No Man’s Squash (à la Harold Pinter)

ACT I

The mid-1970s. Somewhere in North London. A glass-backed squash court viewed from behind the back wall. The glass is streaked with the dried perspiration of sweaty palms. The front and side walls are pocked with the dark impact marks of squash balls and rackets. Chunks of plaster are missing from both side walls where desperate attempts have been made to dig out good-length balls from the back corners. An empty water bottle lies in the front left-hand corner of the court. Above the front right hand corner of the court, a fluorescent tube is flickering, trying to light.

Off-stage, there is the sound of a door opening, its hinges squeaking. The door bangs shut. Footsteps and voices are heard, echoing as their owners walk along a corridor. Two characters enter from stage right; MICK, a dark-haired young man wearing a black leather jacket and track-suit bottoms and carrying a holdall, and DAVIES, an older man, balding, bearded and tramp-like in appearance, wearing a moth-eaten greatcoat and a scarf.

Both are carrying squash rackets.

DAVIES fiddles with the door-catch and curses. He pushes the door open and steps onto the court.

++++

Bloody light. I’ve been meaning to get a new tube.

MICK puts down his bag, unzips it and rummages around inside.

I’ve got a new double yellow in here somewhere.

DAVIES wanders around the court bending down to pick up pieces of fluff and items of litter.

It’s like a bloody pig-sty in here. Some people have got no manners.

MICK props his racket against the back wall and begins a series of stretching exercises.

DAVIES watches him, then looks down at the floor.

Is that blood? That’ll take me ages to get out, that will. You’d think people would have some consideration.

He scuffs at the floor repeatedly with the sole of his right plimsoll.

You could pick something up from that, if you weren’t careful.

Pause.

I’ll need some bleach.

MICK picks up his racket and steps onto the court.

Bit cold in here, isn’t it? Can’t we have the heaters on?

DAVIES: I can’t be long, mind. I’ve got to go to Sidcup later and get me papers.

MICK: You’re not going anywhere…

He pushes the door shut and starts to warm up the ball, hitting it back to himself repeatedly along the left side wall on his back-hand.

DAVIES: They’ve never been any good.

MICK stops hitting and catches the ball.

What haven’t?

DAVIES: The heaters. Old as the hills, see. Can’t get the parts.

MICK drives the ball hard at the front wall on his fore-hand. It flies past DAVIES who ducks out of the way.

How long did you say you’ve been looking after this place?

DAVIES retrieves the ball from the back right-hand corner.

I don’t know…about three years.

MICK: Made a few quid out of it, have you?

Pause.

DAVIES, still wearing his greatcoat and scarf, turns and starts to drive the ball up and down the right side wall on his fore-hand.

MICK (shouting) I said, made a few quid out of it, have you?

DAVIES glances at MICK then continues warming up the ball.

MICK walks over to DAVIES and shoves him, mid-stroke, towards the right-hand wall.

DAVIES stumbles, hits the ball into the tin and falls to the floor.

Pause.

No need for that. I heard. They let me live here, don’t they. Got a couple of rooms out the back. Near the boiler-room.

MICK stares at him, then retrieves the ball and resumes knocking up along the left side wall.

How long you been playing, then?

DAVIES gets up from the floor slowly and walks over to the right side service box.

I was in the army. Aldershot.

MICK: Oh yeah? That where you got the coat, is it?

He laughs, sarcastically, and hits the ball cross-court towards DAVIES.

DAVIES hits it onto the front wall, volleys it back to himself twice, then returns it cross-court towards MICK.

Never heard of it before I went in.

The warm-up continues, both men hitting the ball to each other, then to themselves, practising their shots.

MICK: Never heard of what?

DAVIES: Squash. Never heard of it. Big rugby man my dad was, see. Hard as nails. Drummed it into us.

MICK: Your daughter play, then?

DAVIES: My what?

MICK: Your daughter. The one you were going to stay with.

DAVIES: Oh, her.

Pause.

She lives in Walthamstow.

MICK: Walthamstow? I used to go to the dogs there. Had a little thing going with a few mates. Easy money. Then the law stepped in, so…you a gambler then, are you?

DAVIES: Throw my money away like that? Not bloody likely. Not after…

He stops to unbutton his greatcoat, then walks towards the door.

MICK stops knocking up.

Where do you think you’re going?

DAVIES: I’m warm. Taking off me coat, aren’t I.

He props his racket against the back wall and fiddles with the door latch.

Bloody thing.

They both leave the court. MICK removes his jacket; he is wearing a navy sweatshirt. DAVIES removes his greatcoat and scarf; he is wearing baggy football shorts and a  cricket jumper over a grey shirt.

MICK waits for DAVIES to step back onto the court, then follows him and closes the door.

MICK: Change sides?

DAVIES walks to the left side service box.

That’s better.

MICK: What’s better?

DAVIES: It’s a damn sight lighter on this side.

He starts to laughs, then is overcome with a fit of coughing. 

MICK starts to hit the ball up and down the right side wall on his fore-hand, then hits it cross-court towards DAVIES. Both men resume hitting the ball to each other, then to themselves.

DAVIES: Looking for somewhere to stay, are you?

MICK stops knocking up and picks up the ball.

I might be. Just for a night or two. Need to lie low for a few days, if you get my drift. You know somewhere?

DAVIES: How about fifty quid?

MICK: What about fifty quid? I don’t want to stay at the bloody Ritz, do I.

DAVIES: On the match. How about fifty quid? Make it more interesting, won’t it?

Pause.

DAVIES: I’ll make you a bed up.

MICK: You’ll make what?

DAVIES: I’ll make you a bed up. Out the back. Not much of a place but…you know.

MICK: Who did you say used to coach you?

DAVIES: There’s a kitchen just off reception. I’ve got a table and a couple of chairs. How about cheese on toast? I could knock us something up.

He resumes warming-up the ball on his back-hand. The fluorescent tube suddenly lights.

MICK: You play for the army then?

DAVIES: Mind you, the lines are no better.

MICK: What’s no better?

DAVIES points at the floor with his racket.

The lines. On this side. Can’t see the bloody half-court line.

He looks up at the front wall.

I’m buggered if I can see the service line either. Been meaning to get some paint, haven’t I. The bloke I usually get it from’s in hospital, see. Shame. Lost his marbles. Bloody good player he used to be, too. Took a game off…who was it…you know, that Pakistani lad. Or was he Australian? Anyway, he was British Open champion, whoever he was. Used to play at Wanstead.

MICK stops knocking up and picks up the ball.

How did you used to get on against him then?

DAVIES: Who, the Aussie or the Pakistani? Don’t think I ever played either of them.

MICK: The paint bloke.

Pause.

DAVIES: Oh, him. We didn’t get to play that often. I had to go away for a while, see. Never got the chance. Used to see him now and again, like, but that was…afterwards…

MICK: After what?

Pause.

DAVIES: I’ll tell you what. If you win, I’ll put you up for a couple of nights free. If I win, you pay me fifty quid and I’ll chuck in all your meals. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? No rubbish either. Cheese on toast, nice bit of bacon. You like  sausages? Can’t have any booze though. Bloke who owns the place won’t have it, see.

MICK: Your daughter ever come here, does she?

DAVIES: You can even use the telephone if you need to talk to a few people, like. What do you think?

Pause.

MICK looks at DAVIES then turns and resumes warming up the ball. He hits it cross-court towards DAVIES. Both men resume hitting the ball to each other, then to themselves.

The fluorescent tube begins to flicker again. Both men ignore it.

Lights slowly fade.

CURTAIN

Acknowledgements

To the best of my knowledge, British playwright Harold Pinter is the only person ever to used squash in a major dramatic work as a metaphor for male competition. That play, later filmed with actors Patricia Hodge, Jeremy Irons and Ben Kingsley, was Betrayal, premiered in 1978; I wrote about it in a previous post on this blog.

