Simon Brett - The Corpse on the Court

They took up their positions. ‘Stand about a couple of yards in front of the back wall, in the middle,’ George Hazlitt shouted down the court, ‘and I’ll send a few down.’

He had the basket of balls on the floor beside him, picked a couple out and sent the first one fluently down the centre of the court. Jude swung Piers’ racket over it and missed by about a foot.

‘And another one.’ The pro’s second ball followed exactly the same trajectory. Jude’s stroke was about six inches too high for that one.

The third ball she actually hit. Well, that is to say it made contact with her racket and went spinning off into the wall.

By the time George Hazlitt had sent down the entire basketful — between forty and fifty balls — she had managed to return two over the net. The rest lay scattered on the floor of the hazard end.

‘Not bad at all,’ said the pro, as he returned the basket to its hole and used his racket to shovel balls back into it.

‘Not bad in the sense of really dreadful?’ suggested Jude.

‘No, I’ve seen many people do worse on their first hit. And I can see you’ve played lawn tennis. There it’s all about following through with the racket. In real tennis you want to stop once you’ve hit the ball. Think of it as a chopping movement, like you’re bringing an axe down on the side of the ball as it makes impact. And the lower the ball is in its trajectory when you hit it, the better. Don’t worry, it takes a while to get used to the basics.’

‘Ten years is the figure that’s been quoted to me.’

George Hazlitt grinned. ‘It needn’t be that long.’

So they progressed and Jude began to realize that the pro was really a very good teacher. He showed her the required body positions, standing sideways rather than facing front to take the ball. He taught her a couple of basic serves. And he got her nearer than Piers ever had to understanding what a chase was. He gave her just enough encouragement, not undiluted praise but words that made her feel she was achieving something.

They ended the session by playing a couple of games, something Jude would not have believed possible a mere hour before. She knew full well that George Hazlitt was holding back for her, missing a couple of her returns that he could easily have reached. But he managed to do it without making her feel patronized.

The lesson only lasted an hour of the hour-and-a-quarter booking period, but by the end of it Jude was glowing and she knew her face was red and sweaty. Though, in spite of its bulk, her body was supple from the yoga, this was a different kind of physical activity and had used muscles unexercised for a long time. She had enjoyed the experience, though, and even begun to taste the obsessive attraction of real tennis.

George Hazlitt came to shake her hand over the low part of the net, as if they’d played a genuine game rather than him just popping dolly shots to her. Jude was effusive in her thanks but even at that moment couldn’t curb her investigative instincts. ‘A rather happier experience than last time I came to the court,’ she observed.

The pro looked puzzled for a moment before what she said fell into place. ‘Yes, poor old bugger. I’m sorry that was your introduction to the game.’

‘Well, I’d also been here on the Sunday, for the Sec’s Cup.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten. There are so many people around for an event like that.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t expecting you to remember. And of course I saw Reggie fall on the court then, too.’

‘That’s right. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if that had been caused by a minor heart attack too. He was in a pretty bad way.’

‘Presumably you have to have some kind of first aid training to do this job?’

‘You bet. With regular update sessions to see we’re not getting out of touch. Oh yes, I’m a little devil with the defibrillator.’

‘I’m sure you are. Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Reggie Playfair had been a member for years.’

‘Piers Targett has asked me to come along.’

‘Good, I’ll see you then. And if you want to book another lesson or fix up a game for yourself. .’

‘I’m not ready to play a game.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Some of those returns you were doing towards the end were pretty damned good.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘There are plenty of beginners in the club, I’m glad to say. And a lot of young players, which is also good news. I’ve been working hard to lower the average age of the members here.’

‘Yes, one does get the impression that to play here you have to be in your sixties, from the right public school and preferably with a hyphenated surname.’

George Hazlitt shook his head with something close to annoyance. ‘That’s the image of the game. Hampton Court, toffs. . It’s really not like that any more. We’ve got our fair share of Old Etonians and Harrovians here at Lockleigh, but we’ve also got builders, decorators, farmers. The membership’s not all out of the top drawer by any means. Not all rich either. We’ve got a guitarist, we’ve even got a writer, so neither of them have got two pennies to rub together.’

‘And how do you get the younger ones in?’

‘I’ve got relationships with a couple of the local schools, do regular coaching sessions with them. Then I’ve been round the local state schools with Lady Budgen — we’ve got a good little double act going there, you know, talking about the game. We’ve had a bit of interest from that area. Have you met Tonya Grace?’

‘Not exactly met, but I saw her when Piers was partnering her in the Sec’s Cup.’

‘Of course he was, yes. Well, she’s a very promising young player, and just from a comprehensive in Brighton. Felicity’s sort of taken Tonya under her wing and been encouraging her. I think she and Don may even be helping her financially, subscription, court fees, travel expenses, that kind of stuff. . But please don’t mention to anyone that I told you that. So the game really is moving away from its elitist image.’

Jude grinned. ‘It certainly will be if I start playing.’

‘Well, we must see to it that you do. Give me a call. There are lots of people round your standard you could have a really good knock with. You have to remember, Jude, real tennis has this extremely cunning handicap system, which means you can have a competitive game, whatever your standard.’

‘Yes.’ While she still had George Hazlitt on his own, Jude wondered how she could possibly get the conversation round to the identity of the real-tennis-playing woman with whom Oenone Playfair suspected her husband had had an affair. But before she could embark on that rather tricky manoeuvre, a voice from the walkway called out, ‘Morning, George. Morning, Jude.’

It was Jonty Westmacott. Of course, thought Jude, the Old Boys’ regular Wednesday eleven thirty doubles. A fixture on the calendar so important that Oenone Playfair had even postponed her husband’s funeral to accommodate it.

When Jonty had passed through into the club room, Jude said, ‘His gout must’ve got better.’

‘Oh?’

‘I saw Tom Ruthven over the weekend. He was trying to get a fourth for today because Jonty was a doubtful starter.’

George Hazlitt grinned knowingly. ‘Gout this time, was it?’

Jude was puzzled. ‘Oh?’

‘I’m afraid Jonty is one of those players who’s not above a bit of gamesmanship. If he plays badly, there’s always a reason other than his own incompetence.’

‘Actually, last week he was complaining of a tweaked tendon in his knee.’

‘Yes, there’s always something with Jonty. Injury, or of course something wrong with the equipment. I’ve strung his racket too tight or. . the balls.’ George Hazlitt raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I probably get more complaints about the balls than anything else in this club. They’re not completely spherical, the bounce isn’t true, they’re too soft. . I’ve heard them all. And because Ned and I make the balls by hand — a new set of sixty every fortnight — well, the members know who to complain to, don’t they?’