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Authors: Howard Marks
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for Rhys. Not pretty, but not significant. She had been letting long-obsolete images of the man cloud her judgement.
There was an old telly in the corner. She switched it on, flicked the channels until she found tennis. A tournament somewhere hot, where the palm trees were casting shadows over the clay.
She’d played when she was younger, still played in her head sometimes. They’d said she could’ve been a champion, but tennis had been thought soft at her school. She’d had to play on the sly, in a park at the far end of town where no one had seen her. She didn’t follow the game closely now, but liked to watch when she could, found it therapeutic, a physical version of chess. Like the drink and the kanna, it helped to take the edge off things.
The taller player was serving. He was using a slice technique, hitting the ball into the outer corners, throwing the receiver way off the court.
Once he’d served, the taller man rushed the net, volleyed the return down into the opposite corner. It was a crude but effective tactic. At least it appeared so at first. The receiver was small, agile, but he couldn’t get back in time to reach the ball. When he did the shots went wide or were easy prey for the taller figure at the net.
She clicked into iTunes on her Mac, the tick-tock lilt of the Velvets’ ‘Sunday Morning’ filling the room as the tennis players moved in and out of time to the beat.
She watched three games go with serve, each player using the same basic tactic. It was now five games all. The taller man was serving. He whipped the ball down into the left corner, as before. This time, however, the receiver was already off court, waiting. His return was low and fast, down the line, passing the man rushing to the net.
The next serve was an ace. She found herself rooting for the smaller man. But not passionately so. She preferred to watch the game for the artistry, the tactics. It was never a matter of supporting one player blindly for her.
The receiver seemed to fret about at the far end, as if waiting for something from the crowd, but what she couldn’t understand. The server was in position, tossing the ball into the air.
But then, as if from nowhere the receiver was back at the place where the serve fell. It had been a feint, he had pretended to look unprepared. But he had known where the serve would land and was waiting for it. His return was low, precise, brutal. The server did not even reach it.
In the final game the shorter man won every point, the taller one’s fight seemed to have gone out of him. In a couple of minutes it was all over. The coverage on the channel changed abruptly to bowls.
She lit another cigarette. Everything can turn on a single point, she thought. The other player was the stronger, had all the natural advantages, but he hadn’t had the moral fibre to accept his own moment of weakness, and so he’d lost.
As she switched off the set, she noticed how pale her hands were. She hadn’t intended to become a recluse, but the weather had been so foul she hadn’t even walked out to the farmhouse down the hill.
The cottage was geared for summer renters. There wasn’t much in the way of home entertainment, just a row of paperbacks on the shelf, a couple of games, the old television under the window. On the sill was a picture of Rix, smaller this time, in the loud Hawaiian shirt. She turned it over: there was nothing on the other side. She wondered why Pugh had it, laddish humour wasn’t his style. She drew back the curtains. Outside was a long barn. Its doors were closed, but on previous evenings as the light faded she’d seen the farmer come that way on his muddy tractor.
All along the track, the dull sky hung low over shallow puddles where cows had trodden the grass into the earth. It could have been anywhere. The place wasn’t familiar to her, and so it didn’t feel like a homecoming – it felt like unknown territory, and all the better for that.
Her thoughts were
There was an old telly in the corner. She switched it on, flicked the channels until she found tennis. A tournament somewhere hot, where the palm trees were casting shadows over the clay.
She’d played when she was younger, still played in her head sometimes. They’d said she could’ve been a champion, but tennis had been thought soft at her school. She’d had to play on the sly, in a park at the far end of town where no one had seen her. She didn’t follow the game closely now, but liked to watch when she could, found it therapeutic, a physical version of chess. Like the drink and the kanna, it helped to take the edge off things.
The taller player was serving. He was using a slice technique, hitting the ball into the outer corners, throwing the receiver way off the court.
Once he’d served, the taller man rushed the net, volleyed the return down into the opposite corner. It was a crude but effective tactic. At least it appeared so at first. The receiver was small, agile, but he couldn’t get back in time to reach the ball. When he did the shots went wide or were easy prey for the taller figure at the net.
She clicked into iTunes on her Mac, the tick-tock lilt of the Velvets’ ‘Sunday Morning’ filling the room as the tennis players moved in and out of time to the beat.
She watched three games go with serve, each player using the same basic tactic. It was now five games all. The taller man was serving. He whipped the ball down into the left corner, as before. This time, however, the receiver was already off court, waiting. His return was low and fast, down the line, passing the man rushing to the net.
The next serve was an ace. She found herself rooting for the smaller man. But not passionately so. She preferred to watch the game for the artistry, the tactics. It was never a matter of supporting one player blindly for her.
The receiver seemed to fret about at the far end, as if waiting for something from the crowd, but what she couldn’t understand. The server was in position, tossing the ball into the air.
But then, as if from nowhere the receiver was back at the place where the serve fell. It had been a feint, he had pretended to look unprepared. But he had known where the serve would land and was waiting for it. His return was low, precise, brutal. The server did not even reach it.
In the final game the shorter man won every point, the taller one’s fight seemed to have gone out of him. In a couple of minutes it was all over. The coverage on the channel changed abruptly to bowls.
She lit another cigarette. Everything can turn on a single point, she thought. The other player was the stronger, had all the natural advantages, but he hadn’t had the moral fibre to accept his own moment of weakness, and so he’d lost.
As she switched off the set, she noticed how pale her hands were. She hadn’t intended to become a recluse, but the weather had been so foul she hadn’t even walked out to the farmhouse down the hill.
The cottage was geared for summer renters. There wasn’t much in the way of home entertainment, just a row of paperbacks on the shelf, a couple of games, the old television under the window. On the sill was a picture of Rix, smaller this time, in the loud Hawaiian shirt. She turned it over: there was nothing on the other side. She wondered why Pugh had it, laddish humour wasn’t his style. She drew back the curtains. Outside was a long barn. Its doors were closed, but on previous evenings as the light faded she’d seen the farmer come that way on his muddy tractor.
All along the track, the dull sky hung low over shallow puddles where cows had trodden the grass into the earth. It could have been anywhere. The place wasn’t familiar to her, and so it didn’t feel like a homecoming – it felt like unknown territory, and all the better for that.
Her thoughts were
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