Imogen (3 page)
After talking to the vicar about rugger for five minutes, and having wangled himself an invitation to lunch next day, Beresford turned his attention to Imogen.
‘Well, you certainly threw me,’ he said softly. ‘It’s a good thing there weren’t any Davis Cup selectors about.’
‘I’m so pleased you won,’ stammered Imogen.
‘And I’m pleased,’ he looked straight into her eyes, ‘that you’re even more beautiful close up.’
So was he, thought Imogen. Far more beautiful, with dark smudges under his eyes, and damp tendrils curling round his forehead. His voice was low and confiding as though she were the only person in the world he wanted to talk to.
And although he asked the usual questions – What did she do for a living? Did she enjoy it? Did she ever come to London? – his smoky voice, and the way his eyes wandered over her body and her face, made even those familiar phrases sound significant.
A pale youth with long mousy hair, wearing a v-necked sweater with reindeers round the border, came up and cleared his throat. Nicky looked up without enthusiasm.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m from Yorkshire Television,’ said the youth. ‘I wonder if we could have a few words with you?’
‘When?’ said Nicky.
‘Well now?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘I’ll talk to you after the doubles. Now beat it,’ said Nicky curtly, and turned back to Imogen.
She gazed at him, bewildered by such perfection. Perhaps it was the black rim round the iris or the thickness of the lashes that gave his blue eyes their intensity. His suntan was so even, it looked painted on. And he’d actually called her beautiful. Later that night she would bring out the remark like an iced cake saved from tea murmuring it over and over to herself, trying to remember exactly the husky smouldering overtones of his voice.
‘Where d’you play next?’ she asked. The thought of him going away was already unbearable.
Nicky grinned. ‘Rome on Monday, Paris the week after, then Edinburgh, Wimbledon, Gstaad, Kitzbühel, and then the North American circuit, Washington, Indianapolis, Toronto, finally Forest Hills, if I don’t die of exhaustion.’
Imogen gasped. Scotland was the most abroad she’d ever been to.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said. ‘Think of the postcards one could send.’
Nicky laughed. ‘I could face it if you came with me,’ he said, lowering his voice.
Imogen blushed and gazed into her tea cup.
Nicky watched her for a second. ‘Trying to read the tea-leaves? They’re telling you that a tall, dark, tennis player has just come into your life,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ said a voice behind them. ‘I see you’ve got yourself stuck in as usual, Nicky.’
They had been so engrossed, they hadn’t noticed the arrival of a stocky, grinning young man. He was chewing gum and wearing a gold earring, a pale blue tracksuit top and a blue towelling headband to keep his blond hair from flying about.
‘I came to see the reason you dropped three games in the singles,’ he said.
‘This is it,’ said Nicky.
Once more Imogen felt herself colouring painfully.
‘Congratulations,’ said the young man, giving Imogen a comprehensive once-over and shifting his gum to the other side of his face. ‘You always had good taste, Nicky.’
‘This is Charlie Painter,’ said Nicky. ‘My doubles partner. Fancies himself as a tough guy.’
‘I don’t take anything lying down, except pretty girls,’ said Painter, winking at Juliet. ‘Look, if you can bear to tear yourself away, we’re on court in a minute.’
‘I can’t,’ said Nicky, turning his steady, knowing smile on Imogen again. ‘You don’t need me. You can thrash those two creeps with your hands behind your back.’
‘The light’s terrible. It’s going to be like playing in a coal cellar,’ said Painter, peering out of the tent.
‘Well, appeal against it,’ said Nicky. ‘You know I’m frightened of the dark and I want to go on chatting up Miss Brocklehurst.’
Imogen shot a fearful glance at her father, but happily he was still nose to nose with the Club Secretary, rhapsodising over Hancock’s try.
The loudspeaker hiccupped and announced the finals of the men’s doubles. Reluctantly Nicky got to his feet.
