The Tennis Player from Bermuda (22 page)

“I used to, all the time, but I haven’t since I married Richard.”

“Why not?”

“Richard prefers not to see me quoted in the newspapers.”

“Why doesn’t he want to see you quoted?”

“Well, I can understand his thinking. I’m his wife, and I’ll be the mother of his children. He doesn’t want to see me saying something outrageous that’s been splashed across a newspaper.”

Before we walked into the South West Hall of Centre Court, Claire turned her head to glance at the scoreboard that was against the stands for Courts 2 and 3.

She stopped instantly. “I almost can’t believe it,” she said in a whisper.

“What?”

She pointed at the scoreboard. “Billie Jean beat Margaret.”

Results – Centre Court

Mrs R Kershaw (GB)    def Miss M Curzon (GB)  6-0 6-1

Miss BJ Moffitt (USA) def Miss M Smith (AUS)  1-6 6-3 7-5

I’d never seen Claire nonplussed, but she was now.

We went in the South West Hall and found Margaret, disconsolate, in the upper dressing room. Margaret dominated the first set, which took all of 18 minutes. Billie Jean took the second set, but in the final set, Margaret had been serving for the match with the games at 5-3 – and the score was 30-15. She had been just two points away from winning. Billie Jean fought back to deuce, broke Margaret’s serve, and finally walked off with the match.

Every girl in the dressing room knew what this meant. Barring another, equally incredible upset, Claire would be the holder of the championship for a third year.

When I got back to Albert House late Tuesday afternoon, I had one task that I dreaded. I hadn’t told my parents that I wasn’t staying with the Thakehams any longer and that I was by myself in a rooming house. Which of these two facts would be more upsetting to my parents, I wasn’t sure. Probably Mother would be angry with me for leaving the Thakehams, and Father would be angry with me for staying by myself in a rooming house. I didn’t know if Lady Thakeham had told them; maybe she would have felt obligated to do so. In any event, I needed to send them a telegram, and now.

Mrs Brown told me where to find the Post Office; it was close by, next to the Wimbledon Tube station. I walked there, took a telegram pad, and wrote:

P
OST
OFFICE
T
ELEGRAM

WIN TODAY THREE SETS OVER FIVE SEED FIRST ROUND STOP HAVE MOVED TO ALBERT HOUSE ALWYNE ROAD WIMBLEDON STOP HOMESICK AND LOVE YOU STOP FIONA.

The ‘homesick and love you’ part was certainly true. Part of me wanted to return to Bermuda immediately and never leave the island again.

But another part of me wanted to play in the second round at Wimbledon.

I handed in the telegram.

When I walked back to Albert House, Mrs Brown presented me with a dozen red roses, and an envelope, which just had been delivered. I had a bad feeling about this delivery.

“Mrs Brown, I don’t have anywhere to put these roses in my room. Could we possibly find a vase for them and put them here on the counter? Then all your guests could enjoy them.”

Mrs Brown readily accepted this added touch of class to Albert House, and we went back into the kitchen to find a vase. Albert House, I learned, was not well equipped with vases, but we did find an asparagus cooker. So we sliced the stems at an angle, put them in the asparagus cooker, added water, pushed the roses around a bit so they were shown to best advantage, and finally placed them on the counter in the reception room. Mrs Brown was pleased.

I went up to my room, dropped my rackets, pocket book and tennis kit on the floor, sat on the bed, and looked at the envelope. I recognized Mark’s handwriting – ‘Fiona Hodgkin, Albert House.’ I really didn’t want to open this envelope; I guessed the contents would be about Catherine’s party tomorrow night. And once I opened it, I found I was right.

I threw Mark’s note away just after reading it, and now, decades later, I can’t recall exactly what he wrote. The gist was, as I expected, that I should attend Catherine’s party with him, tomorrow night. And, to give the devil his due, he apologized for Saturday night. But most of the note was to the effect that I was expected at Catherine’s party, and that he would appreciate it if I would come with him. He asked that I ring him and let him know.

