Free The Tennis Player from Bermuda by Fiona Hodgkin

I had reassembled my swimsuit, and I was sitting with my back against the rocks. If that was just Mark touching me, what on earth would it be like to make love to him? He sat down beside me and put his arm over my shoulders.
    I said, “I should have made love to you yesterday. You’ll be on your way to England tomorrow, and I’ll kick myself for not going to bed with you. But I’m so scared of making love.”
    “You’re scared? What about me the first time? You think I wasn’t scared?”
    “Why would you have been scared? I would have thought it would be the girl who would be scared.”
    “I was scared out of my wits because I had no idea of how it was supposed to be done. And the young lady – it was her first time, as well – was absolutely no help. She kept saying, ‘Mark, what are you trying to do?’” He said this mimicking a girl’s higher pitched voice, with a slight accent I couldn’t place.
    I had to laugh at him.
    Mark went on. “It was a complete embarrassment for me, and I’m sure the young lady wished she had picked someone experienced to sleep with for the first time. You know how I touched your clitoris just now?”
    I’m sure my face turned red, but I nodded. I’ve subsequently found that in matters of human anatomy medical students are carelessly blunt.
    “Well, my first time, I didn’t know there was a clitoris. No idea.”
    “You seemed to have learned all about it.”
    He laughed. “Is that a compliment?”
    I smiled. “Yes, it is. Was she your girlfriend? I mean, the person you slept with the first time.”
    “Yes.”
    “She must not still be your girlfriend, because you told me you’ve been with more than one girl.”
    “No, we broke up” – he stopped to think – “in the summer of 1959.”
    “Why did you break up?”
    He shrugged. “She wanted to see someone else. But she’s still a good friend of mine. I hope you’ll meet her some day.”
    Meeting Mark’s first lover was not going to be high on my list of social priorities, but I didn’t tell him that. Then I had an uncomfortable thought. “Do you have a girlfriend now?”
    “Not in England.”
    I didn’t like the qualified sound of that answer. “Do you have a girlfriend somewhere else?”
    “I seem to have acquired one in Bermuda.”
    I was so pleased I practically glowed.
    After that, we walked along the beach together. Mark put his arm around my waist and, in a proprietary sort of way, tucked his thumb under the waistband of my swimsuit bottom.

    The day Mark was leaving Bermuda, I was working for Mother and Grandfather in the clinic. Mark was having lunch with his aunt in Hamilton, and her driver was going to take him to Kindley Field later that afternoon. Mark said he would stop at the clinic after lunch to say goodbye. When I saw him pull up in front of the clinic and park the MG on Point Finger Road, I promised myself that I absolutely would not cry.
    I smoothed my skirt down, checked the mirror to make sure my ponytail was neatly tied back, and walked outside. There couldn’t be a more public spot in Bermuda. Mother’s clinic was just across the street from hospital, and people were everywhere. Not the ideal place for goodbyes. Mark got out of the MG and put his arms around my shoulders. I put my arms around his waist, and we kissed. I was making myself the talk of Point Finger Road.
    I said, “We’ll never see each other again.” I was keeping my promise to myself not to cry, but it was a close thing.
    “Certainly we’ll see each other again.”
    I leaned my forehead against his chest. “Doubtful. I’ll be in the States, and you’ll be in England.”
    “Not doubtful.” He lifted up my chin with his hand and smiled at me. “I promise you we’ll see each other again.”
    With that, he kissed me a final time, pulled lightly on my ponytail, got in the MG, and drove off. I stood there alone and disconsolate.
    Mother came through the door of the clinic in her white lab coat with her