Fifth Year Friendships at Trebizon Page 6

  'What glittering future's that, Rebecca?'

  'Oh, only a joke,' said Rebecca quickly.

  She couldn't tell Mrs Barry, not yet! It would be all round the staff room – Miss Welbeck would get to hear. And it wasn't even definite yet. And when the time came, it wouldn't be up to her to say anything. It would be up to her parents! They'd write a proper letter.

  Her parents. They should have had her letter about a week ago – and one from Mr Lasky by now, surely? They weren't exactly rushing to reply. She'd been expecting to hear from them any day. No letter had arrived.

  Perhaps they were up country, away from base. Or perhaps they needed time to reflect. Once they'd thought about it, they'd see what a wonderful opportunity it was for Rebecca, even though they weren't very interested in tennis themselves, wouldn't they?

  Meanwhile, on the long car journey to her Great-Aunt Ivy's house in Bath, Rebecca had plenty of time herself to reflect. Leaning back palely against the headrest, hands partly clenched, her body taut and unrelaxed, she could feel the tension slowly building up inside her.

  She'd burnt her boats now. She wasn't going to do as well in her GCSEs as she'd once hoped. Not even in the French. She wouldn't be going to Paris now. She'd have to tell M. Lafarge. She'd tell him next week. Emmanuelle would be upset. Perhaps M. Lafarge would be able to find someone else to go in her place.

  She'd sacrificed everything: for the tennis.

  So her whole future turned on the Bristol tournament now.

  Mr Lasky would be there in person, watching her.

  She mustn't lose a single match. She mustn't lose a single set. She mustn't lose a single game. She mustn't lose a single POINT!

  The pressure was on.

  TEN

  BREAK POINT

  'You're very irritable, young lady, if you don't mind my saying so,' said Great-Aunt Ivy on the Sunday night. 'Surely you can wash up those few dishes for me? Wait till you're old with arthritic hands like mine, that's all I can say! I don't mind cooking you a nice supper when you come in from your tennis, but I don't see why I should have to wash up the dishes as well.'

  'Sorry, Aunty Ivy,' sighed Rebecca. She felt like screaming at her father's aunt. She did go on so. 'I only said I was going to do them in a minute.'

  'You said it rather rudely, my girl. When I was fifteen years of age I didn't answer back . . .'

  Rebecca went over to the sink and started washing up, trying to close her ears to the sound of the old lady's wearisome, plaintive tones. At the same time she felt rather ashamed of herself. She had been snappy just now about the dishes. Poor old Aunty, she lived on her own, she was used to her little routine. When Rebecca had stayed with her before, they'd got along all right. It only required a little kindness, being patient, listening to all Aunty's troubles and making a bit of a fuss of her.

  But this weekend was different. Everything about this tournament was different.

  Rebecca's nerves felt stretched taut, like worn-out elastic, stretched and stretched and about to snap at any minute.

  It was the tournament that was doing it.

  And tomorrow would be the big crunch.

  She'd be playing Rachel Cathcart in the final. She'd always known they'd be rivals but of course she'd never dreamt they'd be playing for the same stakes.

  Last year's four semi-finalists having moved up to become 18–U players, Rachel and Rebecca had been placed in the opposite halves of the draw. They were seeded to meet each other in the final.

  Rebecca arrived at the tournament on the Saturday morning to discover that, because of her brilliant performance in that senior inter-county fixture last weekend, she was top seed for the 16–U! She was expected to defeat Rachel, the number two seed, and win the tournament!

  It was an awesome responsibility and did nothing to ease her tension.

  Nor did Rachel's parents. Mr and Mrs Cathcart were very much in evidence. They'd booked into a hotel right next to the beflagged stadium and they stuck around like limpets. They complained about the seeding, saying that their daughter should have been the top seed. They complained loudly and bitterly about any close line calls that went against their daughter. They verbally abused their daughter after each match and told her everything she'd done wrong. They were, according to dressing-room gossip, a menace and had been banned from several junior tournaments last season.

  The reason for their heightened tension at Bristol soon became obvious to Rebecca.

  It was because Mr Lasky was there.

