Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

The eleventh game of the set brought the service back to Malcolm, and as he went to the service line, he suddenly realised that he was almost done. After all, he had been working hard, mostly indoors at the office, during these last two months, with the fog and sleet of London about him, and not, like most of these people, keeping himself in good trim at other tournaments. And this was the last day of a week’s intensive play, in a climate that had been a sharp change, not altogether agreeable in its sudden alternations of warm afternoons and cold nights. Every joint seemed to sag and ache. He tried to deliver two fast services, but he winced as he brought his racket down over the ball, and both went into the net. His partner gave him a sharp glance as she crossed over. Next service-another fault. This wouldn’t do. He sent a safe slow second one, and of course it was promptly annihilated. Love-thirty-and this a key-game. He took his time crossing over, then sent across a medium-pace service towards the centre. It was returned quickly as he was running in, and he gave a despairing scoop at it, to find, to his astonishment, that he had achieved a beautiful little half-volley that Tissot could not reach in time. Then the next point was theirs, for Grendel drove hard into the net. Thirty-all. Now Malcolm tried a fairly fast slice service, which went curving away, so that it was hit out. The next return was neatly volleyed by Andrea, far out of the Frenchwoman’s reach. The game was theirs, making the set six-five.

It was Grendel’s service, and this was clearly to be his last and most terrible effort. Rather painfully, he drew himself up to his full height, sent ball and racket flashing in the sky, and produced an ace. He went across, taking his time and shaking the perspiration off him like a dog just out of the water, and then delighted the stand once more by producing another terrific ace. But now his next service was a fault; the second, much slower, was returned; Tissot drove deeply and Grendel came roaring up to the net; Malcolm lobbed high, but Grendel jumped back and smashed, but Malcolm lobbed again, there was another smash, again Malcolm lobbed, and this time Grendel fumbled and lost the point. Again his first service was a fault, and again the much slower second was returned; and this time Andrea won a short but sharp duel of drives against the Frenchwoman. Grendel tried to make it forty-thirty by another ace, but lost the point with a double-fault. Set point, in favour of the Anglo-American pair. Grendel got his first service in, but it was returned, and now the ball flew across the net from a series of hard drives, which ended with a stupendous forehand drive from Grendel. Malcolm just succeeded in putting his racket to it, and the ball went high above the net. Grendel smashed, and Malcolm ran achingly after it and retrieved it with another lob. This time Grendel could not reach it, but Madame Tissot did, with a fairly slow dropping drive. Malcolm rushed forward, despairingly slammed his racket at the ball, heard in wonder and delight the deep grunt of the strings that told him he had hit the ball fairly and squarely, and then saw it shoot, a perfect drive-volley, between his opponents, to give him game, set, and match.

There was the usual clapping, hand-shaking, towelling and muffling up, congratulations and snapshots, but Malcolm saw and heard it all as if in a dream. After that final stroke of his, when the match was over and won, for one dazzling second the strange Andrea Baker had come to life. With eyes like lamps, she had put out a hand, and said, in her agreeable deep American voice, now a little choky and breathless: “Thanks a whole lot, partner. You were grand.” That was all, but it was, as this mysterious girl said, a whole lot.

Now, with the match over, the whole afternoon fading, that horribly cold wind of the Riviera chilling everything, he had only one desire, and that was to prevent this girl from vanishing for ever. He must see her again, and probably there was only this night for it. He carried this determination through the confusion and congratulations that followed the end of the match. He saw her exchange a few remarks, and then go to change. The car, the large fateful mysterious car, was already waiting, with the little brown chauffeur, to take her away for ever. He dare not go and change himself, for fear he might miss her. Shivering a little and horribly anxious, he hung about, dodging acquaintances, and putting off those he could not dodge with the briefest replies. Doubtfully, he rehearsed speeches, and could not help feeling a fool. The girl had had a few good games of tennis with him; they had contrived to win the Mixed Doubles; and that was that. She had shown no real interest in his existence. She liked tennis, not young architects from London who happened to play pretty well. She had her own life-though he could not possibly imagine what it was, probably something distant, immensely rich, very American-and had shown not the least desire to share even half an hour of it with him, off the tennis courts. She was not only self-possessed but also self-sufficient, it seemed. Where did he come in? But then, just when he was deciding he did not come in at all, he remembered the look she had given everything, the way she had turned to him, the odd sudden sadness, her strange tone and equally strange remark. So he gradually edged nearer the car, now parked in front of the hotel.

She seemed faintly surprised, but not displeased, to find him waiting there. But she looked still more remote, out of her tennis clothes, a very haughty dark beauty indeed, and it took him a moment to find a voice. “I was wondering,” he stammered, not using any of the rehearsed appeals, “if you were going to the dance to-night.”

She shook her head, and surveyed him calmly, making him feel as if there was nothing else he could possibly say to her. “No,” she replied, with an awful finality, “I’m through here now.”

“I’m not going either,” he hastily informed her. Then he stopped, faced that calm dark gaze, summoned up fresh courage, and plunged in with: “Look, Miss Baker, couldn’t we-I mean, I think we ought to do something about winning this match-can’t we-I wish you’d dine with me to-night!”

She did not reply at once, but merely looked thoughtful. “I’m leaving for Paris early in the morning,” she announced, finally.

“Well, there’s all to-night. Couldn’t you manage dinner?”

She hesitated a moment, looked at him quite solemnly, so that he felt he was going to be denounced for daring to suggest such a thing, then lifted him clean up into the sky by suddenly declaring: “Yes, I’ll come. Where?”

Wherever was most convenient for her, he told her, but as she did not seem to care, and he did not even know where she was staying, he ended by naming a very good but shockingly expensive little restaurant overlooking the sea just outside Beaulieu, a famous place. To this she agreed, and fervently he fixed the hour. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to change, will you?” he concluded.

She gave this some thought too-she was a most deliberate young beauty-and then, just when he was beginning to feel gloomy about her again, she lit up, quite genuinely lit up, actually smiled at him, and said: “I’ve a dress I’d like to wear, so you change too.”

“Right. Eight o’clock then. You know the place?”

“Yes. I think I’ll drive myself over.”

“Grand!” He could feel himself bubbling.

Before getting into the car, she looked at him calmly but not unkindly, and to his astonishment observed: “You’re very English, aren’t you?” Rather as if being English were some amusing little game he played with himself.

“Well, I suppose I am-just as you’re American. I mean, that’s all right, isn’t it?”