I sat on the edge of the bed. I crumpled up Mark’s note. On the one hand, I never wanted to set eyes on Mark again. On the other hand, Catherine’s party was the reason Lady Thakeham had invited me to London. If I didn’t attend Catherine’s party, and Mother learned that I hadn’t, which she would, she would be angry with me. She might well decide that I was withdrawing immediately from Wimbledon. If Father backed her up, and he probably would, that would be that.

So I needed to show my face at Catherine’s party.

My second round match was set on Court 2 for Wednesday, following a men’s match that started at two o’clock. The men should be finished by four o’clock, or five at the latest, unless there was a rain delay, or the men got involved in some extra game death march. If I were on the court by, say, five, my match would be over by seven, or, at the worst, eight. My match couldn’t possibly go more than a few minutes past nine o’clock because of darkness. Catherine’s party would begin at Grosvenor House in Mayfair at nine o’clock, but I wouldn’t be considered late if I arrived by ten o’clock or so. I would come back to Albert House straight after my match, dress, and catch the Tube to Marble Arch.

I went downstairs. There was a telephone off the entryway. I put in the necessary coins and rang Hyde Park Gate. Harold answered the telephone in the pantry. “Harold, this is Fiona Hodgkin.”

“Yes, Miss. I’m pleased to hear from you.”

“Harold, may I speak with Mark?”

“Miss Hodgkin, young Mark is not in at present. I think he plans to return for tea. May I ask him to ring you then?”

“No, Harold. I don’t have a telephone that is easy for me to answer. May I ask you to give him a message?”

“Certainly, Miss.”

“Will you thank him for the roses he sent me?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Please tell Mark that I will attend Catherine’s party tomorrow evening, but I will come by myself.”

“Miss, should young Mark come collect you in his automobile? At what time?”

Harold was not grasping the idea of my coming to Catherine’s party by myself. “No, Harold, I will take the Tube. The Marble Arch stop is close to Grosvenor House.”

“Miss, let me ask Miss Hanson if I may come around in the Bentley and collect you at Albert House.”

He really didn’t get it. “Harold, is Miss Hanson there? May I speak with her?”

“Certainly.”

After a moment, Myrtle came on the line. “Fiona? Are you doing well?”

“Yes, Myrtle, I’m fine.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to have Harold come bring you back to Hyde Park Gate? I would send one of my girls with him to pack your clothes. I would – ” She paused. “I would satisfy Lady Thakeham. You needn’t worry about her.”

“Myrtle, I’m comfortable where I am. And I promise you I would ask if I needed you to help me. But I want to ask you a question: Would I be welcome at Catherine’s party if I came alone, by myself?”

She instantly deduced what had happened. “Did Mark mistreat you?”

I didn’t reply.

“Fiona, the truth, now.”

I didn’t reply.

“Your choices are to tell me, or for me to assume the worst, immediately find Mark, and strangle him.”

“I drank too much last Saturday night. That was my fault. I think Mark took advantage of me after we came back to Hyde Park Gate.”

She paused. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I got my period yesterday morning.”

“That’s good, but that doesn’t mean you’re all right.”

I didn’t reply.

“I’ll strangle Mark.”

“No, Myrtle, leave Mark alone. It’s over and done with between Mark and me.”

A
MATEUR
T
ENNIS IN
1962
A
LL
E
NGLAND
C
LUB
W
IMBLEDON

I must tell you about Wimbledon and amateur tennis in 1962. Few people remember now; it was 50 years ago. And you can’t understand this story about Claire and me, really, unless you know.

We were all amateurs then. That meant even Claire – the top woman player – could accept only her ‘reasonable’ travel and lodging expenses. If she ever accepted money for playing tennis, she would become a ‘professional,’ and professionals were barred from most tournaments, including Wimbledon.

When Claire won Wimbledon in 1960 and 1961, her prize each time was a voucher for £15. She could use the voucher for lodging and meals – or she could visit a bank and redeem the voucher for cash. Which is what Claire did. In case you’re wondering, £15 in 1961 was worth about $300 in today’s American dollars.