My own hommage to Pinter is based on two of his other plays, The Caretaker (1960) and No Man’s Land (1975). The characters of Mick and Davies appear in the first and the disconnecting and unsettling nature of the dialogue in both.

In 2005, Harold Pinter was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. He died in 2008.

The Big Squash (à la Raymond Chandler) – Part 2

It was raining hard and the rain came through the soft top of my car.

I stuffed the magazines under the front passenger seat, put on my coat and went to buy some whisky. Then I sat in the car and drank while I watched Geiger’s store.

Business was good at Geiger’s. Very nice cars stopped, and very nice people walked in and came out with packets in their hands. Not all of them were men. At a quarter to five a white sports−car stopped in front of the store. The driver prised himself out and hoisted himself onto the sidewalk. He was wearing a Chinese silk coat. He looked like the kind of guy who dines at an ‘eat all you want’ restaurant and just loses track of time.

I saw the fat face and the moustache as he ran in out of the rain. Before the door could close, a tall, dark and very good−looking boy came out to park the car.

Just after five the store closed and the brunette left. Another hour passed and then another. The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips.

It got dark. The rain eased and then stopped. I smoked more cigarettes than was good for me before the tall boy came out of the store. He brought the car back to the door, got out and opened the driver’s door as Geiger came out of the store. The boy went back into the store and Geiger drove off.

It was ten fifteen.

++++

I followed him thinking that he was going home to Laverne Terrace. But I thought wrong again. He headed east on Santa Monica, then took the freeway. It started to rain again. I turned on the wipers, straining to see Geiger’s tail-lights as he weaved through the traffic.

At the Chinatown exit he turned off and headed downtown.

The office buildings were deserted, their windows staring blankly. The streets felt dark with something more than night.

Fifteen minutes later, Geiger pulled up outside a grey six-storey building on West 7th Street. I stopped thirty yards behind him and watched as he entered through a set of double doors. A single porch light cast a sad glow on the slick sidewalk.

I opened the glove compartment, took out my revolver and slipped it into its holster.

File:TheBigSleep 13.jpg

I got out of the car and walked towards the double doors. A brass plaque on the wall said ‘Los Angeles Squash Club.’

I tried the door. It was open. I stepped into a lobby with faded black and white checkered tiles and a worn welcome mat that had seen better days. There was a second set of doors with frosted glass panels. Through them, I could see a light.

I stepped closer and watched for any signs of movement behind the doors, listening for any sounds. There were none. I pushed the left hand door open, slowly.

A large wood-panelled desk stood in the reception area, its surface lit by an anglepoise lamp. A telephone stood at its right-hand corner. I walked towards it across a threadbare carpet, treading softly. On the walls, signs pointed to the changing rooms, the courts, the bar.

I stopped to listen. Somewhere, in the distance, I heard the faint sound of voices in conversation. Male voices.

On the desk, a visitors book lay open beside the telephone. Geiger’s name wasn’t in it. The last entry was made three days ago. Next to it sat a large, thick ledger, bound in buckram with gold lettering on its cover. ‘Court bookings.’ I opened it and flicked through the pages. None of the names looked familiar.

I turned around. Behind the desk was a glass-panelled door labelled ‘Club Manager’s Office.’ It was dark behind the door. The door was locked.

I looked around the room. Glass cases contained silver trophies engraved with the names of tournament winners. Framed photographs hung from the walls showing smiling players, wearing white.

The clock on the wall showed eleven forty-five.

++++

I followed the sign pointing to the courts. It led to a corridor with a smell of old carpet and furniture oil and the drab anonymity of a thousand shabby lives.

After a few yards, the corridor opened out into a brightly-lit windowless room with seats and a water-cooler. To the left, a darkened corridor led to the courts. The walls of the lobby were lined with notice-boards filled with tournament announcements, competition rules, members’ names and telephone numbers, score-sheets, posters. At one end were the club’s ‘role of honour’ boards with their lacquered surfaces, carved frames and gilded letters.

I went up to them and read down the list of Men’s champions.

1930 D.Wilson

1931 L.Thornbury

1932 D.Wilson

1933 D.Wilson

1934 M.Regan

1935 M.Regan

Michael Regan.  Rusty Regan.

A big red−haired Irishman with sad eyes and a wide smile.

Suddenly, somewhere behind me, I heard a scream. It was a terrible scream, a woman’s scream, a scream made by someone insane or heading that way. Coming from the squash courts. I cursed myself for not checking where the voices had been coming from, where they’d gone to.

Then, I heard three shots. I took out my revolver and turned into the corridor leading to the courts. I looked for the light switch. Before I could flick it, there was a flash of gunfire in the corridor ahead of me. I dropped to the ground and fired back, not seeing what I was aiming at. There was the sound of a crash.

Everything went quiet. I waited until I could see well enough to be sure that the corridor was clear, then hit the lights. The doors to the squash courts lined the right hand side of the corridor. I kicked them open and checked that nobody was hiding in them.

At the far end of the corridor, I could see an open fire door swinging in the breeze. I reached it and stepped quickly outside with my revolver raised. Whoever had fired at me was gone.

Back inside, the corridor turned sharply to the right.

The club’s fourth squash court lay at its far end, light blazing from its open door.

++++

I kicked the door hard and went in.

Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead.

Geiger was sitting on the floor with his back resting on the bottom right hand corner of the front wall. He was still wearing his Chinese silk coat. The front of the coat was covered in blood. He was very dead.

The centre of the court had been transformed to look like a Chinese bordello. Bamboo   screens formed the walls. There were Chinese paintings on the walls and a pink Chinese carpet on the floor. The chairs were covered in yellow silk.

There was a lot of silk in that room.

I saw some silk underclothes on the floor, too. The other thing I noticed was the smell. The sick smell of ether.

Carmen Sternwood was sitting on orange silk. She sat very straight, with her hands on the arms of the chair and her knees together. Her small teeth shone white in her open mouth. Her eyes were wide open, too. They stared crazily at nothing.

She was wearing a pair of long green ear−rings. They were nice ear−rings. She wasn’t wearing anything else.

She had a beautiful body, small and finely made, with skin like silk. I looked at her and felt no excitement at all. To me she was never really a woman. She was always just a stupid kid.

A camera on a tripod pointed at her. She was lit by studio lights positioned around the court.

The scream I’d heard had come from the drugged girl. The three shots were someone else’s idea.

++++

I took off my coat and picked up Carmen Sternwood’s clothes.

`Now, Carmen,’ I said. `Let’s get you dressed.’

She looked at me with empty eyes.

`G−g−go to hell,’ she said.

I hit her a couple of times. She didn’t mind, but it didn’t help at all. I managed to push her into her dress. She giggled and fell into my arms. I sat her in a chair and put her shoes on her feet.

`Let’s walk,’ I said. `A nice little walk.’

In the distance I could hear police sirens.

I lifted her onto her feet and looked over at Geiger, slumped in the front right-hand corner of the court.

What did it matter where you lay once you were dead?  In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill.  You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you weren’t bothered by things like that.  Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you.  You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell. 

Me?

I was standing on a squash court with a dead man on the floor, a gun in my hand and a drugged blonde in my arms.

I was part of the nastiness now.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Rosalie Kerr for her masterly re-telling of ‘The Big Sleep’ and the ‘Good Reads’ website for its compendium of Raymond Chandler quotes. I’ve incorporated quotes from Chandler’s ‘The Big Sleep’, ‘The Lady in the Lake’ and ‘The Little Sister’ in this story.

