Imogen

wearing a blazer, was agitatedly waving a copy of Molly Parkin’s latest novel.

‘It’s filth,’ he roared, ‘sheer filth. I just came in here to tell you I’m going to burn it.’

‘Well you’ll have to pay for it then,’ said Miss Nugent. ‘A lot of other readers have requested it.’

‘Filth and written by a woman,’ roared the man in the blazer. ‘Don’t know how anyone dare publish it.’ Everyone in the library was listening now, pretending to study the books on the shelves, but brightening perceptibly at the prospect of a good row.

Imogen returned The Age of Innocence to its right place and rolled the trolley back to the issue desk.

‘Let me read you this bit, madam,’ shouted the man in the blazer.

‘Run along now, Imogen,’ said Miss Nugent, hastily.

Imogen hesitated, embarrassed, but longing to hear the outcome of the row.

‘Go on,’ said Miss Nugent firmly. ‘You’ll miss the tennis. I won’t be in on Monday. I’m going to Florrie’s funeral, so I’ll see you on Tuesday. Now, sir,’ she turned to the man in the blazer.

Why do I always miss all the fun, thought Imogen, going into the back office where Miss Illingworth was clucking over the legal action file.

‘I’ve written to the Mayor five times about returning The Hite Report,’ she said crossly, ‘You’d think a man in his position. .’

‘Maybe he thinks he’s grand enough to keep books as long as he likes,’ said Imogen, unlocking her locker and taking out her bag.

‘Twenty-one days is the limit, and rules is rules, my girl, whether you’re the Queen of England. Have you seen Mr Cloth’s PC? It’s a scream.’

Imogen picked up the postcard of blue sea and orange sand and turned it over.

I wouldn’t like to live here, the deputy librarian, who was holidaying in Sardinia, had written, but it’s a horrible place for a holiday. The pillows are like bags of Blue Circle cement. Wish you were here but not queer. B. C.

Imogen giggled, then sighed inwardly. Not only had one to find somewhere smart to go on holiday, but had to write witty things about it when you got there.

She went into the ladies to comb her hair and wash the violet ink from the date stamp off her hands. She scowled at her reflection in the cracked mirror — huge grey eyes, rosy cheeks, too many freckles, a snub nose, soft full lips, long hair the colour of wet sand, which had a maddening tendency to kink at the first sight of rain.

‘Why do I look so young?’ she thought crossly. ‘And why am I so fat?’

She removed the mirror from the wall, examining the full breasts, wide hips and sturdy legs which went purple and mottled in cold weather, and which fortunately today were hidden by black boots.

‘It’s a typical North Country figure,’ she thought gloomily, ‘built to withstand howling winds and an arctic climate.’

During her last year at school she had been unceasingly ragged for weighing eleven stone. Now, two years later, she had lost over two stone, but still felt herself to be fat and unattractive.

Her younger sister, Juliet, was waiting for her as she came out of the library. Far more fashion-conscious than Imogen, she was wearing drainpipe pedal pushers, brilliant coloured glove socks, and a papier mache ice cream cornet pinned to her huge sloppy pink sweater. A tiny leather purse swung from her neck, and her blonde curls blew in the wind as she circled round and round on her bicycle like a vulture.

‘There you are, Imogen. For goodness’ sake, hurry! Beresford’s on court already and he’s bound to win in straight sets. Did you bring Fanny Hill?’

‘Blast! I forgot,’ said Imogen, turning back.

‘Oh, leave it,’ said Juliet. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ And she set off down the cobbled streets, pedalling briskly.

‘What’s his name again?’ said Imogen, panting beside her.

‘I’ve told you a million times — Beresford. N. Beresford. I hope the “N” doesn’t stand for Norman or anything ghastly. Mind you, he could get away with it. I’ve never seen anyone so divine!’

Last week, Imogen reflected, Juliet had been distraught with love for Rod Stewart, the week before for Georgie Best.

Although a pallid sun was shining, afternoon shoppers, muffled in scarves and sheepskin coats, scuttled down the street, heads down against the wind. Imogen and Juliet arrived at the Tennis Club to find most of the spectators huddled for warmth around Court One.

‘I can’t see, I can’t see!’ said Juliet in a shrill voice.

‘Let the little girl through,’ said the crowd indulgently and, in a few seconds, Juliet, dragging a reluctant Imogen by the hand, had pummelled her way through to the front.

‘There’s Beresford,’ she whispered, pressing her face against the wire. ‘Serving this end.’

He was tall and slim, with long legs, smooth and brown as a conker, and black curly hair. His shoulder muscles rippled as he served. His opponent didn’t even see the ball. A crackle of applause ran round the court.

‘Game and first set to Beresford,’ said the umpire.

‘He plays tennis champion,’ said a man in the crowd.

‘Isn’t he the end?’ sighed Juliet.

‘He looks OK from the back,’ said Imogen cautiously.

But as Beresford turned round and sauntered back to the baseline for the next game, she caught her breath.

With his lean brown features, eyes bluer than delphiniums, and glossy black moustache above a smooth curling, sulky mouth, he was the embodiment of all the romantic heroes she’d ever dreamed of.

‘You win,’ she muttered to Juliet, ‘he’s devastating.’

In a daze, she watched him cruise through the next three games, without conceding a point. Then — she could never remember afterwards exactly how it happened — he was strolling back to the wire netting to retrieve a ball, when suddenly he looked up and smiled at her. He just stood there smiling, his brilliant blue eyes burning holes in the netting.

The crowd was becoming restless.

‘Beresford to serve!’ snapped the umpire for the third time. Beresford shook himself, picked up the ball and went back to the baseline. He served a double fault.

‘At the first sight, they have changed eyes,’ crowed Juliet, who was doing The Tempest for ‘O’ Level. ‘Oh, Imogen, did you see him look at you? And he keeps on looking. Oh, it’s too unfair. Why, oh, why, aren’t I you?’

Imogen wondered if she had dreamed what had happened. She glanced round to see if some beautiful girl, the real object of Beresford’s attentions, was standing behind her. But there was only a fat woman in a purple trilby and two men.

His game had certainly gone to pieces. He missed several easy shots and every time he changed ends he grinned at her.

‘He’d better stop fooling about,’ said Juliet, ‘or he’s going to lose this set.’

As if by telepathy, Beresford seemed to pull himself together. Crouching like a tiger, he played four games of rampaging brilliance to take the match without dropping a set.

How the crowd — particularly Imogen — thundered their approval. Beresford put on a pale blue blazer and gathered up his four rackets. As he came off court, he stared straight at Imogen. Suddenly she felt frightened, as though the tiger she’d been admiring at the zoo had just escaped from its cage.

‘Let’s go and find Daddy,’ she said.

‘Are you mad?’ said Juliet. ‘Stay put and Beresford’ll know where to find you.’

But Imogen, seeing Beresford pause to satisfy the demands of a group of autograph hunters, had already bolted into the tea tent.

They found their father talking to the Club Secretary.

‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘have some tea.’ And went back to his conversation.

A savage example of the Church Militant, the Reverend Stephen Brocklehurst had one great secular passion — sport. He was now giving the Club Secretary a blow by blow account of why Beresford had played so badly.

‘The boy was over-confident, of course; thought he had the whole thing sewn up.’

Juliet giggled and applied herself to the cucumber sandwiches. Imogen sat in a dream, until Juliet nudged