Deep Water (19 page)

‘Then they won’t notice if you’re slow.’

‘Who said I am?’ His freckled face gazed back resentfully.

‘Oh all right … inexperienced. Darling, I can’t change things now.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Justin had been leaning against one of the net posts, as if indifferent to what was being decided, so Andrea was disturbed to see the look of joy that lit his face as Leo walked away.

Even while they were knocking up, Justin showed what a remarkably efficient supplier of tennis balls he was. Never for a moment did she or Mike have to wait. By contrast, Sally’s son, Mark, often had to stoop or leap awkwardly for the balls Justin flung his way. Sally herself fared only marginally better. Touched by Justin’s partisanship, Andrea said nothing. Before they started playing in earnest, Mike had a word with him about the need to be more sporting.

Almost from the moment they began their first and only set, Andrea played far above what she thought of as her normal form. Freed from the need to direct easy shots to her girls, so that even the no-hopers
could return them, she found herself hitting with the same pinpoint accuracy but with a power that surprised her. Mike’s admiring looks embarrassed her at first, but, as game followed game, she began to enjoy his praise as her natural due.

‘So dreary,’ muttered Sally to her son, ‘most Americans start tennis lessons when they’re two or three.’

Sally played a stately game, with solid ground strokes, but showing no inclination to run for the ball. Consequently, she missed most of her volleys. Her son played better at the net, but was reluctant to poach on his mother’s side of the court and so lost numerous points he would easily have won had he not been inhibited by his fear of offending her.

Occasionally, Andrea poached from Mike, which always made him laugh. In fact he was a stylish, though erratic player, who mixed plenty of double faults with good serves and tended to smash balls out on points when a drop shot would have been best. Yet as the game went on, he played with more control, and as his shots improved, Andrea had trouble stopping herself from kissing him passionately, when he won a fiercely contested point. As it was, they only ever touched fingers very briefly, when handing over a ball – a most infrequent event, given Justin’s prowess as a ball boy.

Once, while changing ends, Andrea heard one of the officers on the next court shout at Leo, before serving, ‘Balls come in pairs, lad, so where’s my second?’ Though the man had obviously meant to
be funny, Leo plainly longed to sink beneath the court’s dusty surface.

Quite often, Andrea saw Peter applauding Mike’s shots, and again found herself wishing that he had not taken such a liking to him. It would also have been easier on her conscience if Peter had argued against coming here, or had at least complained because Mike had broken his promise to bring ropes and pulleys to the house for the boys’ scientific amusement. But though Peter had mentioned this earlier arrangement to Andrea before being told about the tennis, he had shown no irritation at all when the change of plan had been presented as a
fait
accompli.

After their easy victory, Andrea left the court with Mike and chatted amiably with Peter, whose praise for her playing struck her as disingenuous. He could easily have suggested she continue to play with other people after he had ceased to be able to partner her himself, but he had never said anything of the sort. So Andrea had virtually given up the game, except when coaching girls.

Andrea’s and Mike’s next match was against Miss Millington-Harris. But since Elspeth had paired this former county player with Dr Lowther, whose game was extremely rusty, points could easily be won by returning exclusively to him. As soon as Mike and Andrea had discovered the doctor’s weak
backhand
, they exploited it ruthlessly. Starved of the ball, Miss Millington-Harris was soon making
increasingly
desperate interceptions at full stretch.

‘Show some sportsmanship,’ screeched Sally,
appalled by the sorry figure her husband was
cutting
.

‘Pah! We play to win,’ laughed Mike, sending a tantalising lob looping over the tip of the doctor’s racquet.

Soon after Sally’s interjection, Andrea began to take on Miss Millington-Harris directly, finding, to her amazement, that she won as many points as she lost.

After a string of archaic oaths, the champion was heard to mutter, ‘Dashed impossible to play against a rotten length.’

During this game, Leo acted as their ball boy
without
causing any annoyance, but without matching Justin’s seamless delivery. As soon as the game ended, he congratulated his mother and said that, since he and Justin had now ball-boyed once each for her, they ought to toss for who was given the final. Knowing that Justin deserved to be chosen on merit, Andrea was trying to think how to disappoint her son without upsetting him too much, when Mike came over.

