interests and love for Cyn, who is an only child.
‘She’s fine. Cynthia’s gone to Queensland so I know the two of you aren’t coming into bourgeois territory to cadge a decent meal. No trouble I hope, Cliff?’
‘No trouble, Doc. I need a favour. You’re a member at White City?’
‘Mmm, yes. Haven’t been down there for a while.’
‘Ever met a bloke named Perkins? A lawyer?’
‘Don’t think so. As I say, I haven’t played there much lately-too old, too busy.’
‘You’re still financial, I hope.’
‘Of course. Still the best grass courts in Sydney, and grass is the only surface for the game.’
‘I agree. Could you find out whether this Andrew Perkins plays regularly and get me in to meet him?’
‘How soon?’
‘Tomorrow would be fine.’
‘You’re a bull-at-a-gate sort of chap, Cliff. I’ll see what I can do. Where are you?’
I told him the office number would get me for the next few hours and I’d be at home after that. I resisted the call of the wine and drank the bitter lemon as I made some judicious entries in a file headed ‘Shaw, Virginia’. I made out a deposit slip to bank her cheque and wrote a cheque of my own for my NRMA membership which had fallen due. Paperwork over for the day-a big change from my previous job. I was missing Cyn, or rather the thought of her, already. I didn’t have a contact number in Cairns. I supposed I could get one from the office, but why hadn’t she given me one? Why hadn’t I asked? I glanced around the drab office thinking that Cyn would have been able to brighten it in some way. I hadn’t invited her to see it. We weren’t in good shape. Doc and Inge would be worried if they knew.
I flicked through a few circulars that comprised most of the mail-install a security system, buy a safe, fit a car alarm. Fear was the name of the game and I was a part of it. I went out of the office and down the corridor to the one bathroom-cum-toilet that services the whole building. I washed my face and combed my hair. I wanted a cup of coffee. There was a broom-cupboard-sized alcove near the bathroom with a shelf and a power point that might work. A birko, Nescafe and some long-life milk would raise my quality of life. The phone was ringing in my office and, as I sprinted down the cracked lino to catch it, I thought about sprinters and shooters. Was the guy who shot at me in the lane the killer of Charles Meadowbank?
Doc Lee had been on to White City and come up trumps. Andrew Perkins was a regular player, a never- miss-it type who could be relied on to be at the courts tomorrow if the weather held.
‘A few sets’d do me good, Cliff,’ Doc said. ‘I’m putting on weight. Might get me playing more often. Inge will bless you. Mind you, it’s her bloody cooking that’s making me fat.’
We arranged to meet at 1.30.
Leaving me with twenty hours to fill in. I found myself reluctant to leave the office. I didn’t like the thought that a gunman could be out there waiting for me. I had a feeling that I was getting involved in something big and complex and had no organisation-like the army or the Greater Eastern Insurance Company-to back me up. No spit ‘n’ polish, no saluting, no keeping office hours, but this was the price to be paid for independence. My Smith amp; Wesson. 38 Police Special was an eight-shot double action revolver with a three-inch barrel. It was comfortable to carry and fire and accurate over a short distance. I cleaned and loaded it and fitted it into a holster that nestles into the small of the back. Pull your shirt-tail out and no-one knows you have death sitting just above your left buttock.
Just to be sure, I went up onto the roof to scout the terrain before leaving the building. You can travel a fair distance over the top and get a look down into the side streets and back lanes for a few blocks around. Everything looked normal and quiet. I peered out over the building next door and found myself looking at Primo Tomasetti’s empty cement slab. There was a door right next to it and I could get into that building from mine. The idea of renting the space suddenly had a much greater appeal. I locked up and left and nothing happened. I banked Virginia Shaw’s cheque just before closing time. No-one had booby-trapped my car; no-one was lying in wait for me in Glebe.
The empty house oppressed me. It had soft spots in the floors, patches of rising damp and Cyn and I had been forced to move our bed to another part of the room because the ceiling had developed a dangerous-looking sag. A couple of uprights were missing from the stair rail. Cyn had said a dozen times that she’d get them replaced. There are woodworkers who can reproduce the exact shape. I had a feeling it would never happen. Outside was no better. There was enough work in the small front, side and back spaces to keep an active man busy for days. I sat in the concreted backyard and smoked.
I went inside and rang the Melbourne number.
‘Yes?’ A male voice. Educated, uninterested.
‘Virginia Shaw, please.’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Hardy, from Sydney.’
A pause of maybe fifteen seconds and then he was back. ‘Try again in twenty-four hours.’ The phone went dead.
Intriguing.
I stood under a hot shower, had my second shave for the day and put on fresh clothes. I strapped the gun on and went to the RSL for a meal and a few drinks. No-one followed me coming or going and I won $15 on the poker machines.
8
White City resisted change. The grandstands were still made of wood and a lot of the courts were like the hallowed centre playing space-grass. It had an old world air without any pretension. I saw Sedgman win the NSW Open there in 1952, Hoad, Rosewall and Laver a bit later. Newcombe and Roche looked to me to be as good as any of them. I played there myself once, in a schoolboy tournament. Tom Wild and I were eliminated in the second round of the doubles. I wasn’t good enough to play singles, but it was still a kick to play with a net that went all the way down to the ground and have the balls collected by someone else. And Doc was right-there’s something about the living, breathing surface of grass that makes the game on it a better experience.
I parked outside the complex and wandered in, wearing my whites and carrying a towel and my far from new Wilson racquet. Doc was waiting for me by the clubhouse. We shook hands and said how good it was to see each other. I meant it. I liked the old boy with his rough head, stocky body and no-nonsense manner. He came from a long line of well-heeled professionals but it didn’t seem to have polished him too much. He was as much at home with boxers and jockeys as with Macquarie Street surgeons and Vaucluse socialites. He had put on weight, though. His stomach stretched the waistband of his shorts and he was fleshy around the neck.
‘I’ll sign you in and I think we can get a court to ourselves for half an hour. I’ll need that to get the kinks out.’
‘Me too.’
‘Then it’ll be a couple of sets of doubles. D’you want to play men’s or mixed?’
‘Mixed.’
‘Very wise. What about this lawyer chap? Want to play with or against him? I’m told he’s a big man, red- headed. Shouldn’t be hard to spot, although it’ll get pretty busy around here soon.’
‘Shit, no, Doc. I want to follow him home when he leaves. I wouldn’t mind a chance to get a look at him-see whether he can hit a volley or not.’
‘Hmm. This is all to do with the cloak and dagger business you’ve got yourself into?’
We were moving into the clubhouse-parquet floor, big windows and several tons of cut crystal, dull pewter and polished glass. In pride of place was a picture of John Bromwich executing a two-handed backhand. Totally proper in his long trousers and wrist-buttoned shirt and utterly unorthodox in his stroke. It was a great photo. Doc introduced me to the Secretary of the club, a blazer-clad moustache wearer whose name I instantly forgot. He signed me in as a visitor and we went out onto the crisp grass of Court 12. Doc had a tin of pressure-tested balls and we hit up for a couple of minutes. He had powerful, accurate groundstrokes, an erratic volley and a weak
