Free Break Point by Kate Rigby Page A

chin. It's curled and white and moist, and behind it a
dark brown one has taken its place. I bet that's how it is with
Gwen's face and all, stuffed with whiskers, a line of reserves
ready to stand in if one gets plucked. I pick out a few more, dark
and light and dun.
     
     

 
    SECOND
WEDNESDAY
     
    Hazel phoned
this morning. "I'm afraid Karen won't be able to come any more,"
she said. "She's not found herself another childminder so she's had
to let it go I'm afraid."
    "Are you
sending someone else then, Hazel?" I said, panic in me
voice.
    "We'll try. I
don't suppose you're able to do afternoons and evenings until we
find someone else?"
    "No, sorry,
duck. Otherwise I'm working all day without a break."
    "But there are
quiet times, aren't there? You can take time in lieu when we've
found a replacement."
    "No, I've got
other things on this week, duck. Perhaps next week I can put in
more hours."
    "OK." Hazel
sighed. "I'll see what I can do. Is Gwen there? If you put her on I
can explain the situation."
    *
    "Well," says
Gwen, slapping the receiver down, "what a pretty useless lump of
nothing she turned out to be."
    "Did Hazel say
when they'd be sending someone else along?"
    "Today or
tomorrow. I must have help in the evenings."
    "I've written
today's shopping list, Gwen. Have a look. Anything you want to
add?"
    "Mmm." She
scrabbles around on the standard lamp ledge for her reading
glasses. "See if my skirt is ready at the cleaners, would you?
Well, thank goodness you're still here, Robina. That's all I can
say."
    Well, she's
changed her chuffing tune, hasn't she? She wants us on the same
side of the net today. She wants me as her Doubles' partner. But
come tomorrow I bet I'll be her opponent again.
    *
    When me
and June were first shacking up, Wimbledon wasn't even green and
white, it was shades of grey. You had to colour in the lawns
yourself, the hair and eyes, the umbrellas. Perhaps that's how June's white
balls started: from our black and white telly. We didn't get a
coloured one for a few years. Perhaps she took it with her, the
white ball, and sort of superimposed it over the new coloured
world.
    Centre
Court has charisma, I hear Becker say in his interview. There's no
other place like it in the world, and it's just like Boris says -
the crowds don't just scream, they scream at the right point, and
they support both players, though they have their favourites.
That's one of those three key things that makes for a classic
match. 1) Favourite player. You've got to be rooting for one player
and almost hating the other guy across the net. It gives you a
vested interest in the match. 2) Good tennis. You have to get those
long, exciting rallies, those breathtaking shots and impossible
returns where the crowd keeps gasping oooooo, aaaaahh, oooorrr and 3)
Unpredictable outcome. You know, an upset, matches turned around
against all the odds, your player making a comeback, drawing on
something inside, some magic.
    But the tennis
they're showing now has got little going for it, and it's a good
time to start making Gwen her tea.
    I go
downstairs and as I open a tin of ravioli, I worry that there's
been no word from Carewise about a replacement for Karen. There's
only a few more days left of Wimbledon, but they're decisive games,
crucial.
    Then I hear
rustling up the path. Someone fleet-footed coming to the back door.
Mrs Parrott. Even she would do. "I've just brought these over for
Gwen." She's holding an open Tupperware bowl full of strawberries.
"These are from our garden. I'll just transfer them to one of
Gwen's bowls." She flaps around the cupboards and helps herself to
a right-sized vessel. "Is Gwen around?"
    "She's in the
sitting room."
    There's a load
of gushing and thanks and comments about Gwen's health and Will you
join me for tea? and Sorry but I've already eaten because it's my
choir on Wednesdays and Anne gone? Really? And then the voices are
lowered so I have to fill in the blanks myself.
    Who'd have
thought it? A top seed