Moonshine. Victoria Clayton
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circumstances that had made Roddy break the habit of a lifetime.
‘Don’t you worry, dear. It’s sweet of you to give up your valuable time to play with a lot of old crocks like us. Take my tip and be sure to get to the tea table early on. The meringues go in a winking. And don’t, whatever you do, have any wine-cup until after the match. Mr Lowe-Budding makes it from lemonade and pomagne but Dickie always adds a bottle of brandy when he thinks no one’s looking. He likes to jolly us up, you see; stop the men taking it so seriously. It’s quite lethal. After one glass you won’t be able to hit a thing.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’ I was really beginning to like this game old lady.
When Roddy reappeared he looked quite angry to find Mrs Mountfichet and Mr Lightowler already on the court, patting a ball gently back and forth to each other.
‘Hello, Roddy,’ she called. ‘Who’s a lucky boy then? You’ll be the envy of the other men with such a beautiful partner.’
Roddy forbore to answer. ‘This ought to be about the right weight.’ He handed me a newish-looking racquet. ‘Don’t know about the grip, though.’ It seemed to have been made for a gorilla’s paw. I could hardly close my fingers round the handle. ‘Never mind,’ continued Roddy. ‘You’ll have to make the best of it. There isn’t time to find another.’
‘Hello, Bobbie my dear.’ Dickie limped over to the umpire’s chair. He looked smart in blazer and flannels and was carrying an official-looking clipboard. ‘Lovely to see you. Let’s make a start. The others have already begun their matches.’
‘My partner and I haven’t had a chance to warm up yet,’ protested Roddy.
‘Come on, you old fusspot!’ said Mrs Mountfichet. ‘You toss and I’ll call.’
Mrs Mountfichet won the toss, to Roddy’s evident displeasure.
‘You’d better get up to the net as soon as you can,’ he muttered to me. ‘I’ll stay back.’
I prepared myself to receive Mrs Mountfichet’s serve. I repressed a smile as I saw Roddy bent double with a fiendish grin on his face, hopping from foot to foot, the silly old—Whang! The ball left Mrs Mountfichet’s racquet at something near the speed of light and raised a cloud of chalk as it bounced on the line to thwack into the netting behind my head. I had not had time to lift my racquet.
‘Sorry, dear,’ she called. ‘I don’t think you were quite ready. We’ll play that point again.’
‘Good idea,’ said Dickie breezily. ‘All right, everyone? Play!’
This time I had my racquet lifted and my eye on the ball. It struck my racquet and knocked it clean from my hand, hurting my cut finger considerably.
‘Sorry!’ Mrs Mountfichet looked concerned. ‘Do you want to play that point one more time?’
‘For heaven’s sake, let’s get on,’ snapped Roddy.
‘Fifteen, love,’ called Dickie.
Mrs Mountfichet changed sides and served to Roddy. He smacked it smartly back over the net and a pounding rally began during which he and Mrs Mountfichet whirled like dervishes and Mr Lightowler, standing at the net, volleyed like a champion without moving below the waist. The rally ended when I managed to hit the ball properly for the first time, unfortunately straight into the net.
‘Thirty, love,’ called Dickie with a suggestion of sympathy in his voice.
‘Watch out for the top-spin Mountfichet always puts on her serve,’ growled Roddy to me as I bent and grimaced into the sun.
I had no idea what to do about top-spin even if I recognized it. The ball skimmed the net by a millimetre and bounced short. I gave it a wallop. Somehow it came into contact with the wood and shot off sideways.
‘Forty, love.’ Dickie’s voice was so sympathetic he sounded on the point of bursting into tears.
Mrs Mountfichet served to Roddy. He returned it with a punishing backhand, slicing it across court at a impossible angle, but Mr Lightowler stretched forth a sinewy arm and just popped it over the net.
‘Yours!’ bawled Roddy.
I rushed forward and in my enthusiasm scooped up a spoon’s worth of fine gravel, flinging it straight into Mr Lightowler’s rheumy old eyes.
‘Game,’ Dickie almost whispered as we all converged to offer handkerchiefs.
Mrs Mountfichet fished and poked and prodded about in Mr Lightowler’s eyes with ruthless efficiency until his sight was more or less restored. After that, every time I caught sight of his scarlet eyeballs blinking at me over the net, I felt a stab of guilt. None the less he managed to return every shot that came his way with tactical brilliance.
We had gathered quite a crowd of spectators now, who applauded almost every point and maintained a polite silence whenever I bungled a return. Roddy contrived to hang on to his serve by spinning about the court as though under attack from bees, intercepting any ball that was directed towards me. I was vastly encouraged when I managed to return one of Mr Lightowler’s rather feeble serves, sending it down the line between our opponents. There was a storm of applause quite out of proportion to the skill of the shot. I felt bucked to discover that I had the sympathy of the crowd.
That, as it turned out, was my only moment of glory, but I did manage after that to whack the ball back over the net a few times only to see it driven practically through the tarmac by Mrs Mountfichet or directed cleverly just out of my reach by Mr Lightowler. They won the first set 6–2, owing to me losing both my service games.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said to Roddy as we changed ends. ‘I hadn’t realized you were all so good or I’d never have agreed to play.’
‘It’s too late to think of that now,’ said Roddy, rather ungraciously I thought. ‘It’ll be better if you stay back. Try to get the baseline shots and I’ll cover the rest of the court.’
We got on better with this method and actually got to thirty all during my service game. Mr Lightowler sent up a high lob. Skipping energetically backwards to be sure of getting it, I slipped on the loose gravel and fell hard, grazing my elbow. The ball bounced two inches inside the baseline and, to add injury to insult, struck me on the chest. There was a murmur of concern from the spectators and a burst of laughter from several of the children so I could be certain I had looked a complete fool. Roddy bared his teeth at me.
I was tempted to throw down my racquet and walk off in a huff but a glance at Dickie’s anxious face restored me to my senses.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ I said in answer to his enquiry. ‘Not a bit hurt.’
‘Thirty, forty,’ he murmured kindly.
My elbow was now throbbing every bit as painfully as my finger. I had a moment of mild success when I returned one of Peggy’s ballistic backhand passes, though the impact jarred my arm from my wrist to my shoulder. I was running forward with a renewal of confidence to tackle what looked to be a fairly easy drop volley when Roddy yelled, ‘Mine!’ but just too late. My outflung racquet collided with his prow of a nose. He gave a howl of pain as the ball flew unhindered into the tramlines.
‘Game.’
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I said.
There was another flourishing of handkerchiefs. Poor Roddy’s nose splashed his snow-white shirt with scarlet and the concerted mopping seemed to make it worse. A key was requested from the crowd and put down Roddy’s shirt but did no good.
‘Pinch his nostrils,’ suggested Dickie.
‘Ow-how!’ protested Roddy as Mrs Mountfichet almost twisted his nose off his face.
After ten minutes of copious bloodshed it was agreed that he should go and lie down with an ice-pack.
‘I’m so terribly sorry …’ I began but Roddy