There was a hard court within a quarter of a mile of the hotel, and on
this she gave him his first lesson. I was away that week-end, and when I
returned to town there was a short note from her awaiting me on my desk.
Nothing sensational. Just to say that she had tried him, and that he
would probably make a decent player after practice.
And he did practise. I don't know quite why. I don't think it was
because he was at all keen to become a decent player. I don't think it
was even to please _her_. Maybe he found that the hard use of his body
helped to calm his mind, or perhaps it was just that he had nothing else
to do.... Anyhow, he practised, and when he couldn't find a partner, he
'served' over the net by himself. As always, he went terrifically to
extremes; the hours he spent on that tennis-court must have made many
people wonder what had happened to him. Whenever I paid him visits, it
was to the court he led me straightway; it was as if he had no thought
for anything else. On those scowling December afternoons we played for
hours, with hardly a word between us; he always beat me, for I am
excessively bad at all games. When one set was over, we began another;
and so on, until dusk made play impossible. It was martyrdom of a sort
for me, but what was it for him? That's what I find so hard to decide.
June, however, seemed satisfied with the progress he was making. She
spoke of it so much from the point of view of the athletic coach that I
told her candidly on one occasion that it wasn't his body that needed
help, but his mind. "If your tennis means nothing to him but just
tennis," I said, "then it's not much better than getting drunk, or
taking long walks over the hills, or other things he used to do. What he
wants is a new mental eagerness--something that will send him back to
his work."
That was during a motor run from Hindhead at the beginning of the
following March. June, furred and gauntletted, and driving very prettily
as usual, shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "I'm afraid I'm not such a
subtle analyst as you are," she said. "I can't help being glad that he's
improving his game."
"Oh, of course." And I disclaimed all intention to sneer at tennis in
any way. "All I mean," I said, "is that when you tell me his volleys are
getting faster, it doesn't make me want to caper about and cheer
enthusiastically."
"No?" A little laugh and several miles of silence. And then, as we were
nearing Ripley: "By the way, what _would_ make you want to caper about
and cheer enthusiastically?"
I said it would have to be some news that showed a complete change in
Terry's _mental_ attitude.
"Such as a return to work--even in a small way?"
"Well, yes. That would be the best sign, no doubt."
We travelled on a few more miles, and it was in the main street of
Cobham that she remarked: "Suppose I told you that he _had_ already
begun to work again?"
"I should be delighted, of course, if it were true."
"It is true."
"You _mean_ that? You mean that he's actually gone back to his
books--his old research work----"
"He's _beginning_ to go."
"How--_beginning_?"
"I'll tell you in a minute."
She drove on till we were out of the village, and then, on the straight
stretch of road between Cobham and Esher, she gave me details. "We were
playing some hard games yesterday," she said, "and for the first time he
beat me--and I'm pretty good, you know." (It was like her to say that,
so calmly and confidently.) "I told him that if he went on improving
he'd have to enter for some tournaments when the season began, and he
said he'd most likely be at the other side of the world before then. We
argued about it, and I found out he'd been answering all sorts of
advertisements for jobs. Nobody, of course, would have him--without
experience, references, or anything.... So after a while I just
said--'Look here, Terry, why don't you carry on for the time being with
your old scientific work? It's the best job you can do, and probably
also it's the only job you'll get....' Better to be frank with him, I
thought. He said he'd think about it, but I didn't want him to think
about it--I wanted him to begin right away. So when we got back to the
hotel I went up to his room (what on earth Taplow thought I don't know),
and we began sorting out all his old notebooks and papers. There's at
least a fortnight's job in that."
"And you really think that he intends to get on with it himself?"
"We're both of us going to get on with it. It looks to me as if he's
done quite a lot of work in Vienna, only it wants getting together,
classifying, typing out, and so on."
"And _you're_ going to do it?"
"No, _no_.... We're both going to do it, I tell you. I shan't do more
than _my_ fair share, anyway. He'll have to dictate while I do the
typing. Taplow's lent us a downstairs room, so that we shan't shock the
proprieties."
And there it was, so calmly settled by this girl with the blue eyes and
the reddish hair and the brown, freckled face. She did everything so
simply and directly; she was an angel rushing in where fools feared to
tread. I hoped, without really believing, that she would succeed.