The Big Squash (à la Raymond Chandler) Part One

It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, one day in October. There was no sun, and there were rain−clouds over the distant hills. I was a neat, clean, shaved and sober private detective, and didn’t care who knew it.

What’s more, I was about to meet four million dollars.

I was waiting in the entrance hall of General Sternwood’s home in West Hollywood. It had been less than twenty-four hours since I got a call from Bernie Ohls at the DA’s office.

‘Whatever he wants, the General’s not saying,’ said Ohls, ‘at least he’s not saying anything to me. Seems he wants the best in the business.’

I waited for the punch-line.

‘I recommended you anyway. Don’t let me down, Marlowe.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

Through the hall window I could see a lot of smooth green grass and a white windowless building with a sloping roof and one door. Beyond it was a large greenhouse and beyond that there were trees and then the hills. There was oil in those hills and oil was where Sternwood had made his money.

I heard footsteps.

‘The General will see you now, Mr Marlowe.’

The butler was a tall, thin, silvery man of about sixty, with expressionless blue eyes. He led me out of the house and headed for the greenhouse. As we were passing the white building, the door opened and two women came out. They were both wearing white tops, shorts and sneakers. I guessed they were Sternwood’s daughters. They were both sweating. Whatever they’d been doing in there, they were hot. Very hot.

The younger one saw me and gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket. A smile showing little, sharp, white teeth. Then she put her thumb in her mouth and giggled. She was about twenty, small but tough−looking. Her blonde hair was cut short and she was carrying a towel in her left hand. The other woman was tall and strong-looking with black hair, late 20s maybe. She looked at me with cold, dark eyes. I wouldn’t be asking her out on a date anytime soon.

I followed the butler to the greenhouse. He opened the door and ushered me in. It was hot, the air thick and wet and the light green. From a wheelchair in the middle of the greenhouse an old man with black eyes and a white moustache watched us. Despite the temperature, he was covered in blankets.

The butler said, `This is Mr Marlowe, General.’

The old man didn’t move or speak. He just looked at me. Then he said, `Fetch the brandy please, Norris. You’ll take a drink Mr Marlowe? I can’t join you, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.’

I nodded. The butler went and the old man spoke again, slowly, using his strength as carefully as an out-of-work show-girl uses her last good pair of stockings.

‘Take off your coat, sir. It’s too hot in here for a healthy young man. You may smoke. I like the smell of cigarettes.’

I took off my coat and lit a cigarette. The butler brought the brandy and I drank some.

`Tell me about yourself, Mr Marlowe.’

`There’s very little to tell. I’m thirty−three. I used to work for the DA until I got fired for thinking for myself. I’m not married and I don’t like policemen’s wives.’

The old man smiled.

‘What do you know about my family?’

`Your wife is dead. You have two young daughters. They’re both pretty and both wild. One of them has been married three times, the last time to a bootlegger called Rusty Regan.’

The General smiled his thin smile.

`I was very fond of Rusty Regan. He was a big red−haired Irishman with sad eyes and a wide smile. He spent hours with me. He was a grand story−teller and a great drinker. Of course, he wasn’t a suitable husband for my daughter. I’m telling you our family secrets, Mr Marlowe.’

`They’ll stay secrets,’ I told him. `What happened to Regan?’

The old man looked at me sadly. `He went away a month ago. Without saying goodbye. That hurt me. I hope he’ll come back. And now someone is blackmailing me.’

He stared at me. `Look at this,’ he said. `And have some more brandy.’

He handed me a packet. The address said: General Guy Sternwood, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood, California. There was a card inside it with the name Mr Arthur Gwynn Geiger, Specialist Bookseller, with a business address. There were also three notes signed by Carmen Sternwood. Each promised to pay Geiger $1,000.

`Any ideas?’ the General asked.

`Not yet. Who is Arthur Gwynn Geiger?’

`I don’t know.’

`What does Carmen say?’

`I haven’t asked her. If I did, she’d put her thumb in her mouth and giggle.’

I said, `I saw her outside. She did that to me.’

The expression on his face didn’t change.

`Do the girls spend a lot of time together?’

`Not that I know of. Vivian is intelligent but cruel. Carmen is just a selfish child. Neither of them ever worries about the difference between right and wrong. Neither do I.’

‘Do they have any money of their own?’

`Vivian has a little. I’m generous to both of them.’

I drank some brandy. Then I said, `I can take Geiger off your back, General, if you want me to.’ I told him how much money I wanted for the job.

`I see,’ he said. `That seems fair. Very well, Mr Marlowe. The problem is now in your hands. And now you must excuse me. I’m tired.’

He touched a bell, stared at me once more, and closed his eyes.

I picked up my coat and went out of that hot greenhouse full of flowers. The cool air of the garden smelled wonderful. The butler was coming towards me.

`Mrs Regan would like to see you, sir.’

`Why?’

His blue eyes looked straight into mine.

`I believe that she misunderstands the reason for your visit, sir.’

I told him it was none of his business, let alone hers. But what the hell, I thought.

‘Take me to Mrs Regan.’

++++

It was a big white room, too big, too white. Long windows looked out onto the dark hills. It was going to rain soon. I walked across the floor and looked at Mrs Regan. She was lovely. She was trouble. She was lying in a chair with her shoes off, so I stared at her legs. They were long and beautiful. She was drinking, and looked at me over her glass with her hot black Sternwood eyes.

`So you’re a private detective,’ she said. `I imagined an awful little man.’

I said nothing.

‘Tall, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘I didn’t mean to be.’

Her smile was as faint as a fat lady at a fireman’s ball.

`How did you like Dad?’

`I liked him.’

`He liked Rusty. Do you know who Rusty is?’

`Yes.’

`Rusty was sometimes rough and noisy, but he was never dull. He was a lot of fun for Dad. Why did he just disappear like that? Dad wants you to find him. Isn’t that true, Mr Marlowe?’

`Maybe,’ I said. I sat on the edge of a deep, soft chair and lit a cigarette.

`Do you think you can find him?’

`I didn’t say I was going to try. Why don’t you go to the police?’

`Oh, Dad will never bring the police into it.’

She looked at me smoothly and drank what was left in her glass.

`You don’t make much money, do you?’ she said.

`You can’t make big money in this game if you’re honest.’

`Oh, are you honest?’ she said and lit a cigarette.

`Terribly honest.’

`So what made you become a detective?’

`What made you marry a bootlegger?’

She went red. Her hot black eyes looked angry. I just smiled at her. `Don’t play with me,’ she said. `I don’t like the way you’re behaving.’

`I’m not crazy about you either,’ I told her. `I didn’t ask to see you, you asked to see me. I don’t care if you show your legs and drink whiskey for lunch. I don’t care if you think I behave badly. You’re probably right. But don’t try to question me.’

`I hate big, dark, handsome men like you, Marlowe,’ she said. `I just hate them.’

`What are you afraid of, Mrs Regan?’ I asked.

Her expression changed. `You could find Rusty – if Dad wanted you to,’ she said.

`He told me about Mr Regan. He wanted to see me about something else. Is that what you wanted me to say?’

`I don’t care what you say!’ she shouted.

I stood up and left the room. I walked back to the entrance hall and stood on the steps outside, smoking my cigarette. In the distance I could see some old oil−wells. The Sternwoods’ money came from those oil−wells. Now they lived in their beautiful house, far from the machines and the smell of the oily water in the sump.

The sky was black when I reached my car. I heard thunder in the hills and put the top up.

She had lovely legs. They were a smooth act, General Sternwood and his daughters. `What do they really want?’ I wondered.

++++

Geiger’s bookstore was on the north side of the boulevard, near Las Palmas. As I stopped to look in the window, a man in the street gave me a knowing smile. The door closed quietly behind me and I stepped onto a soft blue carpet. A few customers were browsing the shelves. There were big comfortable blue armchairs and some expensive−looking books on small tables. In one corner a woman wearing wire-framed glasses sat at a desk.