  Rebecca spotted the bespectacled, middle-aged man in the bright blue jacket on the first morning, during her opening-round match. He was sitting next to Miss Brogan, in the best seats, right behind the canvas. Miss Brogan waved to her at one point as she was changing ends, so Rebecca knew that the man in the next seat must be the famous agent.

  She won her first match comfortably, but by the time she came off court the couple had already left their seats.

  However, Rachel Cathcart was on next, and the couple immediately reappeared. That was when Rebecca realized.

  You can count on Mr Lasky coming to Bristol in person, Brenda Brogan had told her, the day she'd driven her back to school. You'll be the second young player he'll be watching there.

  Of course! Rachel Cathcart.

  She was that second young player. She, like Rebecca, was in with a chance of a contract.

  If any further confirmation were needed, the looks that Mr and Mrs Cathcart gave Rebecca over the course of the weekend told her everything she needed to know.

  The Cathcarts were ordinary people themselves, but from the moment they'd realized that Rachel's remarkable talent for tennis might one day make the family's fortune, everything else in their lives had taken second place.

  Now this fair-haired girl called Rebecca Mason, this upstart who'd appeared from nowhere in the last couple of years, could possibly stand in the way of the contract for Rachel they'd worked so hard for!

  If looks could kill, Rebecca would have died several times over, that weekend.

  But all this remained unspoken. As for Herman Lasky and the glamorous Brenda Brogan, they kept their heads down. They never came near either player while the tournament was running its course. They were just silent figures on the sidelines, making notes, watching each girl's tennis (first round, second round, quarter finals, semi-finals) as Rebecca and Rachel progressed inexorably to Monday's final.

  'You look pale, Rebecca,' said Mrs Barrington. 'Are you sure you feel all right?'

  'I'm fine, Mrs Barry,' Rebecca replied edgily.

  It was mid-morning on the Monday. Mrs Barrington had come to collect Rebecca from Great-Aunt Ivy's house. Rebecca's suitcase was in the hall, ready packed. They'd be going back to Trebizon this evening.

  'We'll be popping back to Bath after the match, Rebecca,' her housemistress explained, as Rebecca gave her great-aunt a dry little peck on the cheek. 'You can collect your case then.' Mrs Barry smiled at the elderly lady. 'I'm sure Miss Mason will want to hear how you got on.'

  Lady Bacon, the old school friend with whom Mrs Barry had been staying in Bath, was sitting in the car. Joan Barrington was beginning to enjoy these annual trips, driving Rebecca to the Bristol tournament, then shopping and sightseeing in Bath with her oldest friend. She was delighted that Rebecca had reached the final this year, so she'd bought tickets for Georgina and herself. Rebecca's great-aunt hadn't wanted one.

  She'd be giving her friend a lift back to Bath afterwards, and collecting her own case. So Rebecca could say her goodbyes to her relative then. Surely old Miss Mason would want to hear how her great-niece had done?

  'We're looking forward to this, Rebecca,' said Mrs Barry as she drove out of the lovely Roman city and took the Bristol road. 'Aren't we, Georgina?'

  'Yes, indeed,' said Lady Bacon. 'I've heard so much about you, Rebecca.'

  Rebecca just sat there, stiff with tension. Why had Mrs Barry brought her friend to watch? Did she have to?

  She'd never felt so lo
nely in her life.

  She had no one to talk to. Twice, as Mrs Barry had driven her into Bristol, she'd almost blurted everything out – just how much was at stake this weekend. But each time her mouth had gone dry and she'd fallen silent.

  Rachel Cathcart was insufferable.

  Dark-haired, very pretty, very tough – and a showoff. She seemed to have an unlimited supply of stunning tennis outfits, and one of those white tennis jackets that Rebecca had always wanted.

  In the dressing-rooms yesterday, just before Rebecca's semi-final, she'd said, demoralizingly:

  'I think clothes are awfully important, don't you, Rebecca? To how one plays? Don't you find those tops a bit boring? You ought to get some sponsorships. Mummy and Daddy got me a contract with Dee Designs, aren't they clever?'

  'I get my rackets free,' Rebecca had replied snappily. She had four altogether; she was testing the tension on one of them right now. Good. Just how she liked it. 'That's enough to be going on with.'

  Brave words. She'd walked out on court five minutes later, wondering if the entire crowd was staring critically at her boring tennis top.

