The Trials of Tiffany Trott

by Isabel Wolff

  “What?” said Kit. “WHAT?” And then everyone clapped and cheered and whistled again, and I decided that this was a high note on which to end. I sat down. I’d done it. Phew. And it seemed to have gone down rather well—the applause was still ringing sweetly in my ears. I should do this more often, I thought, as I went to the window and signaled to the band to start playing again.

  “I only found out yesterday, darlin’,” I heard Portia say as she divided an Easter egg in half. “I ’aven’t ’ad a moment to tell you.”

  Kit looked at her and just kept shaking his head and smiling. He wasn’t just over the moon—he was over the entire solar system. He was bliss incarnate. What a day. I looked at Alice; she had put on Boris’s new dressing gown and had taken the irises out of the vase on the table and stuck them in her hair. Amy was petitioning Boris to let her try it on too.

  “No, you’re too small for it,” said Alice, tripping over. “You’ll get it dirty.”

  “No I WON’T,” Amy shouted crossly.

  “You can hold it for me, Amy, like a train. Tiffany, when I’m your bridesmaid, can I have one like this?” said Alice.

  “Er . . .”

  “Please.”

  “Yes. All right,” I said as we all scraped back our chairs and moved into the bar. And as I passed Catherine and Hugh I heard them animatedly discussing the paintings.

  “That’s John Singer Sargent,” said Hugh. “And I think this one’s a Sickert.”

  “Wow, this is a Brough!” Catherine exclaimed. “He was the foremost British post-impressionist of his day,” she explained. “He was considered superior to Whistler in many ways, but he died at thirty-three. He was killed in a railway accident. Isn’t that sad? No one remembers him now.”

  “I think this one’s a Brockhurst,” said Hugh, peering at the adjacent canvas. “He outdid Augustus John as a portrait painter, but he’s been completely forgotten as well.”

  And as they stood there, studying the paintings in their elaborate gilded frames, I thought, we’ll all be forgotten too. We’ll die, one day, and leave not a wrack behind. But for the time being, I thought, we’re alive. And I looked at Catherine again—good heavens, she was wearing a dress!—and at the solitaire diamond on her left hand. Then we went through to the bar, where the regular members of the club were sitting around in the battered armchairs, reading the papers or gossiping, apparently unresentful of our noisy and numerous intrusion. The French windows were open onto the garden, and I went outside and sat on a wooden bench on the terrace, under the sycamore tree. It was as hot and bright as midsummer, and the wallflowers and lilac were in full bloom; and the clematis which covered the pergola was already starred with pink flowers. The band were playing “Linden Lea,” in the arrangement by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

  . . . I be free, to go abroad, Or take again, my homeward road. Oh lovely. Lovely. To where for me, the apple tree do lean down low in Linden Lea.

  Kit was right, I thought, as I sat and listened. There’s something about the mournful muted tones of a brass band that brings tears to the eyes. Why is that? Is it the dignified eloquence of high passion expressed in low notes? Or just the soft, reticent timbre of the instruments themselves? The band wiped their mouthpieces, and then turned over the sheets on their stands.

  Abide with me, fast fades the eventide . . . Oh no. Surely that’s for funerals, not weddings. Not that one, please.

  The darkness deepens, Lord with me Abide . . .

  I felt my throat constrict. Not that one, please not that one. But it was too late.

  Change and decay, in all around I see . . .

  I heard shrieks of laughter from the bar. “No, Kit, it’s my turn!”

  Oh thou, who changest not, Abide with me.

  I glanced inside. Portia and Kit were playing billiards with Lizzie and Martin, while Frances kept the score. I heard the sharp click of the cue and then saw the balls scatter like blobs of mercury.

  Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be.

  Through cloud and sunshine Lord, Abide with me.

  God, I wish I could get someone to abide with me, I thought bitterly.

  Sitting underneath the huge Victorian billiard table were Alice and Amy playing cards. “SNAP!” I heard Amy shout. “SNAP! They’re the SAME,” she added with triumphant fortissimo. “They go TOGETHER. They’re PARTNERS. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP.”

  . . . and earth’s vain shadows flee.

  In life, in death, O Lord, Abide with me.