In 2011, when Petra Kvitova won Wimbledon, she took home £1.1 million (about $1.71 million). In cash.

Oh, I almost forgot. Claire also received a tiny replica of the sterling silver Rosewater Dish that has been presented to each ladies’ singles champion since 1886 – and then promptly snatched back! Claire was allowed to hold the actual Rosewater Dish for all of about five minutes, each time, just so the photographers could snap their photos. She put the replicas in the back of a closet in her parents’ country house, along with her other trophies.

When I first met Claire, at Longwood, she was touring the private grass court clubs on the East Coast of the States – Westchester Country Club, Merion Cricket Club, Baltimore Country Club. Having a Wimbledon champion play an afternoon’s exhibition match was a feather in the cap of each of these clubs. But none of them paid Claire to appear, because that would be paying Claire to play tennis. Instead, each club paid her a handsome
per diem
for her expenses, about half of which she saved and deposited in her father’s bank in the City.

The French took a unique approach to the reasonable expenses of top amateurs. For playing at Roland Garros, Claire got
un forfait
for her expenses. A lump sum, that is, and the French tended to estimate ‘reasonable expenses’ in terms of how many paying spectators a player was likely to draw through the gates at Roland Garros. Claire was a tremendous draw, and consequently the French felt her reasonable expenses in staying in Paris certainly must be quite substantial. Another tidy amount deposited in her father’s bank.

I’ve never asked Claire about her earnings from tennis (although if the shoe were on the other foot, Claire would demand to know my take down to the last shilling). But I’ll guess she cleared about £2,000 each year when she was at her peak. That’s about $40,000 in today’s American dollars. Nothing to sneeze at, but an offer of $40,000 to one of the top women tennis stars today wouldn’t even get her agent to return your voice mail message.

And for a nobody like me in 1962? You can forget my reasonable expenses. I was lucky the All England Club fed me lunch and gave me tea without charge – and I appreciated it!

Players in those days traveled without the entourages of coaches and others that are common today. There was no money to pay for an entourage. At most, a player might travel with a parent or a spouse. And in any event, ‘coach’ implied ‘professional coach,’ which was quite the gray area. The Committee was uncomfortable when Teach Tennant, who was a professional coach, came to Wimbledon with Alice Marble and later Maureen Connolly.

On Ladies’ Day in 1952, Maureen – ‘all tiny 17 years of her,’ as Teddy Tinling said – marched into Colonel Macaulay’s office; announced she was calling a press conference; and told the Colonel to assemble the sports journalists – immediately! She then told the journalists, in no uncertain terms, that Teach was no longer her coach. Maureen thought Teach had been saying that Maureen was injured and couldn’t compete at Wimbledon. Maureen proceeded to win Wimbledon three times in a row – and the Grand Slam in 1953.

The Committee was pleased with the departure of a professional coach, if not with the idea of a press conference. But no one could decide which was more amazing: that an amateur tennis player had held a press conference, or that Teach would no longer be running Maureen’s life.

In 1962, three of the major international tournaments were played at small, private grass court clubs: Kooyong, in Melbourne; Forest Hills, in New York City, and the All England Club. Only Roland Garros was owned by a national tennis organization. Today, Wimbledon – excuse me, I meant ‘The Lawn Tennis Championships upon the lawns of the All England Club Wimbledon’ – is the only ‘major’ played at a private club, and the only one played on grass.

In 1962, the ground of the All England Club was 13½ acres tucked into a small triangle between Somerset Road to the west and Church Road to the east. The Club had only 16 grass courts, including Centre Court.

Centre Court then wasn’t at the center of the Club’s ground; it was off on the north edge. So why was it called Centre Court? Because before 1922, when the All England Club was just off Worple Road in Wimbledon, the main court
had
been in the exact center of the ground, and it was logical to call it “Centre Court.” When the Club moved to Church Road in 1922, but the new show court, with its 12-sided design by the architect Stanley Peach, was built on the north edge of the ground, it was still called, inevitably, “Centre Court.”