Moonshine. Victoria Clayton
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a forest of elders growing through the tarmac.’
‘Really?’ Good husbandry was second nature to Dickie and I could tell he was rather shocked. ‘Well, the only thing that might operate in my favour is a spell of heavy rain but a cloudless day is forecast. Before the final match everyone converges on the top lawn for wine-cup and what’s rather unattractively called a finger buffet. I feel obliged to join in as much as I can, which means consuming huge amounts of sausage rolls and clapping like billy-o. Fleur always sneaks off and I don’t blame her. But I feel that for both of us to duck out would look … well, snobbish, I suppose.’
‘You want me to make a cake?’
‘Heavens, no. There are ladies aplenty to provide scones and sausage rolls and whatnot.’
‘You want me to come and be nice to people and hand the scones round?’
‘Rather more than that, I’m afraid. The Ladyfield team is one short. I was wondering if you’d be angelic and stand in for the fellow who’s most inconsiderately having a wisdom tooth out.’
‘You want me to play?’
‘We’d all be so grateful. The secretary’s been scouring the countryside for a stand-in but so far no luck. I’d do it myself but with my leg … Somehow I feel in my bones you’re a good player.’
‘Never gamble so much as sixpence on those bones of yours. I’m extremely average and haven’t played for at least two years.’
‘Not to worry. They’re all middle-aged to elderly, I promise you. Tennis clubs are rather vieux jeu, it seems. The young of Ladyfield prefer to go to the cinema or dance themselves into a stupor on amphetamines. I know for a fact that Dinwiddie – the man who’s having his tooth extracted – is my senior by several years. It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘The only difficulty is that I’ve a friend coming to stay. I’m picking her up from the station at half past one. What time does the match start?’
‘Two-thirty.’
‘In that case I can just about make it, if you don’t mind me bringing her.’
‘Of course, of course! I’m so grateful. I always feel a responsibility to see that all goes well. Ridiculous, really, since I’m nothing to do with them. But somehow when it’s in your garden …’
‘Just don’t expect too much, that’s all.’
‘You’re a perfect angel, Bobbie dear.’
By the time I had dusted one of the spare bedrooms and made Jasmine’s favourite pudding (profiteroles), my finger had swollen a little and was red. I just had time to puncture the choux buns to let the steam out and put them on a rack to cool before driving to the station to meet the train. Jazzy was not on it. The next train from London was not for another hour. I drove home, feeling a little anxious. There was a note by the telephone in Mrs Treadgold’s writing. Your friend rang to say she is not coming. She will ring you from the Isle of White. She says a million apology’s for the change of plan.
Before leaving for the station I had dug out my tennis racquet from the cupboard beneath the stairs and found that my old tennis skirt was grey from having been washed with someone else’s socks. One of my gym shoes had a lace missing so I was obliged to tie it with a black one borrowed from Oliver. I dreaded the tournament but it was the least I could do for Dickie who had entertained me so frequently and lavishly. I had once been reserve in the school team and could usually get my second serve in. It was fortunate, I reflected heartlessly, that my opponents would be much older than me and handicapped by things like arthritis and spectacles.
Arriving at Ladyfield I was greeted on the drive by a man who must have been about sixty but whose calf muscles, below immaculate white shorts, bulged like grapefruits.
‘You must be Miss Norton.’ He shook my hand with an enthusiasm that made my cut finger throb. ‘I’m Roderick Bender, your partner for the afternoon. We do appreciate you standing in at the last moment. Our captain was in considerable pain or he’d never have let us down like this. I know he’ll be fed up at having to miss an opportunity to give the Tideswell Tigers a walloping. They’ve never beaten us yet.’
I smiled politely. ‘I’m afraid I shall be a poor substitute. I’m rather rusty.’
‘False modesty, I’m sure. Of course, no one’s expecting you to be up to Dinwiddie’s standard. He once played at Wimbledon, you know.’ Before I could mutter some excuse, get back into my car and drive rapidly away, he gripped my elbow with fingers of steel and steered me across the lawn in the direction of the courts. ‘Luckily, we’ve some time in hand before the others get here. We’ll knock up together and see what sort of game you play before we decide on our strategy.’
‘I don’t think my game’s sufficiently consistent to deserve a strategy.’
‘Come, come! No defeatist talk, now, Miss Norton. Attitude’s extremely important. We’ve got to put winning into the forefront of our brains and keep it there. Attack’s the name of the game. Think slam, think smash, think victory!’
‘Do call me Bobbie.’
‘All right. And you can call me Roddy. Here we are. We’ve drawn hard. Less finesse required than on grass but it’s an opportunity to display a bit of vim. It’ll suit your game, I hope?’
I was about to say that as far as my game went the surface was immaterial but thought better of it. There was no point in rushing to embrace disaster. Roddy made minute adjustments to the net while I changed into gym shoes. There was a delay while I struggled with the zip of my racquet cover, which had become corroded by the damp endemic to Cutham. After a minute or two Roddy left the net and came to help. He wrestled with the obstinate zip for some time before saying, rather pink in the face, ‘Dear me, this isn’t a good beginning, is it?’
I humbly agreed that it wasn’t.
‘I’ll go and see if any of the ladies have a spare you can borrow.’ There was perceptible annoyance in the tilt of Roddy’s head as he strode back to the house.
People in tennis whites began to drift in small groups across the lawn. I was delighted to see that no one was a day under sixty.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ hallooed a solidly built woman with fluffy grey curls as soon as she was in earshot. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
I looked up obediently. I was disappointed to see that there was not a raincloud in sight. ‘Lovely.’
‘I’m Peggy Mountfichet. You must be a new member.’
‘I’m Bobbie Norton. I’m just standing in for Mr Dinwiddie. He’s gone to have a tooth out.’
‘Three cheers!’ chortled Mrs Mountfichet, hurling up her racquet and failing to catch it. ‘Listen, folks,’ she carolled to her team mates. ‘Old Dinwidders isn’t playing today.’ She walked on to the court and flung off her cardigan, exposing sagging, liver-spotted arms from which I meanly took comfort. ‘Don’t think me unkind, dear, of course I’m sorry for anyone going to the dentist, but he takes it all so damned seriously you’d think we were playing for Great Britain instead of for the fun of it. This is Adrian Lightowler.’ She indicated the stooped old man behind her who seemed to be having difficulty in opening a box of new balls.
‘How do you do?’ I watched Mr Lightowler’s attempts to prise off the cellophane with palsied fingers, feeling further encouraged.
‘You’ll have to speak up, he’s terribly deaf. Nearly eighty, you know. Wonderful for his age. How extraordinary!’ Mrs Mountfichet looked about her. ‘Where’s Roddy Bender? In all the years I’ve played for Tideswell he’s always been first on the court. Makes a point of it so he can pretend we’ve kept him waiting, the old so-and-so! Typical of men, dear, really, isn’t it?’ she added to me conversationally as she exchanged her Clark’s Skips for a pair of plimsolls. ‘Such babies, hating to lose. I’ve made fifty meringues, two dozen sausage rolls and