Fifteen-Love

Claude knocked softly on the door.

“Entrez.”

He pushed the door open with his shoulder and placed a tray of oeufs brouilles and tea on the bedside table. His grandmother put down her reading glasses.

“Merci, Alex.”

Claude rolled his eyes. Mamie always mixed him up with his younger cousin and it was irritating.

“You are going to ze practice?”

Claude shifted the duffel bag on his shoulder. “Just a few friendly games. Dad’s taking me in five.”

Mamie wagged her finger. “You should to thank him. You have a bottle water wiz you?”

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. He just had to nod a few times, then he could finally leave. He pecked his grandmother’s cheek. “Je t’aime, Mamie.”

“Bye.”

Claude did a few squats and shook his limbs. It felt good to be back on the court. “K, I’m ready,” He called to Lenny.

The local park’s asphalt tennis courts were alright, but Claude was itching to try out the new grass court that had just been installed in his tennis club. The thought of running across the soft, springy surface to hit a cross-court forehand winner sent a shiver of glee down his spine.

“My prediction,” Lenny said, as he threw a ball in the air and swung his racket, “Six–three to me when the half hour is up.”

Thirty minutes later, the boys took a break. Claude wiped his dripping face with a towel and took a swig of water. “Well, it’s four-two to me. Still feeling confident?”

Lenny chuckled. “Oh, yeah.”

Claude shook his head. “What a hopeless optimist.”

“Hey, let’s play a proper match.”

“Na, no time.”

Lenny punched his friend’s shoulder. “It’s Sunday, bro. None of that school stuff to think about.”

“Yeah, but my mother wants me home.”

“Bummer. Mothers can be really annoying.”

That moment, his phone rang.

“Hey, Maman.”

“Claude, Dad is coming to fetch you, he’ll be there in ten minutes. You’ve got a meeting with the new tutor at 10:45, he wanted to start next week only, but I told him you have that thing -”

“That thing!?” Claude eyed his friend, and Lenny quickly looked away. He lowered his voice. “Next Sunday, I’m playing in the quarter-finals of a huge tennis tournament. It’s not a ‘thing.’”

Mrs Bowen sighed. “Make sure you’re ready.”

“But I’ve just started playing!”

“Some things are more important than tennis.”

Claude listened to the dial tone and kicked the ground. Yeah, right.

“He’s absolutely rubbish.”

“Claude. You’ve had this tutor for only three days.”

“Don’t try to reason with me, Dad. I can tell when a guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“But you didn’t even turn up today!” His mother said, ladling vegetable soup.

“I didn’t turn up,” Claude said between gritted teeth, “Because. He. Is. Not. Helping.”

A girl walked into the kitchen. “Who’s not helping?”

“None of your business, Isabelle.” Claude said.

Mrs Bowen closed her eyes and jabbed a finger at the table on the far end of the kitchen. “Go. Supper’s ready.”

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like soup.”

Claude slipped off the barstool and stormed out. “I’m done with that tutor. It’s final.”

He was about to retreat upstairs, but stopped outside Mamie’s room. Maybe she would be more sympathetic.

But Mamie wasn’t happy. “Your Maman, she was speek to me. Elle est très contrariée. Why you won’t give ze tutor a chance?”

Claude could picture his mother and grandmother, jabbering away in French. He opened his mouth to argue, but Mamie lifted a bony finger. “You eenglish boy, you don’t know how to work hard. Moi, I no find it easy to read when I was a girl, but I try and try and I manage.”

“But Maman, dyslexia is different.”

“Absurdité.”

“But -”

“In my day, these thing don’t have names. We don’t get – how do you call it – sympathie. We just do. It’s why les francais, we are so good at everything.”

Claude couldn’t help smiling. Mamie still thought France was the greatest country on earth.

Isabelle bounded into the room. “Salut, Mamie!” She ran over to her grandmother and gave her a squeeze. 

