Confessions of a Physical Wrac. Rosie Dixon
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from the final of the mixed doubles making him and Althea Hodge the champions. It wasn’t much of a victory because only three couples entered and Geoffrey and Althea had a bye in the first and only round but it had seemed a triumph at the time. Now, bitterness and a new insight into Geoffrey’s character helps me to put it in its true perspective. I take a deep breath, stand up, unlock the door and go out to meet the combined glare of the four girls who have been waiting outside the cubicle. I glare back. They can all go and hang themselves as far as I am concerned. I am never coming back to the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club as long as I live. Tinny dump.
I leave the Ladies and push past the couples on the now crowded dance floor. They are not dancing because the record has stuck. ‘Alone, alone, alone, alone –’ How symbolic. I sweep through the open door and welcome the enveloping darkness.
‘Hey! You’re not going, are you? I’ve just got you another drink.’ Derek Tharge looms up behind me holding a half empty Babycham glass. ‘I’ve spilled most of it now. That’s fifteen p down the drain.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I came over a little faint. It was rather hot in there.’
‘You want to put your head between your legs,’ says Tharge. ‘That’s what I always do. Take a few deep breaths while you’re down there.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to be the answer,’ I say.
‘Maybe you ought to loosen some of your clothing,’ says Derek. ‘You’re not wearing tights, are you?’
‘No,’ I say. In fact I am wearing one of the few suspender belts that I have managed to rescue from Natalie’s thieving fingers. I have a nasty suspicion that she wears them to make herself more sexy when she goes out with her disgusting little boyfriends. I must talk to Mum about her.
‘Good. They’re very unhealthy, you know. I read an article about it.’
‘Really,’ I say. ‘Well, thank you for –’
‘What do you wear?’
This question coming completely out of the blue rather throws me as does the sudden pressure of Derek’s hand on my elbow. We are walking along the line of dwarf conifers that lead from the courts to the road and I had thought that Derek was escorting me to the gate. Am I now to believe that his horizons extend beyond the two lines that border the edge of a tennis court?
‘That’s an unusual question,’ I say.
Derek tightens his grip on my arm and brings me to a standstill. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m not much good at flowery talk but I’d like to break training with you.’
‘You mean –’ I leave the words suspended because I don’t like to say what I think he does mean.
‘I find you very attractive. You don’t play tennis, do you?’
Derek’s arms slide round me and he makes a clumsy dive at my mouth. I take evasive action and am about to tell him to pull himself together when I see the handle of the heavy roller silhouetted suggestively against the sky. That too brings back memories. Geoffrey and I doing – whatever we were doing. I am still not certain. When you are emotionally involved with someone your senses blur the details. Suddenly, I feel angry. Angry and bitter. Why should Geoffrey be the only one? Why should Penny move in on all the men in my life? They deserve to be punished. I will show them that they are not the only ones who can plunder love. Here, near this object which once held so many tender associations for me, I will forever exorcise myself of the memory of perfidious Geoffrey Wilkes. My principles will not be compromised. This is an act of self-protection, not self-gratification.
‘Why don’t you find out?’ I say.
‘But we can’t play now,’ says Derek. ‘It’s too dark.’
‘I wasn’t talking about tennis,’ I say. ‘I was answering your question about my underwear.’
‘Oh I see,’ says Tharge. ‘Got you. Excellent. Look, let’s sit – lie down. I don’t think it’s too damp. Wouldn’t do to get a chill just before the semi-final of the North Eastern London heat of the southern pool of the All England –’
‘Over here,’ I say. ‘Behind the roller.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Tharge. ‘Cosy. Would you like the rest of your – oh damn! I’ve spilled it all. Down my blazer too. Still these wristlets will soon soak it up. They’re terribly useful. You ought to try them. I know a chap who makes them. I could get you something off.’
I am beginning to wonder if Derek Tharge could get anything off, though I suppose it would be refreshing to find that not all men are only interested in shoving their hands up your – ‘Oh!’
‘Sorry. Is my hand cold?’ Derek withdraws it from my skirt and starts to flap it up and down fast as if waving goodbye to a baby carriage. ‘I’ve got a slow pulse rate, you know. Damn good for anything athletic but it does mean that the old blood doesn’t exactly rocket round your body. Would you like to feel my pulse? No, probably not a good idea. My watch hasn’t got a luminous second hand. Still, I suppose if you held it, I could count slowly. I wouldn’t be far out – not over half a minute, anyway. I mean, that I wouldn’t be far out over the space of half a minute, of course. Not that my margin of error would be –’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say, beginning to wonder if fate has been over-generous in her choice of an instrument of liberation and revenge.
‘It’s funny about you not being a tennis player,’ says Derek, leaning back and resting his weight on his elbow. ‘Glancing at you, which of course I did, I would have thought that you would have been. You’ve got that sort of development. Take your – er chest for example.’
‘Yes?’ I say, leaning forward so that he can take it if he wants to – I mean, at this rate I could be here all night and it is getting a little parky. I am all for revenge being swift.
Derek continues to wave his hand in the air and turns away from my breasts as if there is something not quite nice about them. ‘Well, it’s – I mean, they’re sort of, you know, kind of well-developed, aren’t they? Like you’ve been working at your forehand drive and all that.’
‘I haven’t been working at anything,’ I say, trying, much as it goes against the grain, to inject some huskiness into my voice. ‘It’s just the way nature made me. How’s your hand?’
I think Derek has forgotten about his hand because he glances at it like it is a bird that has alighted on a tree trunk and is flapping its wings at him. ‘Oh yes. It’s probably all right now,’ he says. ‘It seems quite warm. Feel.’
I close my eyes and brace myself for the sensation of his furtive fingers creeping under the tightly strung fabric of my stretch panties. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and see a hand dangling in front of my face. ‘Feels fine,’ I say. I release the hand and reclose my eyes. Still, nothing happens. All I can hear is heavy breathing.
‘What’s the matter now?’ I say, trying to sound calm and sympathetic.
‘Did you hear that?’ says a worried Derek. ‘That sounded like a wheeze.’
‘It sounds perfectly normal to me,’ I say. ‘Now why don’t you forget about it and –’
‘I hope I’m not going to get my old trouble back again. Not now. Mother would never forgive me. Not just before the semi-final of the North –’
‘Please!’ I say. ‘Don’t go through that again. Just relax and stop worrying about it.’ I place my hand on the spot where the legs of the man’s trousers meet and start to massage what feels like a bag of over-ripe gooseberries – or I suppose you might say goosed berries. (I know it’s not the place for a joke but I think that if you can laugh at things sometimes, it makes them easier to bear.)
‘Hold on a minute,’ says Derek. ‘It’s jolly nice of you but I wonder if it’s altogether a good idea. My father had a lot of trouble