  Each day, too, masses of flowers arrived for Rachel. She seemed to have a lot of boyfriends.

  Rebecca received one small bouquet. Carnations, with a small card tucked amongst them: Good luck. Robbie. xxxx. She was almost moved to tears by them, by the fact that Robbie had remembered and been thoughtful.

  But they didn't look much beside all Rachel's flowers.

  Rebecca knew that she was being rather silly. If only her friends had been around, to talk to! How they'd laugh at someone like Rachel Cathcart. What wouldn't Tish be saying! In fact, if Rebecca hadn't hated her so much, she'd have felt deeply sorry for the girl. Her parents were monsters! They were turning their daughter into one, too!

  So it was that Rebecca felt completely alone.

  She'd gone to bed early on Sunday night after the little wrangle over the washing-up, exhausted by the day's matches. This morning she'd breakfasted late. Now she was being driven to Bristol. She'd have a glucose drink when she got there, then half an hour's warm-up on one of the outside courts. Then . . .

  At two o'clock; the final.

  She'd chosen tennis, hadn't she? She'd let everything else slide, hadn't she? So she couldn't and she mustn't fail. Her inside felt like a tightly coiled spring.

  At the competitors' entrance to the stadium, Rebecca handed Mrs Barrington something before they went their separate ways.

  It was her battered old teddy bear, Biffy.

  'Will you hold him for me during the match, Mrs Barry?' she pleaded.

  'Of course I will, Rebecca.'

  Both women thought how tense she looked.

  Rebecca was barely conscious of the crowd; or of Rachel Cathcart's parents in the front row, leaning forward, noses over the canvas, almost falling into the court. She was conscious only of Mr Lasky, sitting there in his usual seat. And of her opponent, Rachel herself.

  What a slippery customer she was. So tenacious. Her serve seemingly impossible to break.

  Every point had to be fought for, with long and exhausting rallies. Every game had gone to deuce. Rebecca felt as though the match had been dragging on for hours, as though she'd already played several sets. But it was still only the first set!

  Six games all in the first set.

  'Tie-break,' announced the umpire.

  Rebecca ground her teeth. She knew she had to win this tie-break. She knew she had to win this set. If she lost this set, she'd lose the match!

  Rachel served first. An ace. 1–0.

  Rebecca then served a fault. Her second serve was too short. Rachel put it away. 2–0. Rebecca's next serve was fast and an exciting rally followed, which she lost. 3-0 to Rachel.

  Then her opponent became over-confident, putting two smashes out and returning Rebecca's next service into the net.

  3-3. Change ends.

  Rebecca towelled her face and hands, on the way. She could hear Mr Cathcart snarling something at his daughter. But there was only one thing Rebecca cared about.

  Winning..

  The next four points produced quite dazzling rallies, each girl fighting as though her life depended on it. Rebecca levelled the score at 5–5 with a brilliant serve, followed up by a winning volley that brought applause from the crowd.

  Rebecca took a deep breath.

  She had one serve left, then it would be Rachel to serve again. And she was almost invincible on her service. So if Rebecca let Rachel break her service on this point, she'd almost certainly lose the tie-break; the set; and, most likely, the match.

  Rebecca took two more deep breaths, to steady herself, the way Robbie had taught her. She must make it a perfect serve, an ace. She threw the ball up, straight, true, arched her back and swung the racket right back so that it touched between her shoulder blades as her coaches had shown her a hundred times . . .

  A tremendous swing, a twist of the racket head, to get spin. Bring it down . . .

  Contact!

  An ace – surely an ace!

  The service fizzed almost unstoppably. Rachel lunged. Got her racket to it. And hit it into the net.

  'FAULT!'

  Rebecca stared in disbelief. She felt as though she were breaking apart.

  'No!' she screamed.

  She ran over to the umpire's chair. Press cameras were flashing. she heard her own voice, as though from a long way off, as though it were someone else's voice:

  'That call was crazy!' she shouted in a white rage. 'That serve was in! It wasn't out – it was in!'

  The umpire was already saying something into his microphone:

  'Over-rule. The serve was in. Miss Mason leads 6–5.'

  Pandemonium broke out. Rachel threw her racket down.

  'It was called out!' she cried. 'You've got to be joking! How could I hit it properly when it was called out!'

