Moonshine. Victoria Clayton
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hung my head.
‘Damn shame,’ said Mr Lightowler. ‘I was just warming up.’
Dickie turned to address the audience. ‘Perhaps someone would be good enough to stand in for Mr Bender. Just for a few games until the bleeding stops.’
‘Good idea!’ seconded Mrs Mountfichet. ‘Come on, somebody,’ she urged the watching crowd. ‘Be a sport! It’s only a bit of fun.’
The spectators blenched and shook their heads.
‘I will,’ said a voice from the crowd.
I experienced a frisson of horror as Burgo stepped on to the court. He was wearing white duck trousers, a red shirt that had faded to pink and his ancient espadrilles. On his face was an expression of great good humour. He had told me that he had meetings all day. Had I not been absolutely sure that he would be in London I would never have agreed to come to Ladyfield. I wondered how much he had witnessed of the exhibition I had made of myself. He must have seen me flat on my back in the dust.
‘A round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, for our Member of Parliament, Mr Burgo Latimer,’ said Dickie.
The crowd clapped and whistled, delighted that their entertainment was not to be cut short. I debated whether to faint or run away. Burgo was going to leap athletically round the court like a knight errant, demolishing the opposition, saving the day and completing my humiliation. Little did he know, I thought with savage satisfaction, that there was nothing I disliked so much as a show-off.
‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly as he strolled over to me, twirling Roddy’s discarded racquet with a careless assurance. ‘You seemed to be having such a good time that I couldn’t resist the call to arms.’
‘I suppose you’re going to make mincemeat of all of us.’
‘Hardly that. I haven’t played for at least ten years. I can barely remember the rules. But it seems a pity for the match to fizzle out.’
I smiled coolly. At least it was an opportunity to impress the voters so his time would not be entirely wasted.
‘Play!’ called Dickie.
Mr Lightowler flipped a gentle serve over the net. Burgo hit it so far into the air that we all peered for what seemed like minutes into the sky until our eyes watered.
‘I think it’s gone into orbit,’ giggled Mrs Mountfichet.
‘Ouch!’ Dickie rubbed his skull. ‘Fifteen, love.’
Mr Lightowler served again. I slammed it back. It came flying over the net and Burgo took a swipe at it, missed, pirouetted on the spot, ran backwards, picked it up on the rim of his racquet and hurled it over the wire netting where it fell into the cheering crowd.
‘Thirty, love.’
‘Sorry,’ Burgo said easily. ‘I did warn you.’
After that I managed to place a few unremarkable shots and Burgo got in a spectacularly good return by what was clearly a fluke. He had a way of running up to the ball, seeming to hesitate and then either rescuing the point with extraordinary brilliance or losing it with such spectacular ineptitude that I became suspicious. Whether he hit it in or out the spectators began to enjoy themselves so much that they reached a state in which they found everything funny. The prevailing good humour was irresistible. Soon I was giggling helplessly. Mrs Mountfichet and Mr Lightowler made stern attempts to control themselves but that only made us laugh more. In the end they stopped playing seriously themselves, to the detraction of their game.
The match ran swiftly on to a final score of 6–2, 6–1, 6–3. The crowd revelled in it. That a Member of Parliament, an important man in the county, whose name was frequently in the newspapers, was prepared to make a cake of himself to save their tennis party was a marvellous thing and they loved him for it. When he came off the court they would willingly have carried him shoulder-high through the streets, had it been at all convenient.
The players and spectators converged on the tea table with enthusiasm to devour sandwiches, sausage rolls, cream horns, brandy snaps, meringues, plum cake, gingerbread and eclairs. I found I was extremely thirsty. The tea, stewing in a giant aluminium pot, was brown and bitter. I was no longer required as a player so I had a glass of wine-cup. Though it was the colour of marsh water with a flotsam of rapidly bruising fruit, it was refreshing, so I had a second. I felt suddenly light-headed and a little dizzy and resolved that it should be my last. Roddy Bender, his nose swollen and purple like an exotic fruit, loomed into view. By mutual consent we pretended not to have seen each other.
‘I’ve saved you one of my specials.’ Mrs Mountfichet handed me a plate on which two meringue halves were held together by cream and raspberries. ‘You were a thoroughly good sport, dear. You mustn’t worry about Roddy. Do him good to have his nose put out of joint.’ She laughed heartily at her own joke. ‘He’s so competitive. Mr Latimer was a breath of fresh air.’
I looked across the lawn to where Burgo stood, surrounded by adoring women who were insisting he try their own particular contribution to the banquet. I saw he was charming them like birds to his hand. He looked both handsome and intelligent, a rare combination. His pale hair, slightly disordered after the game, and dégagé appearance contributed to a panache that made him extremely attractive. He seemed to have a sort of glow about him that had nothing to do with sunburn. It was the magnetism of complete self-assurance. I tore my thoughts away with difficulty and fastened them on what Mrs Mountfichet was telling me about her Clematis viticella ‘Purpurea plena elegans’.
‘Pruning group three, dear. Savage it in February. It’s the only way to stop it flowering in a horrid tangle at the top.’
‘I’ll be certain to do that.’
‘I doubt it, dear. You haven’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you?’ She leaned closer and said, almost in my ear, ‘He’s very good-looking. If I were twenty years younger I think I’d be ready to throw my cap over the windmill. And Mr Mountfichet after it. But no doubt I’d be sorry later. A man with two women eager to tend to his needs is rather too comfortably circumstanced for his own good. Certainly for anyone else’s.’
‘Have some wine-cup, Mrs Mountfichet?’ Burgo was beside us, holding a jug. ‘Not exactly the milk of paradise but it has quite a kick.’ He filled my glass despite my murmurs of protest.
Mrs Mountfichet shook her curls. ‘Not for me, thanks. I’ve got to play again, thanks to you. You can crown the occasion by drawing the raffle if you’d be so kind. I’ll just go and check that they’ve sold all the tickets.’ She marched off.
‘You’ve made a hit,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose that was all put on, was it? Being hopeless at tennis, I mean.’
Burgo looked injured. ‘What do you mean, hopeless? I thought I played rather better than usual.’
‘Remember, a liar needs a good memory.’
‘You’ve got cream on your chin.’
I had to have recourse to the back of my hand, my handkerchief having been saturated with Roddy’s blood.
‘It’s all over your cheek now,’ said Burgo. ‘Here, let me.’
He took a spotted bandanna from his pocket and dabbed at my chin with it. Something extraordinary happened to my knees. A second that seemed like an age passed before I looked down at my glass and drank its contents in three swallows.
Mrs Mountfichet was back. ‘Come with me, Mr Latimer, and we’ll do the draw now. Perhaps a little speech?’
While Burgo was encircled by the crowd I wandered about its perimeter and had another glass of wine-cup. How they lapped up his words and laughed at his jokes! I tried to listen to what he was saying but my mind fragmented, soared and swooped uncontrollably. The sun had ceased to scorch but gusts of heat rose from the parched turf and Dickie’s beloved roses hung their heads, longing for the cool of evening.
‘Hello, Bobbie.’