She got up slowly and came towards me. She was wearing a short black dress, which looked good over long legs. She had brown hair and green eyes. Her fingernails were silver. You don’t often buy a book from a girl like that.

`Can I help you?’ she asked me.

I asked her for a book. It was a famous book, but she had never heard of it. I tried another name. Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her. She didn’t know about the book. She knew as much about books as I knew about painting my fingernails silver.

`I’ll have to speak to Mr Geiger,’ I told her. `Is he here?’

`I’m afraid not,’ she said. `He’ll be here later.’

‘Mind if I wait?’ I said. ‘I’ve got nothing to do this afternoon.’ I sat down in an armchair and lit a cigarette. The brunette looked unhappy.

After twenty minutes, the door to the street opened and a tall man wearing black-rimmed glasses and a Panama hat came in. He hurried past me and over to the brunette.

He took something out of his wallet and showed it to her. She touched a button and a door opened. He disappeared through it.

Minutes passed. I smoked another cigarette. The brunette was staring at me with an expression she probably would have said was thoughtful.

The door opened and the tall man came out. He was carrying a large packet. He looked quickly at me as he passed and went out into the street.

++++

I left the bookstore and followed him. Someone who looks like that is easy to follow. When he stopped to cross the street, I let him see me. He walked on quickly and turned left, between two houses surrounded by trees. I stood and waited, as rain began to fall. Minutes passed. Then he came back and walked straight past me. He didn’t have the packet any more. He was safe now.

I watched him go down the street. Then I went between the houses and found the packet behind a tree. Nobody saw me pick it up. I went back to the boulevard and found a phone booth. I looked in the book and found that Geiger lived on Laverne Terrace, a street off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Then I went to visit some other stores. In one of them I found a girl who could describe Geiger. She said he was about forty, a fat man with a fat face and a moustache. He dressed fashionably.

I ran back to my car through heavy rain. Then I opened the packet. I thought I knew what would be inside it but I thought wrong. It wouldn’t be the last time.

The packet was full of squash magazines.

I sat and looked at the glossy covers. Pictures of matches in play. Headlines trailing interviews, stories, best-buy features, tournament reports. Men and women posing with squash racquets. Wearing white.

I stared at them. I used to play the game myself when I was at the DA’s office. Now I played different games. Games where I could make my own rules.

Then I opened one. What was inside made me feel sick. The worst pornography I’d ever seen. The magazine covers were a front, just like Geiger’s bookstore was a front for distributing ugly dirt. To run that business on the boulevard he must be paying someone a lot of protection money.

I sat in my car and smoked and thought about it. Something didn’t feel right.

Then I looked again at the covers.

I found what I was looking for at the bottom of the pile. The cover showed two women on court playing a rally. The shot had been taken from low down on the front wall. One woman was a brunette with her hair in a ponytail. She was wearing a red sweatband and was lunging into the back right hand corner of the court to play a shot.

The second woman was standing on the T, her head turned towards her opponent. Her face was in left profile, her mouth slightly open, taking in a breath. It was a pretty mouth, a mouth showing little, sharp, white teeth.

The woman’s blonde hair was cut short.

She was holding her racquet in her left hand.

Coming next…

In Part Two of ‘The Big Squash’ the mystery deepens as Marlowe waits for Geiger to appear.

Acknowledgements

Set in Los Angeles, California, Raymond Chandler’s ‘The Big Sleep’ was first published in 1939. Howard Hawks 1946 film version starred Humphrey Bogart as Marlowe, Lauren Bacall as Vivian Routledge (Vivian Regan in the novel), and Martha Vickers as Carmen Sternwood.

For an appreciation of Humphrey Bogart’s Philip Marlowe in Howard Hawks movie, read Leonard Pierce’s ‘Come Into My Boudoir.’

Thanks to Rosalie Kerr for her masterly re-telling of ‘The Big Sleep’ and the ‘Good Reads’ website for its compendium of Raymond Chandler quotes. I’ve used quotes from Chandler’s  ‘The Big Sleep’, ‘Farewell My Lovely’ and ‘The Little Sister’ in this story.

The Small Business of Squash at Christmas

Samuel Pepys

Samuel Pepys

Trade cards first became popular at the beginning of the 17th century in London  where they were typically distributed by businessmen to clients and potential customers. Unlike visiting cards, which were exchanged in social circles, they functioned as advertising and also as maps, directing the public to merchants’ stores, as no formal street address numbering system existed at the time. The famous diarist Samuel Pepys (1633-1708) is known to have been an early user of trade cards in his professional capacity as a naval administrator, and left a collection of them which is now preserved at Magdalene College, Cambridge.

Until the development of colour printing in the 1870s, few companies specialised in the bulk production of ‘stock’ trade cards, usually having an image on one side and space on the other for businesses to add their own information. Then, as production became more widespread and designs became more attractive and colourful, collecting and exchanging cards became a popular hobby. Some cards, particularly those produced by tobacco companies featuring baseball players, later developed into collectibles and gradually lost their function as business advertisements.

In the 1880s, squash was beginning to gain in popularity in England and elsewhere. So perhaps the existence of a trade card from that period featuring young lady holding a squash racquet shouldn’t come as a great surprise.

It’s possible that the card was advertising the services of the artist, Eleanor.E.Manly, an English Victorian artist specialising in children’s portraits whose most productive period was from the mid-1870s until her death in 1898. It also bears the greeting  ‘With best wishes for a Happy Christmas’ which suggests that it was produced for distribution during the festive period.

The earliest squash Christmas card? We’ll probably never know. But with Manly’s work still being bought and sold after in the top art auction rooms of the world, it’s nice to think that someone, somewhere may still have something valuable locked away in the attic.

And it’s got a squash racquet on it.

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Christine H of Portland, Oregon whose love of antique postcards shines through on her blog The Daily Postcard.

Dark Side of the Squash Court

In 1974, I hadn’t even heard of squash, never mind coming into contact with anyone who’d actually played it. But I had heard of English rock band, Pink Floyd who, the previous year, had released what is still one of the most commercially successful rock albums of all time.

Dark Side of the Moon Album Cover

The group’s concept album The Dark Side of the Moon was eventually to spend  seven years in the UK album chart whilst, in the US, it was to remain in the Billboard Top 100 chart for over fourteen years. Selling over 40 million copies worldwide, the album was to bring enormous wealth to the members of the group. Its monomaniacal leader, Roger Waters, and keyboard player Richard Wright would buy large English country houses whilst drummer Nick Mason would become a collector of expensive cars.

So, in 1974, the group’s followers and its record company had high expectations that an equally successful follow-up album would soon appear. The group was even rumoured to have written material for the new album and be at work in the recording studio.

But coming up with a worthy successor to The Dark Side of the Moon was proving exceptionally difficult. Relationships between the group’s members were strained and there was disagreement over the concept for their next album. What’s more, something else was about to distract some members of the group from turning up to the recording studio. Squash.

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

In the Winter of 1974, the group embarked on a tour of the UK playing a set including the entirety of The Dark Side of the Moon. The first part of each concert featured new material including Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett, an ex-band member whose mental breakdown had forced him to leave several years before. This, together with two other new compositions, Raving and Drooling and You’ve Got to be Crazy, seemed to be a reasonable choice as the centrepiece for a new album.

Pink Floyd on stage 1974

But, working from Studio Three at Abbey Road in London, the group were finding it difficult to devise any new material, especially as the success of The Dark Side of the Moon had left all four physically and emotionally drained. Richard Wright described the group’s early recording sessions as “falling within a difficult period” and Roger Waters as “torturous”. Guitarist David Gilmour was more interested in improving the band’s existing material and  was becoming increasingly frustrated with Mason, whose failing marriage had brought on a general malaise and sense of apathy, both of which interfered with his drumming.

