Confessions of a Physical Wrac. Rosie Dixon
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whether he is expressing interest or accusing me of trespassing. He keeps swishing his racket at any daisy that dares to raise its head above grass level and has a permanently preoccupied expression on his face.
‘Rosie Dixon,’ I say. ‘I’m a friend of Geoffrey’s.’
‘Left me to pick up the balls as usual,’ says Tharge, suddenly leaping into the air and bringing down a shower of laburnum leaves with a crudely executed smash. ‘I was having a lot of trouble with my backhand today.’
‘Really,’ I say, thinking that I had better go and join Geoffrey and Penny before they wonder what has happened to me.
‘Yes, I never seem to get my whole game together at the same time. How I won the club championship, I’ll never know. I could hardly put a couple of decent shots together. Everybody else was in the same boat, I suppose.’
‘I expect they must have been,’ I say. ‘Well –’
‘Let me buy you a drink,’ says Tharge, throwing up a ball and serving it viciously through the window of the small hut where they keep all the broken deckchairs. ‘Ooops – sorry. Need to get this old fellow restrung, you know. That’s another problem, choosing which racket to use. I always think it’s a question of how they come to the hand. What’s your poison?’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘But I think my friends have probably bought me a drink.’
In fact Geoffrey has not bought me a drink. He and Penny are thick as thieves in a corner choosing which of the Jimmy Shand records to put on when the dancing starts. I might as well leave them to it, I suppose. After all, I am going to need a bridesmaid – or is Penny too old to be a bridesmaid? Perhaps she will have to be a maid of honour. I must ask someone about it.
‘Going to change your mind?’ says Tharge, who has once again loomed up at my elbow. ‘I’m just going to have a lime and lemonade myself. I never drink anything intoxicating directly after a match.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, not wishing to appear rude. ‘A Babycham would be nice.’ I waggle my fingers at Geoffrey but he does not appear to see me.
‘I had a bit of trouble with my throw up recently,’ says Derek as he steers me towards one of the foam-rubber-disgorging, torn moquette-covered benches that surround the room.
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘Not the chipolatas again?’ There was once an unpleasant outbreak of food poisoning after a club barbecue and I imagine that it is something of this nature that Derek is referring to.
‘Couldn’t synchronise my arm movements at all,’ continues my companion. ‘It’s terrible when that happens. Your whole game goes to pieces. Ken Rosewall says that if you’re not getting your first service in eighty per cent of the time then you’ve got big problems, cobber – or it might have been Rod Laver. No, wait a moment –’
The club is beginning to fill up a bit now and the first record goes down on the turntable. Nat King Cole. It seems only yesterday that Geoffrey held me tight in his arms and we drifted round the floor, impervious to all that was happening about us – at least, I was. Somebody had put something in the punch. I wish Geoffrey would ask me to dance now. It really is a bit naughty of him to spend all that time with Penny. And why are they wandering out on to the verandah?
‘… so I painted numbered squares all over the garage door.’ Derek Tharge’s voice drones on beside me. ‘Every day I go out there with a racket and a few balls and I shout out numbers to myself. Whatever number I shout, I have to hit the ball against that square. That’s something I learned from Lew Hoad. He used to do it when he was a kid.’
‘I believe most children do,’ I say, trying to look out on to the terrace. ‘I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.’
‘Or was it Frank Sedgeman?’ says Tharge. ‘You know, I think it might have been Spancho Gonzalez. Completely different continent. Amazing to think that he never won Wimbledon, isn’t it?’
I don’t answer because I am now beginning to get worried about Geoffrey and Penny. What are they up to? Is it possible that they have formed some kind of attachment to each other? It hardly seems credible yet I know that Penny has consummated relationships with amazing speed in the past and that Geoffrey is very easily led astray. If he joined her in a large gin and tonic anything might be happening.
‘I’m not much of a dancer. Would you like to step outside?’
‘Thank you. Later.’ I say, not really listening to what he is saying.
‘I could show you the exercise I use for developing my wrists.’
‘Wonderful,’ I say. ‘Will you excuse me a minute? I must…’
I let my voice die away discreetly and move towards the door with ‘Dames’ on it – a memento of a reciprocal exchange visit with a French tennis club that was never reciprocated. A quick glance towards Tharge tells me that he has his nose in his lime and lemon so I veer left sharply and head out on to the verandah. Dusk is falling and I am disturbed to find that there is no sign of Geoffrey and Penny. I glance towards the courts. Perhaps they have gone to look for Geoffrey’s balls? No, they couldn’t have. Derek Tharge was grumbling about the fact that he had to bring them in.
I am about to turn back when I hear a noise. At first it is difficult to place but then it reminds me of someone pouring water over a cabbage leaf. I stick my head round the corner of the verandah and am met with the unpleasant sight of Mr Westbury, the club treasurer, responding to a call of nature.
‘Ooops,’ he says, clearly causing himself some discomfort in his attempt to take evasive action. ‘Didn’t know there were any ladies about.’
I cannot think of an appropriate response to this statement so I turn on my heel with the intention of going back into the clubhouse. Perhaps Penny has gone into the Ladies without me noticing.
I have taken half a dozen steps when my attention is attracted by another noise. It is that of a sharp intake of breath – more a gasp, in fact – and it comes from male lips. I notice that the light is on behind the frosted glass windows of the small room where the tea urn is kept and visiting ladies’ teams sometimes change. As my blood freezes, I hear Penny’s voice.
‘Sorry, I was trying to be gentle.’
‘Oh you were – I mean, you are.’ Geoffrey’s voice sounds on edge. What are they doing? Surely they couldn’t be – No! The thought is too awful.
‘Which way do you want me to stick it?’
‘I don’t mind. I’m in your hands.’
‘Up, I think. Hold on a minute, I’ll just peel the end back. Now, here we go. Gently does it. How does that feel?’
My senses reel and for a moment I think I am going to faint. Can this be true? My best friend and – and my fiancé!
‘Lovely. You put something on it, didn’t you?’
‘Just a dab of Germolene to be on the safe side.’
How cold-blooded can you get? The shameless hussy! I take a stride towards the door intending to expose them in ‘fragrantly delicious’, or whatever it is called, but I control myself. In my present mood I cannot be responsible for what might happen if I got my hands on Penny. There is a tray of knives and forks beside the plastic beakers in the tea-room and if I snatched one of them up –! Who knows? They are plastic, too, but you can do yourself a nasty injury nonetheless. I remember when Geoffrey was trying to prise open a rusty racket press with one of them and it – Geoffrey! How could you do this to me? I don’t know whether I shout the words aloud because I am concentrating on holding back the hot scalding tears. I rush back into the clubhouse and try and pull myself together in the Ladies. There is no point in me staying here any longer. I will go home and Penny can do what she likes. No doubt Geoffrey will bring her back when – when they’ve finished.
Through the flimsy plywood door I hear the haunting strains