‘Look, old chap, no offence meant, but Justin’s so dashed good, you two ought to do the job together.’

‘What if I want to toss up instead?’ A smudge of the reddish dust from the court was streaked across the boy’s forehead.

‘That wouldn’t be fair on Justin,’ replied Mike in a firm but friendly voice.

‘Why should
you
decide? We’re not your sailors.’ Leo was almost too breathless to get his words out.

‘What’s gotten into you, Leo?’ cried Andrea,
horrified
by her son’s hostility.

Leo went on in a quavering voice, ‘Justin’s so quick and clever, but I’m so clumsy, aren’t I, mum?’ He turned to Mike tearfully. ‘I wouldn’t ball-boy with your little pet if you begged me.’

‘What side of the bed did he get out of?’ exclaimed Mike, as Leo stumbled away.

Andrea watched Peter lever himself out of his garden chair and stagger towards them.

‘My God, what’s up with Leo?’

Andrea studied the grass. ‘He won’t let Justin ball-boy with him in the final.’

Peter frowned. ‘Not like him at all. I bet he and Justin have fallen out over something else.’

‘Seemed like a fit of jealousy to me,’ murmured Mike.

‘But why?’ ruminated Peter. ‘Leo shouldn’t be jealous of Justin … if anything, it should be the other way round.’

Mike was about to mention the way the boys competed for his attention but thought better of it.

Over by the table where Elspeth was serving drinks, Andrea saw Leo say something to Justin. She could not hear his words, but they froze Justin where he stood. By the time Andrea reached the spot, Leo was walking towards the house and Justin was trying not to sob. Andrea put an arm round him.

‘What’s wrong, honey?’

Tears were trembling on the boy’s long lashes. ‘I can’t come back in August. Leo just told me.’

‘I don’t know if we’ll do that ourselves.’

‘I won’t see Mike any more.’ Justin’s voice was very small and frail.

‘Sure you will.’

‘Maybe he’ll come to Yorkshire once or twice. Then finito.’

‘Hey, nothing’s decided,’ she soothed, shaken by his distress, and feeling furious with Leo.

Suddenly he could not hold back his tears. ‘It’s no good,’ he sobbed, ‘Leo won’t change his mind.’

‘He might if I twist his arm.’

But, ten minutes later, as Andrea stepped out onto the court for the final, she doubted whether she would be able to change her son’s mind. Indeed it would be wrong to try to force him to.

As she and Mike were struggling and failing to overwhelm a tall
RAF
officer and his well-built wife, it bothered Andrea that Leo had not returned to help Justin with the balls. His absence seemed to
underscore
his determination to stick with his decision. Perhaps Justin was aware of this. At any rate his face was heartbreakingly sad as he moved about the court.

‘What the hell’s the matter with Justin?’ muttered Mike, while they were changing ends.

‘Tell you later.’

It must be whatever her introverted son had said, thought Mike. And, very likely, the boy’s remarks also explained Andrea’s mysterious loss of form. Though not addicted to winning, in the present circumstances Mike definitely wanted to. Having always considered Wing Commander Bertie Harrison a pompous fool, it offended him to be
facing defeat at his and his wife’s pudgy hands. As if he had fallen from a sunlit cloud, Mike suddenly understood how insubstantial his illusion of brilliance had been. To win points now, he found himself obliged to do something he loathed: volley from right under Andrea’s nose and whip these stolen balls at Jane Harrison’s sturdy legs. But such tactics only stemmed the tide for a few games.

As Andrea thwacked another half-volley into the net, Mike took twisted consolation from observing Peter’s pain as his wife’s game fell apart. The man could have been forgiven if he’d resented Andrea’s success in the earlier sets. After all,
he
would never play again. But no matter – while Andrea’s
racquet
had been magically putting away ball after ball, Peter’s face had been transfigured. Still more surprising to Mike had been the scientist’s keen enjoyment of
his
best shots. Was there even
something
nostalgic about this appreciation, as if Peter were watching Andrea and
himself
playing
together before illness had struck him down? Certainly – when the match had been lost, and the posturing wing commander was boasting that there had only been ‘one or two moments’ when he’d feared he might lose – Peter commiserated most
sympathetically
with Mike.