And there were technical problems. On one occasion, sound engineer Brian Humphries inadvertently spoiled the backing tracks for Shine On, which Waters and Mason had spent many hours perfecting, with echo. The entire piece had to be re-recorded.

Several weeks into recording, Waters came up with another idea. He proposed splitting Shine On You Crazy Diamond and sandwiching two new – and, as yet, unwritten – songs between its two sections. Gilmour disagreed, but was outvoted three to one, leading to yet more disharmony between the group’s members.

Pink Floyd on court 1975

But just as it seemed that the camaraderie which had previously held the group’s members together was about to vanish, two of them found a new way of sharing their frustrations, re-energising themselves and, unknowingly, bringing the group back together.

They started playing squash.

Wish You Were Here

David Gilmour and Nick Mason became squash buddies spending so much time on court that their appearances in the Abbey Road recording studio became less frequent. Nearly forty years later, Brian Humphries was to recall how frustrating he found it to get them to agree to recording schedules which, by necessity, would oblige them to vacate the squash courts for the more mundane task of crafting a new Pink Floyd album – now provisionally entitled Wish You Were Here.

Pink Floyd on court 1975

But whatever scheduling difficulties were being experienced by Humphries, the concept behind the new album gradually became clearer to group leader Roger Waters. The two new songs he had proposed emerged in the shape of Welcome to the Machine and Have a Cigar, both barely-veiled attacks on the music business. The lyrics of the new songs  would work neatly with Shine On You Crazy Diamond to provide an apt summary of the rise and fall of Syd Barrett. “I wanted to get as close as possible to what I felt,” Waters was to say later. “That sort of indefinable, inevitable melancholy about the disappearance of Syd.”

The production of Wish You Were Here progressed in fits and starts, with Syd Barrett paying an impromptu visit to the studio during the recording of Shine On You Crazy Diamond. The album was eventually released in September 1975 with 250,000 advanced sales in the UK and 900,000 in the US.

Despite the many problems encountered during its production, the album was to become the firm favourite of both Richard Wright and David Gilmour. But even in 2011, Roger Waters, interviewed for a documentary about its making, still appeared to be moping about its flaws. Gilmour and Mason sounded like they’d rather be playing squash.

The Kings of the Palace

On December 9th, 1974, I attended one of the two concerts played by Pink Floyd at the Palace Theatre in Manchester. At the time, I’d never bought a Pink Floyd album although I’d heard plenty of their music. I hadn’t even sought out a ticket in advance but was offered one at short notice. So I went.

And I’m glad I did.

Because there was something about the concert that had a big effect on me, something that stayed with me, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It wasn’t the group’s performance, the music, the light show complete with landing lights and glitter-ball, the dry ice – although I remember all of those things. It wasn’t even the concert programme which was a memorable pastiche of British ‘Boy’s Own’ comics.

It was something else. Something which took me nearly forty years to understand.

Somehow, at that concert I wasn’t just listening to a rock band. I was watching squash buddies…doing their day job.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Wikipedia for their entries on Pink Floyd and Wish You Were Here. Thanks also to The Arts Desk for its review of the BBC4 documentary on the making of Wish You Were Here.

Thanks to the Pink Floyd fan website A Fleeting Glimpse and to Magforum for its review of the Pink Floyd 1974 Tour Programme.

Finally, thanks to whoever recorded Pink Floyd’s December 9th, 1974 concert at Manchester’s Palace Theatre and, what’s more, uploaded it to YouTube. If you listen very  carefully, you can hear me shouting in the background!

A Walk in the Woods: Squash in New England

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” Henry David Thoreau

Hiking in New England during the US’s hottest summer since 1895 may not be everybody’s idea of a relaxing holiday. Whatever plans you might have had to explore the Great Outdoors tend to change daily, if not hourly, as the mercury rises, the forest shade beckons and a craving for the next ice-cold drink begins.

Well, that’s what it was like for me when I hiked the trails around Burlington, Vermont, where squash is still very much part of the varsity athletics scene. Not only that, one enterprising Burlington squash player had even built himself an outdoor court, with a slight gradient from front wall to back for drainage purposes.

The Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire

Things were much the same hiking the trails of Acadia, off the coast of Maine, where I came across a fellow traveller and hiker who just happened to play in Philadelphia’s squash leagues. I even experienced déjà vu on the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire where a passing conversation with another hiker revealed yet another ex-college player and squash lover.

So, by the time I headed south towards Massachusetts, I already had a feeling that all I had to do to stay connected with squash was to keep travelling, hike trails and share stories with strangers. After all, I was wandering through a landscape which, over the years, has attracted travellers and hikers from all over the world. People who, just like me, wanted to go for a walk in the woods, whatever the temperature.

People drawn to the place where squash first took root in America.

The First American Squash Court

St Paul’s School, New Hampshire

The first squash court in America was built at St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire in 1884. Two years previously, the headmaster of St. Paul’s had seen the game played in Montreal and wrote an article about it for the school magazine. In the article he favoured squash over rackets, largely on the grounds of its lower costs. But, despite his enthusiasm, the soft ball used in the sport proved to be unsuitable for use on the unheated squash courts of New Hampshire with its cold winters. Because of this, a harder ball was developed which was more suited for use in colder temperatures and on narrower courts.

In 1924, the US hardball squash court was standardized at 18.5 feet wide with a 17 inch “tin” – the out-of-play strip of metal at the bottom of the front wall. This contrasted with the British (international) court which, four years later, was finally to be standardised at 21.5 ft. wide with a 19 inch “tin”.

But whatever progress was being made on both sides of the Atlantic in standardising squash balls and squash courts, there was one milestone in the development of squash which proved to be ‘no contest’. In 1904, twenty years after the appearance of America’s first squash court, the world’s first national squash association was formed.

It was American and was to pre-date its British equivalent by almost a quarter of a century.

Harvard Connections

From its beginnings in New Hampshire, squash began to spread further into the US through the private boys schools of New England. This initial phase of squash development is still reflected in the distribution of squash courts throughout the country, the majority still being located in private universities and athletic clubs. Today, there are over 1,000 facilities across the US which house squash courts including those at the Ivy League universities of Yale in Connecticut and Harvard in Massachusetts.

Concord Acton Squash Club, Massachusetts

Not surprisingly, I found that Harvard featured on the fixture list of the Concord Acton squash club which I visited, and played at, between walking excursions. Before my visit to the area, I’d already discovered that Concord itself boasts a remarkably rich literary history centred in the mid-nineteenth century. So it was as a lover of traveller’s tales that I took a particular interest one of the town’s most famous natives, the author and philosopher Henry David Thoreau.

Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau is best known for his book ‘Walden or Life in the Woods’, a reflection upon simple living in natural surroundings. Published in 1854, the book is part personal declaration of independence, part social experiment, and part manual for self reliance in what were then physically demanding times. Thoreau was also a follower of transcendentalism, a philosophical movement that developed in the 1830s and 1840s in the Eastern region of the US as a protest against the current state of culture and society and, in particular, against the state of intellectualism at Harvard University.

Thoreau himself was no great traveller or walker, but others in the local area shared and outlook on life which combined intellectualism with more physical pursuits.

Including sport.

Harvard Squash

By the time transcendentalism had run its course in the early 1850s, Harvard had begun to embrace another new movement, that of intercollegiate athletics. In 1852, the first intercollegiate sporting event, a rowing race between Harvard and Yale, took place on Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire. Other sports were to follow, tennis making its debut in 1880 and, eventually, squash, arguably Harvard’s most successful sport of all, in 1922. The first-ever intercollegiate squash match, Harvard versus Yale, followed in February 1923.

