a whistle, he set off across the lawn towards the garden shed.

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  It was apparent from the outset that Jennifer’s “mad Irishman” description of Gerry Reilly could not have been more apt. As David sat in convoy behind Gerry’s ageing Maserati at the top of Barker Lane, Gerry suddenly pulled out into a non-existent gap in the traffic, causing a Chevrolet pick-up truck to slew dangerously to the side of the road and the driver to thump the heel of his hand on the horn. He then put his foot down so hard on the accelerator that smoke belched from its squealing tyres, and by the time David eventually managed to turn out himself, the car was a mere speck of red at the far end of the main street. Consequently, David found himself having to drive the Volkswagen harder and faster than it probably had ever been driven before in his vain attempt to catch up.

  Two miles east of Leesport, David had practically given up all hope of ever seeing Gerry or the Maserati again, but racing round a tight right-hand corner, he came across the car parked at the side of the road, and he reckoned that it had probably been just good fortune that Gerry had actually looked in his rear-view mirror and realized that there was no sign of the Volkswagen. As he slowed, Gerry took off again, this time at a more gentle pace, and within one hundred yards he signalled to the right and pulled off the road. David followed him down an overgrown and rutted driveway, eventually coming to a halt outside a large weather-beaten barn. Gerry jumped out of his car and came round to open up David’s door.

  “This is very kind of you, David. I had a go at putting the console in myself last night, but just about did in my back and the bloody equipment at the same time!”

  David got out and pulled up the top without securing it in order to prevent Dodie from jumping out, and followed Gerry towards the double doors at the front of the barn.

  “Two of us should manage fine, though. It’s just a question of slotting the new one in and connecting up.”

  He unlocked the small door that was set into one of the larger ones, and ushered David inside.

  The front half of the barn had been converted into a huge open-plan room, the centre of which was adorned with a clutter of old sofas and chairs gathered round a large rough-hewn oak table. To one side, a kitchen stretched along the wall, separated from the sitting-room by a long breakfast bar, while the dining area was tucked away at the back of the room underneath a balustraded upper deck, upon which David could just make out the top of an enormous double bed. The whole place smelt strongly of old cigarette smoke and beer, as if it had been the scene of a wild party the night before.

  Gerry went over to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer, and levering off the tops with the handle of a spoon, held one out to David.

  “No use getting hot and bothered over the task, is there?”

  He took a swig from his bottle and gestured with his hand for David to follow. He walked over to a door behind the dining-table and pulled it open, then pushed open a further door and flicked on a bank of switches, flooding light into the recording studio. It was only half the height and three quarters of the width of the living area, the front part being divided from the smaller back section by a soundproof wall, in the centre of which was a large double-glazed viewing window. The room that they stood in was filled with musical equipment: two keyboards, a set of drums and a variety of guitars haphazardly strewn about on metal floor-stands, each of these being connected to a large input box below the viewing window by an entanglement of leads.

  Through the window, two large Anglepoise lamps cast a speakeasy light over the gaping hole in the middle of the desk.

  “Sorry about the mess everywhere,” Gerry said, picking his way through the equipment. “The boys were in rehearsing last night, and didn’t leave till about three this morning. They’re not what you call very house-proud.”

  David followed Gerry’s path through the instruments. “What kind of recording do you do?”

  Gerry laughed. “Anything that makes a bit of money. Generally groups, but we do a few jingles for radio stations and the like, just to fill in the downtime.” He held open the two d
oors that led into the control room. “That’s how I met Jennifer, actually. I’ve done a couple of things for her company over the past year.”

  He walked over to the corner of the room and carefully pulled away a dust-sheet to reveal the new mixing console. “There she blows.” He stood back to admire it. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

  David nodded, not really knowing if she was a beauty or not, but reckoning that if looks were dependent on the number of knobs and LCD screens that this machine had, then it certainly would be worth a wolf whistle or two.

  “Right, David,” Gerry said, squeezing his way in behind the console and edging it out from the wall. “If you could just get your hands in below, we’ll get it up into its place.”

  David rid himself of his bottle of beer and bent down and levered up the console, and with a few manoeuvres around the room to get into the right position, they slotted it down on the desk.

  “That’s it! Perfect! Thanks a lot, David.” He walked round to the back of the desk and picked up a handful of leads. “Now all I have to do is get all these bloody wires stuck into the right holes.”

  Retrieving his beer, David leaned against the ledge on the viewing window and watched as Gerry began pushing jack-plugs into their corresponding ports. “So, is it all different types of music that you produce?”

  “Yeah, suppose so. I mean, I’m lucky enough to have been in the business for some time now, so I get groups seeking me out to produce for them. That’s really why I moved out here to Leesport.” He grinned at David. “Actually, to blow my own trumpet a bit, I’ve come to be known as the Pied Piper in the trade, seeing that I’m luring all the groups out here away from the studios in the city!”

  “Seems a pretty good position to be in. Where were you beforehand?”

  “I had a small place in the Village, but it just got too expensive, so I bought this place about a year ago. I thought at first it might be a bit of a white elephant, because I found out after I’d bought it that no insurance company would cover me for putting all this equipment into a wooden building.” He gestured with his hand around the room. “So I had to brick up the bloody lot in the inside. That’s why it’s so much smaller than the other part of the barn, that and the soundproofing, of course. It cost me an arm and a leg, I can tell you.”