  And, as I sat outside, looking in, I wondered whether I would always live my life like this, experiencing things at one remove, through my friends. Kit hitched; Sally’s baby almost due; Portia pregnant with twins; Kate now living with Mike; Emma firmly ensconced with Lawrence; Catherine engaged to Hugh; Jonathan and Sarah happily married; Lizzie and Martin ditto. And Nick has a girlfriend now, someone he met at work. I was pleased about that, but it did make me wonder whether Tiffany Trott will always be giving these things a Miss. Standing in attendance, off-stage, in the wings, watching, and waiting on others. Waiting, I thought ruefully as the band played on. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

  May

  “I can’t stand the waiting!” wailed Sally. “I just can’t stand it. I don’t know what Lena’s doing in there, but frankly it’s getting me down. She was supposed to be here by May the first—what on earth’s going on?”

  “Er, I don’t know,” I said. “I really can’t help you with this one. You’ll just have to wait for Dame Nature to deliver.” But I felt for Sally. Terribly frustrating. And it’s not even as though you can complain. I mean, if trains are late you can ring up the relevant authority, or fill in a form at the station, and if you’re lucky you’ll probably get some sort of compensation in the form of an off-peak day return to Crewe. But if a baby’s late, you wait. “Two weeks overdue really is a bit much,” I agreed. “Perhaps we should fine her.”

  “She’s not a library book, Tiffany,” Sally replied as she tied on an apron. “She’s a baby.” Then she put on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and produced a red bucket from under the sink.

  “Sally, what are you doing?”

  “Well I might as well do a bit of cleaning while I’m waiting,” she said briskly. “This place is a complete mess.” It isn’t. It never is. Sally’s cleaner comes in twice a week, and her apartment is always pristine, every inch of it sparkling, hermetic, and utterly devoid of dust.

  “Sally, let me do that!” I intervened as she began to swab the floor. “I really don’t think you should be exerting yourself . . .” I just stopped myself from adding, “in your condition,” aware that I was sounding depressingly like Pat.

  “I’m OK,” she said irritably, as the yellow sponge shot back and forth across the marble tiles. “But I just don’t understand what’s holding her up!” she added crossly as she pulled down the lever on the squeegee mop. “By the time she’s born she’ll be practically old enough to walk.”

  “Well, the Expected Date of Delivery is often approximate,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but that’s only because women often don’t know the date of conception,” she countered. “Whereas I do. I know it exactly. Because it only happened once.” She paused, straightened up, then put her left hand on the small of her back. “It was Friday the first of August, at the Lake Palace of Udaipur in Rajasthan, India. Do you want the time as well?”

  “Um, no thanks,” I said. But what a lucky shot. It was like winning the lottery with a single ticket. You have sex, once, with someone you hardly know, and bingo! Full House. A baby.

  “Does it really matter if she’s late?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Sally conceded wearily. “It’s just that it’s no fun being nine and a half months pregnant. She’s kicking me to bits—it’s like Saturday Night Fever in there. I daren’t go out in case my waters break,” she continued, “and my indigestion’s dreadful—my intestines are so squashed up now, they’re practically coming out of my ears. God, I could murder a piece of coal!”
she added, with a hungry look in her eyes.

  “Why don’t you have her induced?” I suggested. Sally looked at me as though I had just said, “Why don’t you have her adopted?”

  “Nothing would induce me to induce her,” she said emphatically as she mopped away again. “Because if I do, that means a hospital birth, and I’m going to have her naturally, at home. But I just wish she’d bloody well hurry up,” she added in a peevish whine. She went to a cupboard, rummaged around, then triumphantly held up an old toothbrush.

  “Sally, what on earth are you doing now?” I asked faintly. She was down on her knees, attacking the skirting board with the tiny brush.

  “I can’t stand the thought of all the dust lurking in these corners,” she explained as she brushed away imaginary specks with violent, jabbing movements. “I don’t want Leonie being exposed to unnecessary germs or allergens. Look, thanks for coming over, Tiff, but why don’t you do something else? This must be quite boring for you . . .”

  “Oh no no no no no,” I said. “Well, yes. OK, I’ll go and watch some tennis at the club then,” I said, grateful for the chance to get away. “It’s the finals of the men’s tournament and I would quite like to see it. But I’ll have my mobile phone on me,” I added, “so at the first twinge, you just ring and I’ll be there.”