‘Don’t you have something nice to say to me, too?’ muttered Andrea, as she sank down into a chair. Mike thought how radiant she looked with a bloom of colour in her cheeks and her red-gold hair falling free.

‘Maybe it was just one game too many for you,’
suggested Peter kindly. ‘You were fantastic till then, my love.’

Seeing them together, as an obviously married couple, Mike felt as if the ground had opened under him. If he failed to come back from France, they would simply stay together and carry on with their lives. Andrea would weep for a while, and would admit to their affair, promising that it would never happen again. Peter would forgive her, of course. With a wife like Andrea, what else could he be expected to do? Her grief would encourage him to forgive her very quickly. But that had always been the way things were likely to work out, when statistical probability finally had its way with him. His eyes were still fixed upon Andrea as a light hand touched his arm.

‘Bad luck about losing.’

Mike swung round and saw Justin pulling an exaggeratedly despondent face. He smiled. ‘As the poet said, what matters is not the winning, but playing the game.’

‘It’s still nice to win.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Mike put a hand on Justin’s shoulder and guided him away from Andrea and Peter. ‘You’re upset.’

Justin picked up Mike’s racquet and started rolling a ball back and forth across the strings. ‘I won’t see you in the summer.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Leo won’t ask me here again.’

‘You may be wrong about that. In any case, I may not still be stationed here.’ He paused. ‘In fact
I may not even be around.’ The ball fell from the racquet, but Justin replaced it. ‘I’m really sorry, Justin, but that needed saying.’

‘As if I didn’t know.’

‘Of course you did. You’re a sensitive person, and that’s why I’d really hate it if you felt lousy for a long time. Will you promise to get back to normal quite soon afterwards.’

‘What if I can’t?’

‘You must try.’

‘Why?’ The question flicked out bitterly.

Mike said very quietly, ‘Because it’s what I want, and because you owe yourself something a lot better than the grief you’ve been through.’ The boy was still rolling the ball round inside the rim of the racquet. ‘Okay, sermon over. Believe me, I’m not planning to pop my clogs just yet.’

Justin looked at Mike solemnly for a moment. ‘Wouldn’t someone have to pop them
for
you?’

‘You’re right.’ Mike was surprised to see Justin smiling. Somehow he managed to smile back as the boy tossed aside the racquet and hugged him.

*

Leo and Justin were washing and getting ready for bed.

‘Funny the way tennis court dirt sticks between your toes,’ said Leo, rubbing at it with a finger.

Justin watched him without speaking. His heart was hammering and he longed to scream his hatred. Instead he sat on the side of the bath next to the geyser, which reminded him of a ship’s boiler. He no longer knew why he had liked Leo. He hadn’t
backed him up one bit when he’d been trying to find out about the trawlers – the opposite really. His feet were too long and thin for his size and his freckles had all joined up across his face making his eyelashes and eyebrows look peculiarly white. In Kenya, Justin had once seen an albino and had been shocked by the strange pink blotchiness of the child’s skin, and by his white eyebrows. At school, saying someone looked as bad as that would usually make him cry. Sometimes Justin had made himself think of his father’s charred flesh, before saying the cruellest thing he could think of to whoever crossed his path. Why should they get off scot-free, without a day’s unhappiness?

‘Why did you upset your mum before that game?’

Leo was cleaning his teeth and went on scrubbing until spitting noisily. ‘You were the one who looked like a sick cow before the game.
You
upset her, not me.’

‘I could make you cry for days.’ For a moment Justin was not sure he had spoken. He had certainly been
thinking
this. But the way Leo’s toothbrush hovered in the air put the matter beyond doubt. At last Leo put it down, and swilled his mouth.

‘You don’t scare me.’

Justin knocked the geyser with a clenched fist as if intending violence. Then he said suavely, ‘You know I said my bike had been borrowed in the night.’

‘You said you’d lied.’

‘Well, it
was
borrowed.’

Leo started for the door, but Justin stuck out a leg to stop him. ‘I want to go to bed,’ Leo complained.

Justin held him around the waist. ‘Your mother took it.’