“Isabelle, ma cherie.”

“I’m going to Penny, remember her? We’re going to do homework – Hey, Claude. Why do you always look so serious these days?”

Isabelle seemed so sweet and sincere that he almost wanted to blurt out – “Thanks for asking! I’m stressed out coz I’m fourteen years old and can barely read English, I have a tennis tournament coming up that my parents don’t even care about, and I can’t even tell them what my biggest dream is!”

But he just said “Whatever,” and Isabelle shrugged. “Can’t help you, then. Byeee!”

The door slammed and Mamie smiled. Claude fought a twinge of jealousy for his younger sister. Why did everyone love her so much?

Mamie nodded at the closed door. “Isabelle is tres charmante. You should try to be like her a leetle bit. Eet is not good to be angry with your Maman and Dad. And also in tennis, Pepe always says “Il n’y a pas de place pour la colère sur le court – there’s no place for anger on the court.”

Why was Mamie talking about Pepe when he had been dead for nine years? She was getting her grammar all mixed up, as usual. Yes, Pepe had also played tennis, but it didn’t mean Mamie could give him advice.

He turned to leave. “Gotta go train some more. Coach said he’ll give sessions tonight.”

Claude walked slowly upstairs, a niggling thought at the back of his mind. If Mamie just didn’t get him, and gave the most outdated advice, why did he keep going back for more? What drew him to her room every day?

Claude felt a tap on his shoulder. “Well done! I watched the last couple of games, that was intense! You had some crazy serves.” 

Running a hand down the shiny red frame of his racket, Claude tried not to smile too widely. “Thanks Lenny. You had some nice strokes too.” He took a deep breath. “Well, I still have to get through this set.”

Lenny slapped him on the back. “Chill, bro. You’ve got it in the bag. I know which one of us is going to be sailing through the National Junior Championships.”

“The - what?” Claude tripped over a ball as he spun around to face his friend. “What did you – for real? The NJC?”

Lenny grinned. “I may have overheard something. Coach is giving us a talk at the end of the day.”

“But -”

“Get back to the game, Claude! You’ll hear it from the man himself.” Lenny put a finger to his lips. “I know noooothing.”

“One boy.” Coach Lenny roared. “Only the boy who wins this tournament will qualify for the championships. Claude and Joe, you have seven days to prepare for the finals. I’m here if you need any help.”

A silence fell over the twenty six boys as his words sank in. The NJC was one of the biggest leagues in the country. This was Claude’s greatest dream – to play in all the competitions he could, rising in the ranks until he reached Wimbledon. He fantasized walking into the stands to the roaring sound of applause, and playing the game like he’d never played it before.

Instantly, all eyes were on him. But this time, it was in the best kind of way.

He wasn’t a skinny year 6 boy, stammering through the first line of an English passage like it was Chinese, whilst wishing he could crawl into a hole. 

He wasn’t staring at the letters, as they jumped around the page, taunting him. Sitting with his mother for hours on his bedroom floor – “Just look a little closer, Claude. It’s a ‘b,’ not a ‘p!’” Dad coming back from parents’ evening, full of disappointment. “Your teachers say you aren’t trying enough. Why are you so behind in class?”

Lenny said something, and Claude suddenly jumped back into focus. He grabbed his duffel bag and ran from the room. He only had a week to train for the most important game of his life.

Claude arrived home, puffing and panting. He planned on changing into his second set of tennis clothes, but Mrs Bowen met him at the door, her face beaming.

“Claude! I’m so happy you’re home! Guess what I just heard?”

For a fleeting second, Claude thought she was going to say, ‘I heard that you got through to the finals!’ But instead, his mother said, “The school finally agreed to let you take the touch-typing course!” She looked at Claude expectantly, and he shrugged. “Cool.”

He walked past her and headed for the stairs. 

“Wait a minute.” Mrs Bowen blocked his way and folded her arms, clearly annoyed. “I expected you to be a bit more enthusiastic. Do you know how hard I worked for this?”

