The Stars’ Tennis Balls

Ned lay in bed gazing up at the ceiling. With a fist clenched over her cheek, Portia slept tightly curled like a kitten beside him.

He hadn’t yet told her about the nightmare of watching Paddy Leclare dying on board the Orphana. On the bus from Heathrow they had talked almost like strangers, Ned concerned not to make Gordon feel left out and Portia strangely shy in her cousin’s presence too. He wasn’t going to worry her, but the experience had shaken him. He had never confronted death, responsibility and fear before and to meet them all in one go was unsettling.

Sailing back to Scotland with a dead man below had not been pleasant for him. Rufus Cade had behaved oddly too. It seemed natural that Ned should skipper the boat back to Oban and everyone but Cade agreed that it was right and sensible. Ned, without vanity he knew it to be true, was the best sailor amongst them, and surely Leclare’s last bestowal of trust in him proved his right to command? Not that he was able to repeat that secret to Cade or anyone else. For five hours, as dawn broke and they made their miserable way back to harbour, Cade had sullenly criticised all Ned’s decisions and gone out of his way to undermine his authority at every turn. This had never happened to Ned before and had left him feeling hurt and puzzled.

It was only as they were making their way through Oban harbour towards the quayside and the flashing blue lights of the ambulance and police-cars awaiting them that he had understood.

Cade had approached him shyly. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Maddstone,’ he said, staring down at the decking. ‘I suppose I was a bit upset by it all. Didn’t mean to criticise you. It’s right for you to be in charge.’

Ned had laid a hand on Cade’s arm. ‘Bloody hell, Rufus, don’t give it another thought. Under the circumstances you’ve been amazing.’

The rest of the day had passed in a confused dream of witness statements, telephone calls and interminable waiting before Ned had finally been allowed to lead the party off to Glasgow to catch the night train to Euston. Leadership was exhausting.

Portia’s head stirred on his chest and he found himself looking into her eyes.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello.’

And they laughed.

Ashley watched as Gordon drained his second Guinness.

‘You seen her, Ashley,’ he said, belching as he wiped the froth from his mouth. ‘She’s beautiful. Wouldn’t you say she’s beautiful?’

‘Very beautiful indeed, Gordon,’ said Ashley who possessed several very old Greek textbooks that he considered infinitely more exciting.

‘Sides,’ Gordon continued. ‘Where I come from you don’t marry out. You just don’t do that. It’s wrong.

Rufus was glowering into a pint of Director’s that he had already chased with three triple whiskies. ‘Marry out? What’s that mean when it’s at home?’

‘Gordon and Portia are Jewish,’ Ashley explained. ‘It isn’t done to marry outside the faith.’

‘I’m a catholic,’ said Rufus. ‘It’s the same with us.’

‘And she won’t look at me,’ said Gordon. ‘She won’t fucking look at me. You know what I’m saying?’

‘You’re saying she won’t look at you?’ said Rufus.

‘Right. You got it. Won’t look at me.

‘I see. That must piss you right off.’

‘Piss me off is right.’

‘It would piss me off too, I can tell you.’

Ashley was pleased to see Gordon and Rufus relaxed with each other, but he dreaded having to cope with two drunks. Although he was in the process of teaching himself everything there was to be known about wine, Ashley took little pleasure in alcohol, and none at all in drunkenness in himself or others. He knew enough not to show it, however and could nurse a drink through several rounds without looking like a prude.

‘So what exactly happened, Rufus? You say Leclare was dead when you returned?’

‘Jesus, Ash, I told you. He sent me off looking for a bottle of fucking Jameson’s that wasn’t there and by the time I got back, there was Saint Ned cradling him in his arms, cooing like a fucking pigeon. Next thing you know he’d helped himself to the command. Treated me like dirt too. Then had the fucking nerve to tell me that “under the circumstances I’d been brilliant. Meaning of course, that under the circumstances he had been brilliant. Tosser. Still, he was the one who had to deal with the police and the ambulance and all the paperwork. Ha! Bet that hadn’t occurred to him.’ Rufus struggled to his feet. ‘Anyway. Fuck him. Who wants another drink?’

‘Why not?’ said Ashley. ‘Same again please. Gin and tonic, ice but no lemon.’

‘This stuff really gets to your gut,’ said Gordon handing his empty glass to Rufus. ‘Maybe just a half pint this time.’

‘A half of gin and a pint of Guinness and lemon. No ice, but tonic. I’ve got you.’ Rufus began weaving his way to the bar.

