The Tennis Player from Bermuda (31 page)

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.”

S
ATURDAY
, 7 J
ULY
1962
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

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 had 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 doors to Centre Court swung open and sunlight suddenly flooded the small waiting room.

Claire called, “Fiona?”

I turned to look at her. “Yes?”

“Let’s give them a final they’ll
never
forget.”

“Definitely, Claire.”

I walked out into the brilliant sunshine on Centre Court. Two people – Mother and Father – cheered for me. Even the Australians were waiting for Claire. When she walked out on the grass, the crowd roared and stood to applaud her. We turned together and dipped our knees for the Royal Box.

Minutes later, Mr Watson, the chair umpire, pulled the microphone over, turned to Claire, and said, “Mrs Kershaw, are you ready?”

Claire, confident and relaxed, called back, “Ready.”

He turned to me. “Miss Hodgkin, are you ready?”

My heart was in my throat. “Ready.”

Mr Watson picked up his stopwatch. “Mrs Kershaw to serve. Play.”

P
ART
T
HREE
–

CENTRE COURT

S
ATURDAY
, 7 J
ULY
1962
T
WO
O’
CLOCK
I
N
T
HE
A
FTERNOON
P
RECISELY
C
ENTRE
C
OURT
– F
IRST
S
ET

Traditionally, the spectators on Centre Court tend to cheer for the older player, especially when the older player is popular. The younger player will have plenty of chances to win. The older player? Perhaps no more chances.

And Claire wasn’t just popular. She was beautiful, and her face might as well have had ‘Made In England’ stamped on it. She was a perfect sport: whenever her opponent made a remarkable shot, Claire would raise the face of her racket into the air and tap the strings lightly with her fingertips in appreciation. Claire could make this simple gesture elegant. She never challenged line calls, but if her opponent challenged and there was even the slightest question about the correctness of the call, Claire would simply raise her racket in the air – meaning that she conceded the point.

The loss of even an important point was nothing compared to the roar of approval Claire would get from an English crowd. People would turn to one another and say, “That’s our Claire!”

Before she was married, Claire had the incredible knack of saying to the press things that were just outrageous enough to make everyone chuckle and say, “That Claire!” but never outrageous enough to make anyone say, “Our Claire shouldn’t have said that.”

And then she married Richard at St. Margaret’s in Westminster. The wedding photograph that was in all the newspapers showed Claire, stunning in Teddy Tinling’s offthe-shoulder white gown with her silver hair swept up, pale blue eyes looking straight at the camera, and her usual impish grin, as though she’d just pulled off a piece of mischief. Richard, handsome in a morning coat, his head cocked to one side, holding an empty Waterford champagne flute in one hand, had her hand in his. Once she was married, she stopped talking to the press.

Popular? The English crowds
loved
her.

Her first serve went straight past me.

Claire held her serve in the first game; I won only a single point. Worse, in the second game, she broke my service at 15-game. In two games, I had won only two points. I was terrified. Probably Claire would defeat me in just 30 minutes. Claire was relaxed and in her element. She was hitting perfect passing shots effortlessly. After breaking me, she held her service again in the third game, although at least I made it to game-30.

I served in the fourth game with Claire ahead 3-love. I began to steady myself, just a bit, and got the score to 30-15. I served and headed for the net. Claire returned my serve straight down the line. I lunged with my backhand but only managed to get the top rim of my racket on the ball, making it ricochet off into the stands. I was too far out over my feet, and I fell to the grass.