  “OK,” she said happily as she brushed away obsessively at the shining white woodwork. “I’ll call you if I need you. Have fun.”

  I walked up to Fulham Broadway and got the tube. It would only take twenty-five minutes or so to get to the club, and I really wanted to see the match. Two-headed Alan was in it, which was amazing, as he’d never got further than the third round before. But he’d been playing like a demon recently. Not that he stood a chance against Ed Brooks, I thought, as I changed onto the Northern Line at Embankment; in fact Ed would wipe the floor with him, having won the title for the past four years. But it should be interesting to watch. As I went through the gate I could hear the thwock of tennis balls on catgut, and the occasional burst of applause. On the far grass court, a crowd of about fifty had assembled on wooden benches; everyone was watching with quiet intensity, heads swinging back and forth with each hit. I approached quietly and identified a spare place, halfway along the front row. They were midway through the second set. Ed must be thrashing Alan, I thought as I sat down. And then I looked at the score board. Ed had indeed taken the first set, but he hadn’t won it six-love or six-two as I had expected, but seven-five. Alan was clearly holding his own. He was serving now, three games to four down. He threw the ball up high with his left hand, simultaneously dropping his racket right the way down his back, and then—bang!

  “Fifteen-love,” called the umpire calmly. What an ace! Ed hadn’t had time to blink, let alone move. Then Alan went to the other side of the serving mark and threw the ball up again, this time sending it deep into the right-hand corner of the service box. Ed returned it straight into the net.

  “Thirty-love.” Gosh. Alan looked so determined. I stole a glance at Julia; she looked nervous, but her eyes were shining as Alan power-served his way to forty-fifteen. Then—thwock! he put Ed’s return away with a flying forehand volley.

  “Game, Hensher,” called the umpire. “Four games all. Brooks to serve.”

  This time, with Ed serving, much the same thing happened, but in reverse. Alan got in a couple of good returns but then lobbed the ball too high, giving Ed the chance to rush to the net and smash it with the velocity of an Exocet. Alan, would you please stop doing that, I found myself thinking. Would you please stop giving points away? And I was surprised at how much I was rooting for him to win. Not just because he was the underdog, but because I felt bad at having been so dismissive of him before. Not that he could have cared less, I thought as I looked at Julia again. She was attractive, and she looked happy, clasping her hands together with almost religious fervor every time her boyfriend hit the ball. And her imprecations seemed to be working—Alan was playing wonderfully well.

  “Game, Hensher,” called out the umpire. “Hensher leads, five games to four.”

  Alan was in business now. He was serving for the set. His serve secured the first two points, but Ed came back with several cunningly placed lobs. Because Alan kept leaving himself exposed at the net, while the ball sailed high over his head, landing neatly on the baseline and then bouncing out of the court. Ed’s placing of the ball was quite brilliant. Forensic, almost. Alan was playing a hard game, but he didn’t possess a fraction of his opponent’s strategic skill. There was no way he could win this—tennis was about brain as much as brawn.

  “Deuce,” called the umpire.

  Alan was perspiring heavily, frequently wiping his forehead with his white toweling wristband. He caught Julia’s eye as he did so, and she flashed him an encouraging smile. Then he served again, this time putting a topspin on it which sent the ball curving away at a crazy angle. Then he did it again. It was completely unreturnable. Changing his service in mid-match was a high-risk strategy, but it seemed to work.

  “Advantage Hensher.”

  Ed was looking irritated. God, I hope he’s not going to do a McEnroe, I thought, as he bounced his racket down onto the grass.

  “Racket abuse. Warning,” called the umpire. Alan waited calmly, probably grateful for a moment’s rest, and then he served again. Thwock! This time Ed returned it; Alan sent it spinning back low and fast over the net, Ed lobbed it up, but this time Alan was there, ready and waiting. He seemed to reach up for the ball with his left hand as it plummeted toward him, then he took it on the full volley and sent it cannoning across the court.

  “Game and second set Hensher. Six games to four. One set all.”

  Gosh, this match is hot stuff, I thought as we all clapped appreciatively. Both players retired to the side of the court for lemonade and a quick sit-down. It was just like Wimbledon, without the hamburger stands. Ed was now looking distinctly rattled, while Alan appeared calm, but apprehensive. This was a three-set match, not five, so this last set would decide it.