Harry Cowles’ ‘The Art of Squash Racquets’

Harvard squash was to produce its own successful exponents including the legendary Harry Cowles who coached its men’s team for its first 16 seasons, leading it to five national titles and mentoring no less than 13 individual champions. Cowles’ book ‘The Art of Squash Racquets’ was published in 1935 and is still available if you look in the right places.

Over the years, many other notable figures were to emerge from Harvard’s squash community including one who would come to be recognised as one of the leading all-round athletes of the first half of the 20th century.

Someone who was to blaze the trail for women’s participation in sport in America.

The First Women’s Squash Champion

Eleonora R. Sears, nicknamed “Eleo,” was born in Boston in 1881. The great-great-granddaughter of the 3rd President of the US, Thomas Jefferson, Sears enjoyed all the benefits of an aristocratic upbringing. In her youth she was part of the social elite that vacationed each summer in Newport, Rhode Island, where she learned to play tennis and golf, rode horses, swam, and sailed.

In 1911, Sears began to play tennis competitively, when she and her friend Hazel Hotchkiss Wightman won the US women’s doubles championship. Over the next five years, Sears won four more doubles championships, scandalizing crowds each time with her rolled up shirt-sleeves.  In 1912, Sears nearly lost her membership to the Burlingame Country Club in Southern California, when she rode front-saddle into the all-men’s polo arena wearing pants.

But, despite receiving criticism for her unfeminine style of dress and her avid participation in athletics, Sears was unfailingly popular among the upper class circles of Boston and New York.  She was a frequent guest at the all-men’s Harvard Club, where she first learned to play squash in 1918.

Eleanora Sears in 1929

In 1928, she helped to found the US Women’s Squash Racquets Association. In the same year, at the age of 46, she not only became its first singles champion but the first women’s squash champion in history. In 1929, she convinced Harvard’s officials to open its squash courts to women. She later served as the USWSRA’s president and was captain of the US national women’s team.

Sears frequently topped New York’s “10-best dressed” list, and the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII) claimed her to be his favourite dance, squash, and tennis partner. She played and coached women’s squash into her 70s, and was also famous for her frequent marathon hikes, her favourite being from Providence, Rhode Island to Boston, a distance of 44 miles. She once walked the 73 miles from Newport to Boston in 17 hours and during her 1912 visit to California, walked the 109 miles from the Burlingame Country Club to the Hotel Del Monte in 41 hours.

Sears, nicknamed ‘The Universal Female Athlete’ died in 1968 at the age of 86.

So the next time you travel to the US, why not visit some of the places where squash is still very much part of the local culture? New England, perhaps, or maybe further south even as far as Atlanta, Georgia where the 2000-mile Appalachian Trail ends. And while you’re there, why not take a walk in the woods?

You never know what squash stories you might hear.

Acknowledgements

Thanks, as always, to Wikipedia for its entries on squash, Eleanora Sears, Concord Massachusetts, Henry David Thoreau, Harvard University and the Appalachian Trail.

Thanks also to Peggy Miller Franck for her article ‘The Mother of Title IX: Trailblazing Athlete Eleonora Sears’ in The Daily Beast.

And, finally, thanks to the Concord Acton Squash Club for allowing me to play in its Sunday morning ‘round robin’.

The Squash Racquet Expert

A few years ago, I decided to find a way of making money which would, at the same time, enable me to draw on my passion for squash.

A well-connected friend of mine suggested that I invest in vintage squash racquets. They must be authentic, he told me, or you’ll waste your investment. The problem was, how could I learn to distinguish high value racquets from the inferior article?

I decided to find the acclaimed expert in the field. Everybody I asked mentioned the same highly regarded teacher and so I sought him out. I managed to get hold of his number and rang him at his home.

‘Yes, I can certainly teach you to recognise high value racquets,’ he told me. I asked him how long it would take to earn and he replied. ‘I can teach you in five days, but it will cost you £5000.’

It seemed a high price to pay, but he was reputed to be the world expert and I presumed that I’d learn a great deal in those five days. So, I agreed the contract and sent him a letter to that effect. He told me to visit his house each day between 9 and 11 a.m. starting the following Monday.

Two hours a day seemed a little on the short side for such an expensive training, but I duly turned up and was greeted by a tall, elderly man with white hair wearing a tracksuit. He ushered me into a sparsely-furnished room containing a long, wooden table. In the middle of the table, mounted by its handle on a plinth was a wood-framed squash racquet with what I assumed were gut strings. Placed on either side of the table were two chairs. The Master sat on one side and I was invited to sit on the other.

‘Look at the racquet,’ he commanded and fixed his attention on it.

I stared and stared, expecting that at any moment he would start telling me what I should be noticing. But not a word was said until the end of the hour when he announced, ‘That is the end of today’s lesson. I will see you at 9 a.m. tomorrow.’

I felt that I’d been short-changed on this first lesson, but was sure that tomorrow he’d tell me what I should have noticed.

The next day, at the same time, in the same room, I found myself sitting opposite another racquet.

‘Look at the racquet,’ the Master once again commanded.

My study was intermingled with my growing eagerness and anticipation of what I was going to be told. But not a word came from the Master’s lips until I was once again told that it was the end of the lesson and he would see me tomorrow.

The third day turned out to be the same as the first two. I rationalised my growing fury by telling myself that, this being the acclaimed expert, he was waiting for me to have studied several different racquets before giving me a lecture on how they all differed. Surely, in the rest of the week, he would tell me how the colour of the markings on the racquets differed, how to distinguish the fine-grained textures of the wood used for the head and the handle, the shape and symmetry of the frame and so on.

However, the fourth day came and went exactly as the others had done before them. Another racquet and an hour’s silent study.

I arrived at the last lesson on the Friday morning, keyed up with anticipation. Now all was going to be revealed and I was sure that I was going to have really concentrate to get my £5000-worth of learning into my head in  this one short hour.

I was shocked to find the room exactly the same, with another squash racquet and the same invitation – ‘Look at the racquet.’

I looked at the racquet with urgent anticipation of the wisdom that surely was shortly to be delivered. After ten minutes, I was getting agitated and after fifteen positively desperate. I could stand it no longer; my patience had finally run out. I turned to the Master and shouted at him:

‘I’ve spent £4000 so far and another £1000 today, and up to now you haven’t told me anything, just left me to look at different squash racquets. And what’s even worse, today you have not even had the courtesy to show me an authentic high value racquet!’

Acknowledgement

This kind of teaching story is found in the Zen Buddhist tradition. It’s based on the story ‘Learning from the Experts’ taken from ‘The Wise Fool’s Guide to Leadership’ by Peter Hawkins.

Mr Darcy’s Squash Match (à la Jane Austen)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a broken heart, must be in want of sportive diversion.

It had been above three months since Darcy, having declared to her his most ardent affection and love, had suffered the reproofs of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Even now, his remembrance of her words caused him inexpressible pain despite his feeling reasonable enough to allow their justice.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.  You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

How those words had tortured him.

In his great disappointment and frustration, he had first determined to busy himself in attending to various business matters which had long required his attention. Now, he found himself  travelling in the North Country with a party including his sister, Georgiana, his friend Bingley, and Bingley’s sisters.

During their travels, Darcy had prevailed upon the good will of Mr. W——– of Pontefract to further instruct him in the sportive art of squash racquets, a pastime in which he had long excelled. He had likewise succeeded, to the great joy of his beloved sister, in securing the services of Miss D——, a lady similarly proficient in that art, to provide her with sportive instruction. Now, as the other ladies of the party expressed their desire to return to Pemberley, he greatly wished to participate in further sportive diversion and healthful recreation as he struggled with his feelings of rejection.