“Well, do you know that I just got through to the finals of the club tournament?”

“No, I – Right. I remember now. That’s amazing, Claude? How did it go?”

“Well, you obviously don’t care enough.” He tried to get past his mother.

“You have no appreciation whatsoever. Do you know what I’ve done for you? I’ve begged and begged the headmaster to allow you to bring a laptop to the lessons. And this course that’s going to help you in all your classes – it isn’t cheap at all!”

“Well, if you don’t want to do it for me – don’t! I didn’t ask you to.”

Claude’s mother was seething. “You know what? Mamie is right. You’re lazy, and you’re not willing to put in any work to improve your situation.”

“Well, I didn’t say that exactement.”

“Maman!” Mrs Bowen held out her arm. “Are you joining us for supper?”

“But we haven’t had lunch, Melanie. Claude, let’s hear about zis finals.”

“Thanks for asking,” he said, glaring sideways at his mother. “The finals are next Sunday, and if I win… I’ll get to play in the NJC.” Goosebumps covered his body as he said the word, and Mamie drew in a breath. “Ca alors! Les NJC! Pepe will have advice for you. Eet hard work, you can’t expect to be top.”

Mrs Bowen looked worriedly at her mother, then turned to Claude. “And when is this MJC?”

“NJC,” Claude said between gritted teeth. “It’s in the summer.”

Claude’s mother looked genuinely sorry. “Oh. That is a big shame. You’re going to have to miss it. The touch-typing course takes place over two months and it’s almost holiday time already. You have to do the course throughout the summer.”

“WHAT??”

Isabelle quietly left the room.

“I AM NOT MISSING THE NATIONAL JUNIOR CHAMPIONSHIPS IF MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT!”

“Claude -”

“I’ll take the course another time!”

“The school won’t let you leave the remedial classes unless you have a way of taking notes.”

“But -” Claude felt all the steam leave him. He couldn’t bear to sit through another year of classes way below his level. Neither could he go through the humiliation of illegible notes and bungled homework for one more day.

But even as Mamie said in that matter of fact voice of hers, “You know which is more important,” Claude wasn’t convinced.

Was the gift of writing more valuable than his childhood dreams?

Morosely walking back from training a couple of hours later, Claude bumped into Isabelle.

“Hey.”

“Why the looong face? Anyway, I’m glad I met you. I hate walking alone past that house with the bulldog. I mean, who would call such an awful thing ‘Darling?’”

“Hmm.”

“C’mon.” She stuck her tongue out. “Grumpy boy. Let’s go for an ice cream.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll pay!” Isabelle jingled a sparkly purse. “I have pocket money!”

A few minutes later, Claude found himself perched on a stool in Frangelicas. “This is weird. I’m sitting with my sister.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Chill.” She waved her spoon to a friend, showering Claude with chocolate sauce. “I’M HAVING ICE CREAM WITH MY BROTHER!”

Claude wanted to melt into his bowl. “What do you want from me?”

“Weeeell, I don’t really know what’s going on with, like…” She lowered her voice, and her chair, “Your school stuff.”

Claude groaned. What an eloquent way to describe his problems.

“And, you know… when you argue with Maman…” Isabelle suddenly burst into tears. “I hate it when everyone’s shouting! And poor Mamie – she doesn’t need all that noise!”

Claude blushed. “Sorry, Isabelle. I’ll try… You’re really close with Mamie, aren’t you?”

Isabelle gave him a look. “Of course I am – she’s my grandmother! I know you don’t like to listen to her, but you should. She’s so wise.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“People aren’t around forever! You have to appreciate them!”

“Who are you, and what have you done to my little baby sister?”

Isabelle looked him in the eyes. “I’m eleven, Claude. I’m not little anymore.”

