Page 24 of Match Point in Crumbleton
The mower didn’t answer. Obviously.
Rolling his eyes at himself, Andy peeked over his shoulder to check there was no one around to witness him talking to the decrepit, rusty machine. Thankfully, there wasn’t another soul in sight. The sunlit, slightly overgrown garden of the Dolphin and Anchor was mercifully empty.
For some reason, he hadn’t been able to get this place out of his head since Cath had asked him about Crumbleton’s tennis-playing history. Maybe it was simply because it was long overdue for some of his attention. Or maybe… maybe it would make a nice place to bring a new friend on a late summer’s evening.
‘Maybe,’ said Andy with a shrug, turning his attention back to the mower.
He screwed the cap back onto the fuel tank and gave the flaking red paint a gentle pat before straightening up. Now all he had to do was cross his fingers that a full tank of fuel and a fresh glug of oil would put the old thing in a good enough mood to actually start.
It was an ongoing battle of wills between him and this mower… and the machine usually won. He didn’t mind in the slightest, though. He loved tinkering around to get it running. In his opinion, it was worth the extra care and attention—it did a lovely job when it finally deigned to rumble into action.
A relic from the 1950s, the mower had lived in the shed behind the kitchens since before the hotel was even a hotel. Andy knew that Fergus, the owner, would have replaced it a million times over by now if it wasn’t for the bargain they’d struck several years ago. If Fergus wanted Andy to cut the grass for him, then Andy wanted to do the job with the beautiful old mower.
As far as Andy knew, he was the only person in town who really knew how to make it run… and he was fine with that. Sure, cherishing a special bond with an antique piece of machinery might make him a bit of an odd-bod in some people’s eyes – but as luck would have it, he was fine with that too!
Glancing around the garden again, Andy rolled his sleeves up. It was going to take a bit more work than usual to get things under control this time around. He hadn’t been able to cut the grass for weeks—it had simply been too wet.
It wasn’t just the grass that had sprung up, either. The rainy start to the summer, followed by the recent warm spell, meant that the shrubs around the edges had run rampant, stretching their bushy branches out as though they were all trying to prove a point.
‘Actually, I think I’d better start you on a higher setting!’ he muttered, kneeling down again and shifting a lever so that the mower would leave the grass slightly longer—at least for the first cut. If he went too short too fast, the old machine would clog up in seconds, and he’d end up spending most of the day hoicking clumps of gooed-up greenery from its innards.
Andy was already resigned to the fact that it was going to take him a couple of repeated laps to get the lawn back down to a more manageable length. It was hard to believe that it had once been a beautifully manicured tennis court. He’d been thinking about that ever since Cath had asked about it. He’d seen photographs of what it used to look like back in the day—all neat stripes, with carefully painted lines and a pristine white net strung across the middle.
Of course, he knew exactly where the posts for the net used to slot into the ground because he had to swerve to avoid the holes every time he visited. By this point, they were easy enough to spot because there were two identical tufts of extra-long grass on either side of the lawn that never got chopped.
No one at the hotel called it “the tennis court” anymore… probably because Fergus had decided to put a stop to it to discourage the local kids from turning up with their rackets and annoying the guests.
If the old photographs he’d seen were anything to go by, the court hadn’t originally been lined by all these mad, overgrown shrubs. Instead, there had been a series of neat, well-tended flower borders—a riot of colour set against a backdrop of hand-painted wooden signs pointing tennis club members to the bar and the changing rooms.
Some of the signs were still there. Andy occasionally caught sight of them, hidden deep behind the overgrown bushes. It was a shame they’d been left out there to rot, but it would take some doing to get at them now!
It really must have been rather wonderful to watch a game of tennis out there, though. Andy could just imagine sitting in the sunshine, watching with a cold drink in his hand.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, a tickle of an idea crept onto Andy’s shoulder and whispered into his ear.
What if he could restore it to its former glory?
A little shiver of excitement ran up Andy’s spine. He was sure he could convince Fergus to let him spruce the place up a bit more thoroughly than his usual quick grass-chopping mission… especially if he offered to do it for free.
What could be more romantic than a drink on the terrace? Other than the fact that the terrace was long gone, of course – probably dismantled decades ago. But if everything was neatly trimmed… the flower borders planted up… and the grass all short and neat and striped…
Andy was sure the flagstones for the terrace would still be there if he looked. They were probably buried under a layer of turf. Even if the shady roof had long since disappeared, it would make a lovely spot to pop some chairs and tables. A lot of work… but it would be worth it.
‘Ready?’ said Andy.
The mower didn’t answer again. Obviously.
Andy grinned and grabbed the end of the pull cord.
‘Right, here we go!’ he murmured. He’d get the grass cut just so—stripes and all if he could manage it. Then he’d talk to Fergus about the other bits.
Giving the cord a swift, sure yank, the ancient engine chugged to life on the first attempt. Andy let out a loud whoop of triumph that was instantly drowned out by the machine’s grumbling purr as they set off together, carving the first neat—slightly too-long stripe—through the scruffy grass.
Andy automatically swerved around the tuft of grass that marked one of the holes for the net, completely lost in his daydream of strawberries and cream, a cooling drink on a warm, summery evening… and good company.
Maybe… maybe he could ask Cath to join him there for a drink. After he’d done all the work, of course. The smile on his face only got broader as he imagined clinking his glass of Pimm’s with hers—their fingers briefly touching.
15 Love.
