Read by Dan Starkey (Final story in podcast, at 1h 35m 30s)
I never play golf. All that standing around with the chaps. The manly conversation. There’s nowhere to hide. A cad and bounder like myself is quickly discovered. Besides, it’s a skill game, where my natural advantages in speed and strength count for naught. It rewards patience and dedication: two attributes I lack.
Unfortunately, golf is rather the order of the day at Mandelieu, a little slice of England on the French Riviera. Luckily, they also have tennis, a game I vastly prefer. Don’t misunderstand me, I care nothing for tennis itself. But I do need a reason to be at Mandelieu, for my face to be seen by the right set, and they do serve excellent cocktails.
Sedgwick jogs up; he’s tanned, a young Alexander, wide optimistic eyes beneath a mop of golden curls, ‘Poacher, old boy,’ he says, ‘Me and the chaps are on the links from two, care to join?’
I fold my newspaper and refill my coffee-cup: eleven o’clock is still too early to be seen with a Gibson (gin, vermouth, ice and two pearl onions: I recommend it as a matutinal stiffener).
‘I fancy something a little more energetic today. Might challenge the club pro to a few sets.’
Of course I have no intention of playing any sort of pro, I always avoid them. My tennis game is all brute force, and I’ve no wish to risk a public thrashing at the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing.
‘Really old boy? Going to be dashed hot today.’
I smooth my moustache, ‘Nothing we haven’t faced in the tropics, hey?’
‘Ha! Very true, Poacher. Well, enjoy.’
‘Perhaps we’ll all meet later, for drinks and a few hands of cards?’
Baccarat is my preference: it lends itself to high stakes and sly cheating.
‘Righto!’ Sedgwick springs up and flashes a broad smile around the breakfast room. Someone catches his eye and he waves like an excited toddler. Moments later he’s shaking hands with a gaggle of young men in garish golf-attire. I bestow an indulgent nod on the group and finish my coffee.
*
A short time later I’m skulking behind the pavilion in my pristine tennis-whites. I cut a very fine figure in shorts. I observe the Ellinghams, also in tennis-attire, climb out of their scarlet Lancia and cross the green expanse of lawn. I met them briefly two days ago, and I’ve had my eye on them ever since.
Richard Ellingham is something in the City: banking or insurance, perhaps. He’s almost my height, but gangly where I am muscular, his hair mousy-brown where mine is a rich hazelnut, and though he too sports a moustache, his only accentuates the softness of his features. His wife, Amelia, is an elfin creature, blonde with large eyes and excellent legs.
I slip into the pavilion before they see me. Hugo Feret, the club pro, is at the far end. I take care to avoid him. Like his namesake he’s small, wiry and agile. I’ve seen him play; a demon, doesn’t tire. I hide behind a nearby locker and pretend to examine my racket. It’s a Babolat, I lifted it from a fellow at the Beauvoir Tennis Club last year.
Ellingham enters, and, in his halting French, arranges to play Feret. I listen, taking care not to betray my position. They agree to meet on court in a few minutes, at noon. Ellingham moves to the water-fountain, and I emerge from behind the lockers as if just arriving.
‘Hugo old chap, you available for a midday match?’
The Frenchman shakes his head, ‘I have just engaged to play Mr. Ellingham from twelve. Perhaps you would care to play at one-thirty?’
‘Damn, I’d rather hoped to swim this afternoon. Perhaps another day?’
‘As you wish, Mr. Poacher, I look forward to it.’
‘Indeed,’ says I, allowing my gaze to sweep the room before seeming to spot Amelia Ellingham.
‘Ah Mrs. Ellingham! Your husband has robbed me of my morning sport.’
She looks confused.
‘Got himself a match with our champion Feret. Was rather hoping for a try against him myself.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. er … Poacher?’ Does she really struggle to remember the name of a fine figure of a man like myself? Or is this some coquettish trick? Her blue eyes are unusually cool, despite the flush of her tanned skin in the noonday heat.
I laugh. ‘Call me Julian, please; and forgive my bluntness. I was just keen to get a game in before my afternoon swim, but your husband pipped me to the post. Tell me, er …, do you play?’
My turn to pretend to forget names.
