Victoria Clayton - Moonshine

I smiled politely. ‘I’m afraid I shall be a poor substitute. I’m rather rusty.’

‘False modesty, I’m sure. Of course, no one’s expecting you to be up to Dinwiddie’s standard. He once played at Wimbledon, you know.’ Before I could mutter some excuse, get back into my car and drive rapidly away, he gripped my elbow with fingers of steel and steered me across the lawn in the direction of the courts. ‘Luckily, we’ve some time in hand before the others get here. We’ll knock up together and see what sort of game you play before we decide on our strategy.’

‘I don’t think my game’s sufficiently consistent to deserve a strategy.’

‘Come, come! No defeatist talk, now, Miss Norton. Attitude’s extremely important. We’ve got to put winning into the forefront of our brains and keep it there. Attack’s the name of the game. Think slam, think smash, think victory!’

‘Do call me Bobbie.’

‘All right. And you can call me Roddy. Here we are. We’ve drawn hard. Less finesse required than on grass but it’s an opportunity to display a bit of vim. It’ll suit your game, I hope?’

I was about to say that as far as my game went the surface was immaterial but thought better of it. There was no point in rushing to embrace disaster. Roddy made minute adjustments to the net while I changed into gym shoes. There was a delay while I struggled with the zip of my racquet cover, which had become corroded by the damp endemic to Cutham. After a minute or two Roddy left the net and came to help. He wrestled with the obstinate zip for some time before saying, rather pink in the face, ‘Dear me, this isn’t a good beginning, is it?’

I humbly agreed that it wasn’t.

‘I’ll go and see if any of the ladies have a spare you can borrow.’ There was perceptible annoyance in the tilt of Roddy’s head as he strode back to the house.

People in tennis whites began to drift in small groups across the lawn. I was delighted to see that no one was a day under sixty.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ hallooed a solidly built woman with fluffy grey curls as soon as she was in earshot. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

I looked up obediently. I was disappointed to see that there was not a raincloud in sight. ‘Lovely.’

‘I’m Peggy Mountfichet. You must be a new member.’

‘I’m Bobbie Norton. I’m just standing in for Mr Dinwiddie. He’s gone to have a tooth out.’

‘Three cheers!’ chortled Mrs Mountfichet, hurling up her racquet and failing to catch it. ‘Listen, folks,’ she carolled to her team mates. ‘Old Dinwidders isn’t playing today.’ She walked on to the court and flung off her cardigan, exposing sagging, liver-spotted arms from which I meanly took comfort. ‘Don’t think me unkind, dear, of course I’m sorry for anyone going to the dentist, but he takes it all so damned seriously you’d think we were playing for Great Britain instead of for the fun of it. This is Adrian Lightowler.’ She indicated the stooped old man behind her who seemed to be having difficulty in opening a box of new balls.

‘How do you do?’ I watched Mr Lightowler’s attempts to prise off the cellophane with palsied fingers, feeling further encouraged.

‘You’ll have to speak up, he’s terribly deaf. Nearly eighty, you know. Wonderful for his age. How extraordinary!’ Mrs Mountfichet looked about her. ‘Where’s Roddy Bender? In all the years I’ve played for Tideswell he’s always been first on the court. Makes a point of it so he can pretend we’ve kept him waiting, the old so-and-so! Typical of men, dear, really, isn’t it?’ she added to me conversationally as she exchanged her Clark’s Skips for a pair of plimsolls. ‘Such babies, hating to lose. I’ve made fifty meringues, two dozen sausage rolls and a lemon mousse this morning besides turning out the airing cupboard and walking the dog. I bet Roddy’s done nothing but blanco his shoes.’

‘I’m afraid it’s my fault he isn’t here.’ I confessed to the ignominious circumstances that had made Roddy break the habit of a lifetime.

‘Don’t you worry, dear. It’s sweet of you to give up your valuable time to play with a lot of old crocks like us. Take my tip and be sure to get to the tea table early on. The meringues go in a winking. And don’t, whatever you do, have any wine-cup until after the match. Mr Lowe-Budding makes it from lemonade and pomagne but Dickie always adds a bottle of brandy when he thinks no one’s looking. He likes to jolly us up, you see; stop the men taking it so seriously. It’s quite lethal. After one glass you won’t be able to hit a thing.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’ I was really beginning to like this game old lady.

When Roddy reappeared he looked quite angry to find Mrs Mountfichet and Mr Lightowler already on the court, patting a ball gently back and forth to each other.

‘Hello, Roddy,’ she called. ‘Who’s a lucky boy then? You’ll be the envy of the other men with such a beautiful partner.’

Roddy forbore to answer. ‘This ought to be about the right weight.’ He handed me a newish-looking racquet. ‘Don’t know about the grip, though.’ It seemed to have been made for a gorilla’s paw. I could hardly close my fingers round the handle. ‘Never mind,’ continued Roddy. ‘You’ll have to make the best of it. There isn’t time to find another.’

‘Hello, Bobbie my dear.’ Dickie limped over to the umpire’s chair. He looked smart in blazer and flannels and was carrying an official-looking clipboard. ‘Lovely to see you. Let’s make a start. The others have already begun their matches.’

‘My partner and I haven’t had a chance to warm up yet,’ protested Roddy.

‘Come on, you old fusspot!’ said Mrs Mountfichet. ‘You toss and I’ll call.’

Mrs Mountfichet won the toss, to Roddy’s evident displeasure.

‘You’d better get up to the net as soon as you can,’ he muttered to me. ‘I’ll stay back.’

I prepared myself to receive Mrs Mountfichet’s serve. I repressed a smile as I saw Roddy bent double with a fiendish grin on his face, hopping from foot to foot, the silly old—Whang! The ball left Mrs Mountfichet’s racquet at something near the speed of light and raised a cloud of chalk as it bounced on the line to thwack into the netting behind my head. I had not had time to lift my racquet.

‘Sorry, dear,’ she called. ‘I don’t think you were quite ready. We’ll play that point again.’

‘Good idea,’ said Dickie breezily. ‘All right, everyone? Play!’

This time I had my racquet lifted and my eye on the ball. It struck my racquet and knocked it clean from my hand, hurting my cut finger considerably.

‘Sorry!’ Mrs Mountfichet looked concerned. ‘Do you want to play that point one more time?’

‘For heaven’s sake, let’s get on,’ snapped Roddy.

‘Fifteen, love,’ called Dickie.

Mrs Mountfichet changed sides and served to Roddy. He smacked it smartly back over the net and a pounding rally began during which he and Mrs Mountfichet whirled like dervishes and Mr Lightowler, standing at the net, volleyed like a champion without moving below the waist. The rally ended when I managed to hit the ball properly for the first time, unfortunately straight into the net.

‘Thirty, love,’ called Dickie with a suggestion of sympathy in his voice.

‘Watch out for the top-spin Mountfichet always puts on her serve,’ growled Roddy to me as I bent and grimaced into the sun.

I had no idea what to do about top-spin even if I recognized it. The ball skimmed the net by a millimetre and bounced short. I gave it a wallop. Somehow it came into contact with the wood and shot off sideways.

‘Forty, love.’ Dickie’s voice was so sympathetic he sounded on the point of bursting into tears.