“It’s not fair,” Claude said to his reflection in the mirror. Why did he have to be stuck at home, whilst Maman and Isabelle had fun shopping? He tiptoed up to Mamie’s door, and peeked through the crack. She was sleeping peacefully, an open book slowly slipping out of her hands. 

Did he really need to stay home to keep Mamie company? Claude paced up and down the living room, filled with nervous energy. The finals were just three days away! How could he sit here doing nothing? 

A few minutes later, he was racing up the street, his training bag tucked under his arm. He felt slightly guilty, but annoyance took over. Maman may not care about his future in tennis, but he certainly did. 

Claude opened the tennis club doors, turned on the ball machine and set the speed and spin to the max. He really needed to bring his A-game this sunday.

Thwack. Thump. Brrriiing!

Sighing, Claude put his racket down. Maman was calling. Uh, oh.

“Claude, we’re at the hospital with Mamie.”

“What?” Claude felt his heart catch in his throat. “What happened?”

“She tried to get a book from the shelf and she fell. I’m going to stay here tonight. Dad is ordering pizza. Please get home quick, Isabelle’s a mess.”

“But – I… It’s all my fault, Maman. I shouldn’t have left her alone in the house!”

But his mother didn’t sound angry at all. She sounded sad, and scared. “It was kind of a blessing that Mamie fell. She only fractured her wrist – not fun – but there’s more.” She took a deep breath, and Claude suddenly felt a chill all over his body. “The doctors were concerned… they gave her an MRI. Mamie has Alzheimer’s.”

Sunday. The finals. Claude should have been excited, or nervous at least. If he won the match today, he would fulfill his dreams of playing in the NJC. But he just felt numb, like he was living in a fuzz. How could Mamie have Alzheimer’s? She was so… Mamie! So fiery, so independent, so… full of love.

Claude kicked a pebble. He hated that it took such a diagnosis to get him to appreciate his grandmother. To get him to realise that Mamie was always trying to push him to be better. Everything she did was out of love.

Walking out onto the plush grass court, Claude saw his 9-year-old self in his mind’s eye. He was playing in his first ever match, but Maman was in bed with the flu. Mamie had come to watch him instead, and he remembered how she pestered him to drink, and to control his temper on the court. It had annoyed him at the time. Now, he wished his grandmother was in the stands to support him.

Claude was going to win this for Mamie. He nodded at Joe, his opponent, and threw the ball in the air. Let the game begin.

Fifteen-love.

Thirty-love.

Thirty-fifteen.

It was a wild set. Joe had a powerful serve, and he moved around the court like his trainers were on fire. It went to a tie-break, and after a nail biting battle, Joe took the set with an extreme backspin drop shot.

Claude told himself he had to win the next set. And he did.

One set to go. He won the first two games with ease, and could picture the victory in his mind’s eye. But three hours and eight minutes into the match, Claude developed a stitch, and Joe’s serves were too fast. He lost three games on the bounce. Seventeen tense minutes later, it was five-four to him and his advantage in a deuce. Match point – if he wins this, he’s on his way to the NJC.

Claude calmed his racing heart, and served out wide. Joe returned the ball with a cross court forehand and Claude hit it back at the same angle, confusing his opponent, who tripped as he just made contact with the ball. Claude watched it fly over the net towards him, knowing that it was an easy shot. His opponent was on the ground, all he had to do was hit the ball in the opposite end of the court, and the victory was his. 

But in those one-and-a-half seconds, he suddenly realised what he was doing. Was it really worth it to throw away his chance of an education so he could play in a bigger tournament? Was he going to travel away from his home for three whole weeks, leaving his Mamie? Who knew how much more time he had, before she wouldn’t recognise him? 

In that moment, Claude changed his mind. 

Almost in slow motion, the ball sailed towards him. He’d been standing at the ready, his racket clutched in his right hand, but now, he released his fingers, and the shiny red frame fell the ground. It spun once, twice, and then lay still, as Claude slowly walked away from the silent crowd.

After all, some things are more important than tennis.