Break Point (14 page)

Shari switches
off the hoover. "Right, I've just got to get something. Give me
that letter and I'll post it for you."

"Cheers. It's
dead important is that."

Shari goes off
and the two women finalists come out onto Centre Court. They have
their photos taken and then they warm up, practising their shots
across the court.

Shari comes
back with strawberries and cream. "Refreshments," she says. "You've
got to have strawberries at Wimbledon."

"Oh, yummee!
Where did you get them?"

"That garden
over the road."

"What, Mrs
Parrott's? But she's gone away."

"I know, but
Gwen told me that Mrs Parrott from Number Sixteen said we could
help ourselves to her strawberries while she's away. Well, I'm here
to serve you, aren’t I?"

"You posted
the letter then?"

"It's all
done."

"It's just
starting. Don't you want to watch it?"

"When I've
finished my duties. I'm just going to polish the bannisters on the
landing. You can watch me if you like."

"In between
games then," I say, feeling that glow below again.

*

Shari joins me
in front of the telly. "That Davenport," she says. "I want her to
win. Who do you want to win?"

"Dunno. Graf's
good but Lindsay Davenport's not won it before."

"What's the
best final you've seen then?"

"Women's?
That's difficult. There's been some classics. Like in 1990 when
Zena Garrison and Martina Navratilova were playing ... "

Shari pulls
the stalk off a strawberry.

"Then there
was this classic final in '91 between Sabbatini and Graf which went
to 8-6 or something in the final set."

Shari sucks on
her strawberry. "You know all the names and years and
everything."

"A bit
obsessive, you mean."

"No,
devoted
."

Devoted? Yeah.
I like that. I’ve done a lot of devoting when I look back. There
was the cause and the Isms, June, the tennis. I even feel a sort of
devotion to Gwen, I've tried to, I've wanted to, I started out like
that but I've let her down.

I spoon
up the last of the strawberries and cream and Lindsay Davenport has
already taken the first set. There are long baseline rallies at the
beginning of the second, it's going with serve for the first few
games and the balls are being slogged backwards and forwards, and a
bit of rain’s started to fall. The players are aware that the
officials are gathering at the corner, says the commentator. Graf
takes the next game and then Davenport levels at four games all
and
the crowd is warming up but it's still
spotting with rain, it's getting heavier, the referee's in the
corner ...

Ladies and
Gentleman, play is suspended ...

Oh no it's
not. It's just starting.

"Bobbie, what
are you doing with that feather duster?"

"Tickling you." I chase Shari round the room while recordings
of Men's Doubles fill the rain gap and I brush it across her neck.
She giggles like a kid and I dance it up and up her leg and her
face is this side of ecstasy as the feathers tickle up her skirt
and
she's got no knickers
on
. All the time she's been hoovering and
polishing with the air blowing straight up her vents, and now we're
on the bed together, Shari's pale lips and mine in a wet salty
kiss, tongues and all. There's a loud wailing noise but it's not
coming from Shari or me, we ignore it, like we ignore the
just-resumed Women's Final, preferring our lust.

When we finish
our sighing, and Shari finishes panting, Oh oh, love you, love you,
Bobbie, we concentrate on the tennis again as it reaches its
closing stages. We've picked up the plot again and now the
wailing's becoming very loud, with synchronized knocking. Robina
Robina Robina! The stick's being whacked against the drawers like a
mad drumstick, or it might even be that vulgar slate lamp which she
asked Shari to bring down this morning. It's got a different,
heavier sound to it. I purse my lips, and the squares on me cheeks
feel bright crimson as I turn up the telly because now there's
music competing with the Wimbledon claps. "Oh take her off the
hook. It's OK, Bobbie. I'll deal with her." Wimbledon is roaring,
and I keep the volume up dead loud until there's quiet below, and
I'm drawn back into the match, glad that Shari's here to step in
and keep Gwen busy. It's championship point, and there it is, all
over. Davenport puts two fists to her face in disbelief, one still
holding the racket, then she takes them away and cups a hand across
her mouth. She and Graf hug, then she sits on her chair and wipes
away a tear from each eye. She puts on her jacket for the
presentation by the duke and duchess who walk between the two lines
of ball boys and girls in their bottle green outfits, saying a word
or two to the lucky few, and then come the royal handshakes and
presentations. First Graf with her little runner-up silver plate,
and then Davenport with her big champions’ one.

Now it's the
men's turn. Here they come, Agassi and Sampras, their bags carried
for them because it's the Finals, and the crowd cheers. I want
Agassi to win. I always remember his first win when he was dead
humbled by it and fell onto his face and kissed the turf. He just
came out and entertained us, won us over. But today he's up against
the pounding Sampras serve.

And it's a
dead heavy day outside. All this viewing and lust suddenly catching
up with me ...

I wake to one
of those dead silent moments where there's not a squeak from the
crowd, no commentary, no balls bouncing, no lawnmowers outside.
Just the hush as the world holds its breath, waiting on the
point.

Well done,
Shari, for looking after Gwen. They must have gone out
somewhere.

The first two
sets have slipped away from Agassi already, the sweat running off
him ...

I'm falling
into a sort of trance and the crowd is subdued. They wanted a
five-setter and all. They wanted Agassi to be in this match but
look, it's championship point already. Sampras serves an ace and
that's it. All over except for all the presentations again, only
it's a cup instead of a plate.

Now all that's
left are the Doubles but I might as well watch them before
Wimbledon all packs up. Tomorrow I'll miss the soft thunk of balls,
come evening.