  “Time please,” said the umpire, as though he were calling last orders at the Dog and Duck.

  Ed served, and easily won the first game, though Alan came back with some strong returns which drew gasps of surprise from the crowd. At times the ball seemed to ricochet off both men’s rackets like a bullet. This was fine play, though the rallies were short, but the ball just flew off the grass, skimming it with an almost audible “whooosh!” And now, within a mere fifty minutes or so, they were level pegging, five games all, and Ed was serving again. The audience was gripped. None of us moved a muscle as he threw the ball up high, and smashed it down—thwock!—straight into the tramlines. Palpably irritated, he threw the ball up again, and exactly the same thing happened. His first double fault. He was tiring. Even though he was ten years younger than Alan. But Alan was just doggedly hanging in there.

  “Love-fifteen.”

  Ed served again, with a stertorous grunt, this time to Alan’s backhand. But Alan just stepped into it beautifully with his racket swung right back, and powered it across the court. Ed returned it on his backhand, hard and low, but Alan kept up the pressure, driving forward toward the net with each successive hit. He was really playing an aggressive, turbo-charged game here, but by this stage Ed’s accuracy was beginning to slip. Seeing that Alan was close to the net, Ed lobbed the ball up high, behind him, and our heads described a circular movement as we followed its trajectory down. Suddenly, the linesman’s hand went up.

  “Out!” called the umpire.

  “It was not out!” Ed retorted, furious.

  The umpire conferred with the linesman. “Out,” she reiterated firmly, while we all whispered our agreement with her decision. It was out.

  “—definitely out.”

  “—I couldn’t really see.”

  “—just over the line.”

  “—I saw the chalk fly up.”

  “—he is naughty to argue.”

  “—yep, definitely
, just over.”

  “Quiet please, ladies and gentlemen. Love-thirty.”

  Ed stamped back to the baseline and angrily picked up two balls. He served again, and Alan returned it hard. Then Ed sent it back and Alan clipped it upward in a high, looping lob. And now Ed was running backward as the ball sailed toward him, straining to catch it full on with the face of his racket and punch it down hard again. But as he ran back, keeping one eye on the descending ball, and one eye on the ground, he suddenly skidded, and fell. He quickly pushed himself back onto his feet with his left hand, but Alan’s lob had already landed, just beyond Ed’s desperate, outstretched reach. Ed picked himself up, cussing audibly, as he brushed the grass off his shorts.

  “Love-forty,” said the umpire. If Alan won this game, the score would be six-five, with his serve next. He could win it. This was a decisive point. If he could just hang on in there and break Ed’s serve. Alan stood behind the baseline, bouncing on the balls of his feet, in readiness for the ballistic shock of the ball on his racket. Ed threw the ball up, we watched it rise above his upturned face . . . suddenly a high-pitched warble rang out across the court, then the ball smashed into the net. Ed stopped and looked accusingly in my direction. Oh God, where was it—I groped around inside my bag for my mobile phone, but still it was ringing relentlessly with shrill and unembarrassed abandon. My face was suffused with heat—oh God, what a mess in this bag, where is the bloody thing, I thought angrily, I can never lay my hands right on it.

  “That put me off!” Ed shouted furiously, pointing at me. Everyone was tut-tutting disapprovingly, and the umpire was looking daggers in my direction.

  “I stated quite clearly at the start of this match that all mobile phones should be switched off,” she said crossly. “Play will not be resumed until they are.” At last—got it.

  “Yes, hello!” I said breathlessly as I struggled out of my seat, smiling apologetically at the watching crowd.

  “Sally! Is it happening? It is? Oh don’t worry, Sally,” I said, trying to quell my feelings of rising hysteria. “I’m on my way. Sorry everyone!” I called out. “It’s an emergency! Have you called the midwife? And you’re sure they’re contractions? OK, OK, of course you’re sure they’re bloody contractions. How far apart? Well, time them. I’ll be right there,” I said, feeling panic piling up in my chest. In the distance, as I ran out of the club, I could hear the ball thwacking back and forth as play resumed. Then there was a burst of applause.