On the morning before his party’s intended departure, Darcy’s spirits were lifted by the receipt of a letter from his steward, Mr. M——, begging his immediate presence to attend an urgent matter relating to his estate. He at once reasoned that his early return would also  provide him with the opportunity of engaging in a game of squash racquets with his steward, a player of not insubstantial experience and skill. However, he determined not to educate his travelling companions as to his intentions of seeking further sportive diversion and, following breakfast, begged his leave of them and set forth on his journey.

His ride being uneventful and the weather clement, Darcy’s thoughts turned towards his  arrival at Pemberley. Notwithstanding the urgency of his journey, he anticipated with pleasure the time he would be able to spend in gentleman-like competition with Mr. M——  in the squash racquets hall adjacent to the stables. Yet, even so, he reflected with regret that his sister knew no other young ladies in the area with whom she could prevail upon to play with her on her return, Miss Bingley and her sister being disinclined during their visits to partake in what they judged to be an un-ladylike manner of recreation. Neither could he, as a loving brother, find any suitable sportive companions for his sister although, as he drew closer to his destination, the person of Miss Elizabeth Bennet once more intruded upon his thoughts.

On this occasion, however, he did not hear Miss Bennet’s words but was perceptive only of her dark eyes, her lightness of movement and her healthful manner. Did she not love running? Did she not find joy in country dancing? Was she not determined to journey everywhere on foot if circumstances would allow it? At once he remembered her dancing at the ball at Netherfield, and, yes, the occasion of her walking from Longbourn to Netherfield to attend her sister! Now, as he drew near to his destination, Darcy made a firm resolve to explore every avenue which might be available to him to win the affection of the woman with whom, he now confessed to himself, he was still in love.

On his arrival at Pemberley, he rode through the woods, crossed the bridge and made directly for the stables where, as fortune would have it, he was greeted by his steward. Anticipating his master’s desire to enjoy some time in the squash racquets hall before attending to any matters of business,  Mr. M—— had prevailed upon Darcy’s valet to bring his master’s racquet and rubber-soled squash shoes to the court in advance of the latter’s arrival. Darcy declared himself pleased with his  steward’s initiative before removing his riding jacket, waistcoat and boots, putting on his shoes and taking his racquet before joining his steward on court.

The encounter proved to both players at once demanding and challenging, Darcy triumphing over his steward by the narrowest of margins in just under the hour. Having complimented each other on their endeavour, the two competitors agreed to meet in an  hour to discuss the issue which had caused Darcy’s early return. Darcy then put on his riding boots and began to walk along the road leading to the house where he could refresh himself and change into fresh clothing following his sportive exertions.

Carrying his clothes and racquet, he had reached the lawn when he became aware of the presence of the gardener whose expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. He then spied at some yards distant, a party of two ladies and a gentleman, whom he took to be visitors, the latter of whom he overheard to be conjecturing as to the date of the house. But it was only as he approached further towards his destination that he at once found himself standing within but a few short yards of…Miss Elizabeth Bennet!

He advanced towards the party and spoke to her.

As she saw him, she had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with, had he but know it, an embarrassment impossible to overcome.

Her companions stood a little aloof while he was talking to her whilst she, astonished and abashed, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and seemingly knew not what answer she returned to his civil enquiries about her family.

The few minutes in which they continued together were some of the most uncomfortable of his life. Nor did she seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his own accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.

At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself and took leave.

As he strode towards the house, Darcy at once became aware of the mode of his dress, the  dampness of his attire and the disarrangement of his hair, directly come as he was from his exertions in the squash racquets hall. Yet, as he entered the hallway, any consequent  embarrassment he had begun to experience surrendered itself to the intensity of his desire to return to the presence of Miss Bennet; and this, in its own turn, gave urgency to his thoughts as to how he could realise such a happy situation before she and her friends might  end their visit to Pemberley.

No sooner had he begun to cross the hall towards the staircase, however, than the appearance of his housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, gave him cause to believe that he would soon be able to re-join Miss Bennet’s party. Mrs. Reynolds’ astonishment at seeing her master  was quickly replaced by a willingness to assist him in fulfilling his earnest wish to know in which direction their visitors were going, and in having his valet attend him with all urgency. Expressing his profound gratitude for her assistance, Darcy then made to ascend to his dressing room with all speed.

Now, as he set aside his racquet and busied himself in preparing to follow Miss Bennet and her friends, Darcy at once vowed to himself that he would again begin to hope.

Notes

Extracts from Chapters XXXIV and LXIII of “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen, published in 1813.

For further reading on women’s sport in the early 19th Century, see “Healthful Sports for Young Ladies” by Mademoiselle St. Sernin, published in 1822.

Squash and the Art of Espionage

If you visit Central London, you can easily find the futuristic-looking headquarters of Britain’s Special Intelligence Service on the banks of the River Thames at Vauxhall Cross. The SIS, also known as MI6,  supplies the British Government with foreign intelligence and operates alongside the country’s internal security service MI5.

MI6 Headquarters in London

Since the end of the Second World War, the espionage activities of MI6 have been fictionalised (often in thrilling fashion) by many writers one of whom, David Cornwell, actually worked for the Service during the 1960s. Writing under the pseudonym John Le Carré, Cornwell’s Cold War spy novels contrast with the physical action and moral certainty of the James Bond books written by Ian Fleming. His characters are mainly un-heroic political functionaries aware of the moral ambiguity of their work, and engaged in psychological game-playing and deception rather than physical drama.

And it’s in Le Carré’s novels that psychological games occasionally manifest themselves in the shape of sport. Not just in the description of sporting encounters (such as the tennis match in his novel ‘Our Kind of Traitor’) but in the form of memories, cultural references and the discovery of artefacts.

Including those relating to the game of squash.

Squash and Special Intelligence

If you’re fortunate enough (or even cunning enough) to gain access to MI6’s archives, you’ll find – alongside a briefcase containing a document copier and a stethoscope-like ‘hushaphone’ for eavesdropping on conversations in bugged rooms – a squash racket with a secret compartment in the handle. To contain what, we can only guess.

Visit MI6’s website and you can find more up to date evidence that squash is still part of the culture of Britain’s intelligence service. Not surprisingly perhaps, MI6 offers would-be staff the opportunity to experience ‘foreign travel’ and  ‘excitement’ (possibly an understatement) as well as to design ‘hi-tech gadgets’ for its agents (think ‘Q’ in the James Bond movies). And last, but not least, staff facilities at the Service’s headquarters include squash courts as well as a gym, a restaurant and, thankfully, a bar.

John Le Carre

Back in the 1950s and 60s, when the young David Cornwell was working for MI6 (and, initially, MI5),  squash was also a part of Britain’s intelligence and broader military culture. Squash courts were installed in the basements of various Government buildings in London and were also available to staff based at Special Intelligence sites such as the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) near Cheltenham.

As for Cornwell himself, squash was one of the sports he would have encountered as a pupil at Sherborne School in Dorset which he attended during the 1940s. And it’s perhaps during this period of his life that the game and its psychological aspects first came to his attention and began to feed his imagination.

Whatever its influence on David Cornwell the pupil –and later linguist, interrogator, spy and teacher – squash was eventually to appear in the writings of John Le Carré the novelist. And on more than one occasion.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

In 1961, a year after transferring from MI5 to MI6, Cornwell published his first novel as John Le Carré, ‘Call for the Dead’. The book introduced the character of George Smiley, an MI6 intelligence officer who was to appear in a further seven of Le Carré’s novels. Three years later, Le Carré was to leave MI6 to work full-time as a novelist, after his own career as an intelligence officer career was ended by the betrayal of his British agents to the KGB by Kim Philby, a British double agent and member of the Cambridge Five.