‘There’s a party here this evening, I wonder if you – and your sister, of course,’ he added smiling at Juliet, ‘would like to come?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ began Imogen, but the vicar promptly looked round.
‘Good of you to ask them,’ he said blandly, ‘but I’m afraid they’ve already been booked to help at the Mothers’ Union whist drive. We shall look forward to seeing you at lunch tomorrow, any time after half past twelve.’
Both Imogen and Juliet opened their mouths in protest, then shut them again. They knew their father. Just for a second Nicky’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled.
‘I shall look forward to it too,’ he said, and followed Painter out of the tent.
‘Sod the Mothers’ Union,’ muttered Juliet.
‘I know you like them below the age of consent,’ said Painter, as they walked towards the No. 1 Court, ‘but isn’t she a bit wet behind the ears?’
‘Older than she looks, left school two years ago,’ said Nicky, pausing to sign a couple of autographs. ‘And very nice, don’t you think?’
‘Sweet,’ agreed Painter, signing them too.
‘And entirely untouched by human hand,’ said Nicky, ‘which makes a change.’
‘We were the first that ever burst into that sunless sea,’ said Painter and laughed. ‘All the same, you’ll never get your spoon into that pudding. Bet the old Rev locks them both in chastity belts every night.’
‘He’s asked me to lunch.’
‘So what? He’ll still never let you get near enough to pull her.’
‘Want to bet?’ said Nicky, taking a racket out of its press, and making a few swipes with it. ‘Bugger, my shoulder’s playing up again.’
‘A fiver,’ said Painter, taking off his blue jacket.
‘Make it a tenner,’ said Nicky, flexing his shoulder.
‘All right, you’re on.’
As he and Painter took the first set 6–0, Nicky was aware of the vicar and his daughters watching him. He was glad his first serve went in each time, and for once volleys, smashes, lobs, drop shots, everything, worked. He was getting to the ball so quickly he had time to examine it for bugs before he hit it. This was the kind of barnstorming form he’d got to maintain for the rest of the season. He flashed his teeth at Imogen and saw she was about to go.
Nicky had reached the age of twenty-six without ever falling seriously in love. He had had affairs by the score – there were endless temptations on the tennis circuit. If you were superbly fit, you didn’t just go to bed and read a book in the evenings. If you won, you wanted to celebrate, if you lost you needed cheering up. But on the whole his heart was more resilient than his self respect. From broken affairs he recovered rapidly without any need of convalescence. They left no scars and no regrets and sometimes he was sorry they didn’t, thinking he was missing out on something other people had and seemed to value, although it caused them anguish at the time.
Recently, too, he had felt a vague dissastisfaction with his life. There had been trouble about his knocking off another player’s wife, a Mexican beauty, whose insanely jealous husband had rumbled them. The reason Nicky was playing in Pikely this week rather than Hamburg was in the hope that the whole thing might blow over. Then last week an offer of an advertising commercial which would have brought him in several thousand a year had suddenly gone instead to another British player, who, although less glamorous than Nicky, had reached the finals of the big tournaments more often than Nicky had the preceding year. Finally, the night before he’d driven up to Pikely, his Coach had taken him out to dinner.
‘What are you playing at, Nicky boy?’ he had asked after the second bottle, with his usual mixture of bluntness and concern. ‘You’ve got everything going for you, but you’re not getting any younger, and you’ll never make it really big unless you cut out the birds and the booze and the late nights. Haven’t you ever thought of settling down?’
Nicky had replied that he had too much trouble settling up in life to think of any permanent commitment. His debts were crippling at the moment, he said, and they had both laughed. But the Coach’s remarks had stung and Nicky had not forgotten them.
As the crowd clapped approvingly at the end of the set, Mr Brocklehurst dragged his protesting daughters away, saying they mustn’t be late for the whist drive. Nicky had looked so sensational on court that Imogen could hardly believe their
tête-à-tête
in the tea tent had ever taken place, but as she left he had waved his racket at her, so it must be true.
tête-à-tête
in the tea tent had ever taken place, but as she left he had waved his racket at her, so it must be true.