‘He’s not half as drunk as he appears,’ said Ashley. ‘His father’s an alcoholic and he’s trying it on for size.

Gordon watched Rufus’s retreating form and then turned to Ashley. ‘You like to see through people, don’t you?’

‘Well,’ said Ashley, in some surprise. ‘Judging from that remark, so do you.

‘Right. Touché. So tell me, who was this guy, anyway?’

‘The school used him as some sort of sailing-instructor,' Ashley said with a dismissive wave, as if describing the local cesspit operative. ‘Those who sailed were very fond of him in that insufferably matey way that the yachting fraternity adopts. He was endlessly organising trips in the holidays for boys who could afford it – or cared to busy themselves with an occupation so imponderably tedious,’ Ashley added quickly.

‘I heard of cases in the States where these guys are perverts,’ said Gordon. ‘You know, sailing round the Caribbean with school kids. Kind of weird thing to do.’

‘Yes, but I hardly think so in this case. Whatever you may have read about English public schools that kind of thing is pretty rare.

‘Where’d they go?’

‘From the west of Scotland round to the Giant’s Causeway apparently and then back again. The year before that it was … where did you go last year, Rufus?’ Rufus had returned, and was setting drinks on the table, a bag of peanuts between his teeth.

‘Hng?’

‘Last year. Where did the Sailing Club go?’

‘Hooker Horror.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The Hook of Holland,’ said Rufus, tearing open the packet with his teeth and pushing it towards Gordon. ‘From Southwold across the North Sea to Flushing. Then up the inland waterways to Amsterdam and all the way back.’

‘And I take it Leclare never molested you in any way? Never threatened the delicate flower of your virginity?’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Just a thought we had.’

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of going back,’ said Rufus. ‘Amsterdam that is. They have naked girls in the windows and more dope than you’ve ever seen in your life.’

‘You smoke?’ Gordon asked Rufus.

‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ Ashley murmured, helping himself to a single peanut.

Gordon lowered his voice excitedly. ‘You couldn’t put me on to someone, could you?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t had a smoke since I got here. I mentioned it to Portia one time and she looked at me like I was shit.’

‘Be a pleasure,’ said Rufus genially waving a hand. ‘You a grass man or a hash man?’

‘Grass,’ said Gordon.

‘No problem. As a matter of fact, I just happen to have on me the most seriously…

Ashley’s heart sank at the prospect of the conversation descending into drug talk. It was so much more amusing to hear Rufus and Gordon swapping complaints about Ned. Ned and drugs, unfortunately, did not mix in conversation. Mind you, of course …

‘Wouldn’t it be fun,’ said Ashley, sipping his gin and tonic primly, ‘to watch Maddstone being busted by the Drug Squad? Bit of a scandal, bit of a disgrace, bit of a come down for the holy one and his father, don’t you think? And just imagine how shocked dear Portia would be.’

Rufus giggled and Gordon’s mouth fell open.

‘He’s going to be taking her to – what was it called? Something absurdly pretentious – the Knightsbridge College, that was it,’ Ashley continued dreamily. ‘Suppose the police were told that a wicked drug dealer had been seen hanging around outside the college most afternoons, distributing illegal substances to the students. Imagine witnessing the golden boy being led away in handcuffs.’

‘Yeah, but how…

‘His jacket’s at the bottom of the stairs. All we have to do, surely, is use a little intelligence.’

Ned stood naked at the window of his bedroom looking out over London. In an hour or so he might go down and scramble some eggs. Otherwise why would he ever want to leave this room for the rest of his life? They could stay here for ever. Only Portia had to be ready for her job interview. But they’d come back from that and run straight back up here again. Of course tomorrow morning his father was coming down from the country and they must be presentable then, but tomorrow was a world away. He couldn’t wait for Portia to meet his father, he felt they would become instant friends. A vista of their future years together appeared before him. Portia and Pa at Christmas, in the maternity ward, on holiday together. The smiling, the laughing, the affection, the love … he wanted to weep with ecstasy.

A movement in the street below caught his eye. Ashley and Gordon were returning to the house, a third person between them. Ned smiled when he recognised the lumbering gait of Rufus Cade. How on earth had they bumped into him? Any other time it would be fun to welcome them in, but…

Never usually unsociable or selfish, Ned crept to the door and gently turned the key in the lock. The very delicacy of the sound woke Portia.

‘Did you just lock the door?’

“Fraid so,’ whispered Ned. ‘The others are coming back. Thought we might pretend to have gone out.’