In 1974, ten years after leaving MI6, Le Carré was to depict Philby in his novel ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’ as the upper-class traitor (code-named ‘Gerald’ by the KGB) hunted by George Smiley and his assistant Peter Guillam. In the book, the ‘mole’ Gerald is simultaneously being hunted, unbeknownst to Smiley, by Jim Prideaux, a fellow agent and former lover whom he has previously betrayed. Eventually, Guillam realises who the elusive figure following Smiley’s investigations is…

“The night had its own madness after that; events ran too quickly for him to fasten on them singly. Not till days afterwards did he realise that the figure, or the shadow of it, had struck a chord of familiarity in his memory. Even then, for some time, he could not place it. Then one early morning, waking abruptly, he had it clear in his mind: a barking, military voice, a gentleness of manner heavily concealed, a squash racquet jammed behind the safe of his room in Brixton, which brought tears to the eyes of his unemotional secretary.”

A recent film adaptation of the book shows a squash match being played in the basement of a Government building between the Minister with responsibility for the ‘Circus’ (MI6) and his Under-Secretary for whom Smiley is working.

'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy' Squash Match

While Smiley heads to Oxford to consult an old MI6 colleague, the two squash players confer in the changing room with Percy Alleline, the Head of the Circus, who wants permission to share valuable intelligence (code-named ‘Witchcraft’) with American Intelligence.

But the end result of Alleline’s intelligence sharing initiative is to prove catastrophic, both for his own career and that of the Minister…

A Perfect Spy

Twelve years after the publication of ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy’, Le Carré published ‘A Perfect Spy’ chronicling the moral education, from boyhood onwards, of its main character Magnus Pym, as it leads to his becoming a spy and subsequently a double agent. The book is Le Carré’s most autobiographical  espionage novel, the author himself reflecting that writing it was ‘probably what a very wise shrink would have advised’.

‘A Perfect Spy’ has references to squash woven into its fabric and into the thoughts not just of Pym but of his wife, Mary, and son Tom. In one passage, Pym reflects on the lives of middle-class professional men like himself…

“…men who see the threat to their class as synonymous with the threat to England and never wandered far enough to know the difference. Modest men, practical, filling in their expense accounts and collecting their salaries, and impressing their Joes with their quiet expertise beneath the banter. Yet still, in their secret hearts, nourishing themselves on the same illusions that in those days nourished Pym. And needing their Joes to help them do it. Worried men, touched with an odour of pub meals and club squash, and a habit of looking round them while they paid, as if wondering whether there was a better way to live.”

In another, Pym’s son prays for his school ‘house master’, Mr. Caird…

“…Tom prayed earnestly for his dead grandfather’s soul, for Mr. Caird and for victory in Wednesday’s squash match against St. Saviour’s, Newbury, away, though he feared it would be another humiliating defeat, for Mr. Caird was divided on the merits of athletic competition.”

Pym’s wife thinks about her squash dates with a friend from the Canadian Embassy while her husband remembers his con-man father, Rick, as he prepares to meet a senior spymaster…

“The same evening, glowing from the best of nine games of squash, Pym was led to the presence of a Very Senior Member of the service, in a plain, forgettable office not far from Rick’s newest Reichskanzlei.”

But the gradual unravelling of the psychological games played by Pym eventually lead to his exposure and his suicide.

Which also goes to show that deception, in life as well as on the squash court, doesn’t always pay off.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Neil Tweedie for his article “Psst! Want to join MI6?” in the Daily Telegraph. Also thanks to Wikipedia.

Squash in Mordor

Amazing what you can stumble across rummaging around on the Web, isn’t it? Take, for example, what happens when you shove the word ‘squash’ into Google. As well as links to information about the racket sport we all know and love, it tends to throw up all sorts of pointers to cookery, the policing of public demonstrations and the repression of popular uprisings. Although not necessarily in that order, or indeed disorder.

But when you inadvertently find yourself straying into the imaginary realm of elves, orcs and hobbits, well that’s another thing entirely. Which just goes to show that internet search engines and  squash know no boundaries.

The Lord Of The Rings

In 2003, Director Peter Jackson’s film, ‘The Return of the King’ won 11 Academy Awards including Best Picture. The film was the third of a trilogy based on ‘The Lord of the Rings’, an epic fantasy novel written by English philologist and University of Oxford professor J.R.R.Tolkien.

J.R.R.Tolkien

J.R.R.Tolkien

The title of the novel refers to the story’s main antagonist, the Dark Lord Sauron, who in an earlier age created the One Ring to rule all the other Rings of Power. The One Ring is Sauron’s ultimate weapon in his campaign to conquer and rule all of Middle-earth, complete with elves, orcs, hobbits etc.

The story follows the adventures of Frodo Baggins, a hobbit, and his comrades in his quest to destroy the One Ring by casting it into the fires of Mount Doom in the Land of Mordor where Sauron’s power holds sway. A rather nasty place by the sound of it and certainly not a tourist destination.

Along with the other two films in the trilogy, ‘The Return of the King’ was filmed in New Zealand, home to a thriving squash community with a distinguished  history (think Susan Devoy and Ross Norman), as well as to plenty of conveniently-located squash courts.

A Squash Court in Queenstown

At the time of filming scenes on location for ‘The Lord of the Rings’, one such squash court proved particularly useful to Peter Jackson and his crew. Located in the resort town of Queenstown on the West Coast of New Zealand’s South Island, it was used to film a scene in which Frodo, accompanied by his trusty gardener Sam Gamgee and their less than trustworthy guide Gollum climb the secret stairway of Cirith Ungol into Mordor as Sauron’s forces march out to battle far below.

Frodo, Gollum and Sam on a squash court in QueenstownFrodo, Gollum and Sam on a squash court in Queenstown

Jackson’s decision to film the scene was triggered by the suspension of outside filming in the Queenstown area due to bad weather, the town itself being hit by extensive flooding. The Cirith Ungol stair ledge was quickly built on a squash court located in a Queenstown hotel.

Actors Elijah Wood (Frodo) and Sean Astin (Sam) both baulked at having to perform  such a pivotal scene without any preparation. At the time, Andy Serkis had not yet been cast in the role of Gollum, so the part was played  by a stand-in member the crew. Filming went ahead, with Astin’s scenes being successfully completed.

The following day, however, the sun re-appeared, the floods abated and  exterior filming was resumed. The intent was always to return to the squash court (where the set remained standing) to film Elijah Wood’s scenes but, for the next five weeks, there was no rain to interrupt exterior filming. The crew moved on to a new outdoor location with Wood finally returning to do his part of the Cirith Ungol scene almost year later.

During the whole of the  intervening period, the squash court still contained the film set, the hotel presumably having agreed an amount of compensation greater than the income it could have earned from a year’s worth of court fees. Action shots involving all three characters in the scene were the last to be shot before the set was finally dismantled in late 2000.

So the next time you watch ‘The Return of the King’, spare a thought for the squash lovers of Queenstown whose playing options were reduced for over a year.

And try to imagine what it might have been like to play squash in Mordor.

Postscript: Walking Into Mordor

If you head over to Google Maps and ask for walking directions from “The Shire”(the home of Frodo of Sam) to “Mordor”, this is what you’ll get…

The warning is the same as that delivered to Frodo et al by another character from ‘The Lord of the Rings’, Gandalf the Wizard. All of which means that I think I’ll give it a miss for the time being.

But, Queenstown? Well that’s another thing entirely. I’ve been there myself and had absolutely no problem with the Dark Lord Sauron. But I wouldn’t go via the Cirith Ungol route if I were you.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to IMDB and Movie Mistakes for their background details on the making of ‘The Lord of the Rings’. Also thanks to Google for their warning about visiting Mordor.

Point taken.