As they drove home to the vicarage with Juliet’s bike perched precariously on the roof rack, they passed a school friend of Juliet’s riding home from a gymkhana festooned with rosettes, who gave them a lordly wave with her whip.
‘Just showing off, silly bitch,’ muttered Juliet.
‘10p in the swear box,’ reproached the vicar, but mildly, because he doted on his younger daughter.
As he crossed the River Darrow and took the road up to the moors, he, too, felt a faint dissatisfaction with life. Watching Beresford today had reminded him of his youth on the rugger field. He had been good looking too, and had experienced the same adulation from women and hero-worship from men.
‘Having achieved the ultimate glory of playing rugger for England,’ said an unkind fellow clergyman, ‘Steve Brocklehurst spent the rest of his life in exhausted mediocrity.’
Mr Brocklehurst was also only too aware that another great athlete, David Shepherd, had made bishop. But no such promotion had come his way. No doubt he would be left to moulder away the rest of his life in Pikely, where the adoration of the spinsters of the parish was no substitute for the stands rising at Twickenham. In his more gloomy moments the vicar thought there was a great deal to be said for an athlete dying young, cut off in his prime, rather than growing paunchy and rheumaticky.
Life, however, had its compensations. He was well respected in the district; no local committee was complete without him; he loved his garden and his games of golf, and his vague, charming wife, probably in that order. His two sons, both at boarding school and costing the earth, were shaping up as excellent athletes. Michael was already in the fifteen. Juliet, adorable, insouciant, the baby of the family, could twist him round her little finger.
But as a man of God, it had always nagged his conscience, like a bit of apple core wedged in one’s teeth, that his elder daughter, Imogen, got on his nerves. In the beginning he’d resented her not being a boy; as she grew up he was irritated by her clumsiness, her dreaminess, her slowness, her tender heart (how easily he could reduce her to tears), her inability to stand up to him, and her complete lack of athleticism. He still remembered a humiliating gym display at her school a few years ago, when Imogen had been the only one in her class who totally failed to get over any of the apparatus. He had also been deeply ashamed of her lumpiness, but at least she’d slimmed down a bit lately, and she’d kept her job in the library, which helped out with the housekeeping. (Money was very tight, with three children still at school.) But why did she have to agree with everything he said, like one of those nodding doggies in the back of cars?
There was no doubt, though, that young Beresford seemed taken with her, and needed keeping an eye on. The vicar might not love his elder daughter, but he wouldn’t let her come to any harm. He had been a bit of a lad himself in his day and, like most reformed rakes, he veered towards repressive puritanism where his daughters were concerned. He was only too aware of the lusts of young players after too much beer.
Next moment he caught sight of his curate on his shiny new red racing bicycle, with its drop handlebars which the vicar thought both undignified and far too young for him. He waited until they were only a few yards behind the curate, then sounded his horn loudly, which made the poor young man nearly ride into the ditch.
The vicar chuckled to himself and turned up the drive. The vicarage was one of those draughty Victorian houses, made only slightly less forbidding by the creepers and rambler roses surging up its dark grey walls, and the wallflowers and purple irises in the front flower beds. At the back of the house was a lawn long enough for a cricket pitch, where Imogen bowled endlessly to her younger brothers when they were home. On either side were herbaceous borders, and at the end long grass and bluebells growing round the trunks of an ancient orchard.
As they opened the front door, Homer, the golden retriever, his eyes screwed up from sleep, greeted them, singing with pleasure, looking frantically round for something to bring them and settling for a pair of socks lying on the floor.
Going through the hall, with its old coats hanging on a row of pegs and a pile of parish magazines waiting to be delivered, Imogen found her mother in the drawing-room, looking rather pious and virtuously sewing buttons on one of her father’s shirts. She knew perfectly well that her mother had been reading a novel and had shoved it under the shirt the moment she heard wheels on the gravel.
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