moulded breasts and trim waist.
Then she stopped laughing and for a moment she looked cold; in a strange way, deadly.
“No working for yourself, mind. Everything, even the cash, goes right into the kitty. Anyone who tries to cheat Aunty Martha won’t try it again. Remember, I’ve got eyes — wherever you are, you’re being watched. You won’t come to any harm if you play fair with me and your partners but you’ll come to a sticky end if you don’t!”
She paused, and looked menacingly from one now straight and startled face to another. She let these last words- of warning hover in the air, then with a curiously sinister inflection, finished: “Or your fingers will, Don’t make any mistake!”
There was another pause, before her face and voice brightened again.
“But you don’t have a thing to worry about as long as you play fair! Now let’s go and tuck in, loves.”
In fact, all of them were a little subdued, and two of the girls were looking at their hands, as if imagining what would happen if Aunty Martha caught them cheating.
That was June 4th; the day when Lemaitre went on board the Queen Elizabeth II in New York and after a word with the Purser and the Master-at-Arms, went along to the Chief Steward, who had the four smoking-room stewards ready for questioning; two of them resentful, for they were anxious to go ashore.
And it was the day when the tall gangling man who worked for Archibald Smith wormed his way through the shrubbery and built a little ‘blind’ through which he could see the whole of the court. He had brought cold tea, sandwiches, fruit and chocolate and, being an intelligent man although he looked such a fool, he also had a spray of insect repellent. Not least, he had also taken along with him a miniature camera.
It was the day when, at The Towers, Lou Willison spoke to Barnaby. They were in the old kitchen of the house, where showers had been installed and all the gear was stored. The room was high-ceilinged and gloomy, but dry. There was a view of the gardens and the thick shrubbery, and of the path which led to the hidden tennis court.
“Can you restrain yourself, Barnaby?” Willison asked.
“I surely can, Mr. Willison.”
“When you’re out there on the courts it will be a great temptation to blast off with the service, the first chance you get.”
“I know it, but you don’t have to worry.” Barnaby looked at his sponsor with an understanding smile. “I won’t do that, Mr. Willison. I can get through the early rounds without it, sir. I’m sure I can. I’ll use it only if I’m in trouble, but
I don’t expect to be in trouble until we get to the last sixteen.
“Barnaby.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You can be over-confident.”
“I know it, sir, but you don’t have any cause to worry. Mr. Willison. If I get myself in trouble that early, I don’t deserve to reach the final this year, sir. I won’t be ready for it.”
Willison’s bright eyes blazed.
“Good God, man! This is your year, it has to be your year! Don’t you realise how much —”
He stopped abruptly, because the puzzled expression in Barnaby’s eyes reminded him of something it was easy to forget. He had never told Barnaby how vital victory had become to him. It was not that he didn’t trust Barnaby, and he had earmarked ten per cent of any winnings for the young negro; but he was far from sure that Barnaby could carry the weight of such a responsibility. It was enough, might even be too much, that he had to carry the weight of his own ambition and the pride of his own race. Until now, Willison had understood these things perfectly and had rationalised himself into acceptance of them. But since so much had come to depend on it, Barnaby’s winning had become an obsession. Thank God he could be objective enough to realise that to place such an additional burden onto Barnaby’s shoulders would have been unforgivable. He wanted to help the lad to restrain himself; that was of vital importance to them both.
Barnaby, finding that Willison simply stopped speaking, spoke very quietly and obviously without the slightest suspicion of the truth.
“I understand the effort needed, sir, and know how much money you have spent on me. I won’t fail you, Mr. Willison — you can be sure of that.”
“I’m sure you won’t,” Willison said huskily. And clapping Barnaby on the shoulder, he went on: “Let’s see how you’re doing today.”
“Jeeze!” gasped Sydney Sidey, from the security of the ‘blind’-
“My gawd!” he gasped.
“Strewth,” he wheezed, realising that he was talking too loudly.
“It ain’t bloody well possible!” he muttered.
He put the camera to his eye, but only a cine-camera could possibly show the impact of Barnaby Rudge’s sensational service, and the whirring would be too noticeable. He clicked, clicked and clicked again, to take different angles of the action, refilled his camera and took yet more. The only sound except the soft clicking was the padding of rubber-soled feet on the court, the curiously menacing whang! each time Barnaby hit the ball, the sharp p’ttz! sound as the ball struck the court, and a metallic rattle as it volleyed against the tall wire fence.
After a while, the practice stopped.
“I never would have believed it,” Sydney Sidey told himself. He was sticky with sweat and his eyes seemed likely to pop from his head. “I never would have believed it!”
At last, the car and the motor-scooter crunched away up the drive to the road.