  Rachel's father was on his feet, somewhere behind the umpire's chair, hurling abuse.

  'The serve was out! Get your eyes tested!'

  'Fool! Fool!' screamed his wife.

  Two uniformed stewards started moving forward in their direction.

  Dazed, trembling, Rebecca walked back to the baseline, waiting for play to resume. Rachel was up by the umpire's chair. 'How could I play it properly when it was called out!'

  Two stewards were escorting Mr and Mrs Cathcart out of the stadium.

  Herman Lasky and Brenda Brogan were exchanging delighted looks.

  Mrs Barrington and her friend, Lady Bacon, were exchanging looks of dismay.

  The crowd was starting a slow handclap, Some youngsters calling out: 'Play a let! Why don't you play a let?'

  The umpire remonstrated with Rachel and then took control of the microphone and the situation.

  'Bad call. The ball was in. Miss Cathcart bit the bail before the bad call. Miss Mason leads by 6 points to 5. Play will now resume.'

  Rachel took a while to settle down after that and it cost her dearly. For Rebecca won the next point and with it the tie-break 7–5, and the first set. She then broke Rachel's service immediately and went on to take the second set, 6–4, thereby winning the match, the tournament, and a replica silver rose-bowl.

  She also won some praise from the great Mr Lasky in person, who shook her by the hand with unconcealed pleasure before he drove away with Miss Brogan. He'd decided that Rebecca Mason was probably very marketable.

  'A great performance and I mean performance,' he told her. He'd very much enjoyed the instant ferocity between Mason and Cathcart. In his mind, it had never been a question of either/or. He was interested in offering both girls a contract. How they'd fight! What crowds they might pull in, one of these days! Even this little fracas was going to make the newspapers! But, of course, there had been no point in letting them know that. 'Produce a repeat performance at Edgbaston and the contract's yours, Rebecca. I haven't heard back from your parents but I dare say I will.'

  Noting Rebecca's strained look, he
added:

  'Don't worry about the Cathcart parents. They'll be written right out of any contract Rachel gets from me. Their behaviour was appalling.'

  'And mine, too, Mr Lasky,' said Rebecca.

  Mrs Barrington was looking for her so she said goodbye.

  Disgusted with herself, Rebecca gave the rose-bowl to her great-aunt. 'It'll be lovely on the hall table, Aunty Ivy,' she said. 'You can fill it with all your best flowers this summer. You can tell all your friends I won it for you, at Bristol!'

  The old lady dabbed at it in awe, with a lace handkerchief.

  'It's beautiful, Rebecca. It's really beautiful. Oh, my dear, I'm so pleased to see you yourself again. You take this tennis much too seriously. You haven't been yourself this time!'

  'I hope I haven't,' said Rebecca. She embraced her father's aunt and clung to her for a moment, for reassurance. 'I haven't liked myself this weekend. Not one bit. Especially not today.'

  Winning the tournament was one thing.

  Losing all respect for yourself in the process was something different again.

  ELEVEN

  AN AIRMAIL PACKET

  'Your behaviour was dreadful, Rebecca,' said Mrs Barrington, when at last they were alone together in the car, heading westwards back to Trebizon.

  The housemistress was furious with her charge. Furious that Rebecca had let her down in front of her oldest friend. Georgina's final words, back at the house, still rankled: Old school's going downhill, isn't it? Hadn't you better get a grip on that girl, Joan?

  She was furious, too, that she'd had to struggle through a bevy of reporters with Rebecca, fending off their bombardment of questions with a volley of No comments! As though her Fifth Year pupil were some jumped-up little film star. But they'd taken photographs. This would be in the Western Daily Press tomorrow, and no mistake. 'Trebizon Girl Screams at Umpire.' Miss Welbeck would ask some awkward questions.

  What on earth was happening to Rebecca Mason?

  'It was quite dreadful,' she repeated.

  'I know it was, Mrs Barry,' replied Rebecca, in a dull voice. 'You don't have to tell me.'

  She half dozed in the front passenger seat, drained of all emotion, watching the bare trees that lined the roads rise up one by one towards her. She felt no sense of elation that she'd won the tournament, with the contract beginning to look a near certainty. She just felt tired, tired; overwhelmed by conflicting thoughts.