These last few
years they've put together a medley to music, showing all the best
clips and shots and high points of the last fortnight. Tumbles and
somersaults and agonized faces, funny hairstyles and disputed
balls, players falling into the stands, the rain, the pigeons, and
Gwen. Cotters Green and Sunday lunch with our Elliot and thin ham,
bolt-holes, photos of Rosie, Mrs Parrott and fairy cakes, Anne with
the frisson, and Karen with the lipstick teeth and Finbar, and
Shari and feather dusters, and where is Shari anyway? Shari who
says she loves me?

It's the
Ladies' Doubles' Final. I watch as they sway about in a sort of
rhomboid formation, wondering what it is they say to each other
when they're a two, on the same side of the net. They whisper this
and that, and the phone's ringing.

What if it's
June? Calling from Copenhagen? She told Elliot she was going to
phone me at the weekend, didn't she?

"Hullo?"

"Hi,
Bobbie."

"Babs,
hi!"

"Bobbie, I
haven't got long. Tash has just nipped out. But yesterday when I
saw you again ... you did feel the same, didn't you? Or was it just
me?"

She's stunned
me there.

"Well, say
something, Bobbie."

"I felt the
same, Babs."

"I knew
it!"

"But you'll
never leave Tash."

"That's what
I'm phoning about. I am going to leave her. My spirit feels dead
when I'm with her. It's not fair on either of us."

"What are you
saying, Babs?"

"I'm saying
let's go for it! Let's create our own reality. Amsterdam is a
happening place."

"Amsterdam!"
My heart's jumping with excitement. "I've always wanted to go
there."

"Well, come
with me, Bobbie. There's this woman I know out there who needs some
fieldworkers to help her with her research. How much notice d'you
have to give with that job?"

"I'm leaving
tomorrow," I say in a low voice. "I've had enough."

"OK, I'll call
you at Elliot's." She sighs, her breath amplified down the wires.
"I want you, Bobbie. I've missed all our fiery conversations. I've
missed your hot flanks, girl!"

"Missed you
too, Babs."

"Here's Tash.
Better dash! Call you soon, tra."

*

Babs!
Amsterdam!

But life's
going to be momentous for me, after all.

The four
players are still rocking in their rhomboid shape but the house is
dead quiet. Only it's not that reassuring silence you get in
Wimbledon where any minute you'll hear the ball bounce and the
clapping, and did Shari take Gwen out somewhere? And why have I got
this sick feeling that Rosie's letter's not been posted or even
stamped? That it's not in one piece but creeping under the drains
in torn up little bits?

Of course.
It's just struck me. Shari wouldn't want Rosie here, complicating
everything, would she?

I start
walking towards Gwen's room but something's stopping me from
opening the door. Something terrible's happened but there's that
quantum physics thing that Babs and Colin talked about, the cat in
the box. Schrödinger's cat, which could be dead or could be alive
but you won't know which until you open the box and if you don't
open it, it could still go either way. So I won't open the door and
then everything might still be as it was. I go back upstairs where
I'm still seeing double on the screen, and the two women, one of
them Davenport again, take hold of a cup handle each.

Everything's
going to be all right.

Everything's
going to be all right because I'm off to Amsterdam.

I come over
dead weary again and lie down on the bed. The distant claps and
whistles between rallies fade into sleep where everything is
normal. Gwen's sitting in her armchair in her fawn dress and
slippers, her puffy legs apart, spittle at the corners of her
mouth. She's tipping her head forward to see over her
reading-glasses, muttering something about Back to Basics and I
look beyond the green damask curtains to a court the size of a
stadium. It's dead lush and there's these cloud-white champions
with gold sinewy limbs playing their green balls, slow motion.
They're bright green those balls, dazzling green. They're bouncing
high, higher, right above the trees, way on up to the sky
...

I think I hear
Shari whisper, "I did it for you. So you could watch your Wimbledon
in peace."

So there's
still a blond teenager left in the tournament, they work their way
up through the rounds, unseeded. They'll play to the death, but it
all gets too much sometimes when they think you're thwarting them.
Then they forget how to keep their cool, they raise their rackets
high and thrash them down so hard that they break and the umpire
says,

Code
Violation, Racket Abuse, Warning Miss ...

I open my eyes
with a pinprick of hope, before slipping off again to the
in-between world ...

I think
I hear Shari again. "I did it for you, Bobbie. So you could watch
the finals but you've got someone else. I heard you on the
phone
.
"
She's standing above me, hands behind her back,
hiding something. Not a letter or tennis racket but something
heavy. Slate-heavy. Mrs Parrott's vulgar lamp heavy.
"You're not leaving me next week. Not
ever
.
"

But she
underestimates the competitor in me. I know the game too well,
every retaliating stroke in the book, and my surprise forearm
volley turns the weapon on her. Then I start walking towards Gwen's
room because I like Gwen, I really do, and there's still
Schrödinger's cat ...

####

About the
author:

Kate Rigby was
born in Crosby, Liverpool and now lives in Devon. She studied
Psychology at Southampton, though she’s given up paid work on
health grounds. She’s written 14 books (several published) and some
short stories published or shortlisted. She’s been writing novels
for over thirty years now. She loves cats, singing, music,
photography and LFC.

Discover other
titles by Kate Rigby:

About the
author:

Kate Rigby was
born in Crosby, Liverpool and now lives in Devon. She studied
Psychology at Southampton, though she’s given up paid work on
health grounds. She’s written 14 books (several published) and some
short stories published or shortlisted. She’s been writing novels
for over thirty years now. She loves cats, singing, music,
photography and LFC.