‘Amelia,’ she says, still very cool. She looks down at the Dunlop racket in her hand and her white tennis-dress, then back up at me as if I’m some sort of fool. ‘Yes, I play,’ she says, cooler still.
‘Wonderful!’ says I, ‘There are so many people at the Club who are only here to be seen. All the gear but no real interest in the game. Shall we say twelve?’
Amelia smiles for the first time, in exasperation rather than pleasure. She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off before she can decline: ‘Twelve it is!’
I turn away, forestalling any reply, calling across to Ellingham where he sits tying his shoelaces like a hairy-legged stick insect.
‘Ellingham, I’ve booked your wife from twelve, that all right?’
He looks up, ‘Quite all right Poacher, I’ve got Feret.’
Amelia looks fierce.
‘You don’t need to ask his permission,’ she says in a low, icy tone.
I step back, hands raised defensively. I look over my shoulder at Ellingham, still wrestling with his laces, then back at her, a ‘trouble in paradise’ expression on my face. ‘Look, perhaps we shouldn’t…’ I begin.
Now it’s her turn to cut me off: ‘No, no, it’s fine, let’s go and find a court.’
*
My tennis game is all serve. I’ve already mentioned that I’m uncommonly tall and strong. I simply smash the ball at my opponent as hard as I’m able, sting ‘em a few times if I can. The amateur is soon demoralised, and the rest is plain sailing. Of course, I always offer plenty of encouragement, so I don’t appear a bully. It only serves, if you’ll pardon the pun, to make them feel they are losing all the more keenly. Playing the psychological game.
However, against opponents of the fairer sex, I always give them a chance to begin with. I don’t want them to become demoralised too quickly.
I let Amelia win the first two sets, offering her easy lobs and fulsome compliments.
‘You’re giving me a run for my money today!’ I cry as I purposely fail to return a net-shot.
‘Nonsense Mr. Poacher, you’re letting me win,’ she returns.
‘Very well,’ says I, ‘Let’s have a real game.’
And with that I serve a ball towards her body at blistering speed. She only narrowly dodges.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, is that too much?’
‘No, no, it’s fine, let’s play.’
After two or three more like that I succeed in hitting her in the calf, causing her to let out a charming yelp and hop in pain. I rush over, all mock-concern and help her to one of the little wooden spectator-chairs.
‘May I?’
Even as she demurs, I kneel and take her delicate calf in my large, manly hands, noticing with satisfaction a red welt already appearing on her golden flesh.
‘Are you able to continue?’ I say, in an intimate tone.
Before she can respond, her husband on the other court, already red-faced and sweating, calls out.
‘I say, what’s going on there, everything all right?’
I ignore him, continuing to stare intently at Amelia. She calls back, her tone petulant: ‘Don’t make a fuss Dickie, I’m fine, go back to your game.’
Ellingham turns away, but not without a suspicious lingering glance.
Amelia disconnects my hand from her leg. Her wrist is adorned with a gold Cartier watch and a pearl tennis-bracelet secured with a gold clasp. The pearls are extraordinarily large and lustrous, the bigness of cocktail onions: the true object of my affections since first I laid eyes on them two days ago.
I help her up: she tests her foot experimentally while I look on, all tender concern.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? We could retire to the pavilion?’
‘I’m fine,’ she replies in a tight angry voice.
‘Very well, we’ll carry on playing, but on one condition.’
She looks up, suspicious.
‘You must remove your watch and bracelet and put them in your kit-bag for safekeeping. I’d hate for such lovely things to be damaged.’
Her pinched mouth softens in a smile. ‘You’re right, of course.’
I watch her place the items in a side-pocket of her Chanel sports bag.
‘Good, keep a close eye on it. You can never be too careful.’
‘At Mandelieu? I doubt it!’ she laughs.
After that, I proceed to thrash her in straight sets, stinging her twice more, once on the thigh and once on her pert buttock, a two-handed smash return of which I’m quietly proud. By the time I return her to Ellingham she’s limping quite pitifully.
‘What’s gone on here?’ says Dickie, eyeing the walking wounded.
‘Spirited girl, she gave me quite a run,’ I say, very offhand.
‘Now see here Poacher–’ says Dickie, but Amelia interjects.
‘Oh, do shut up, Dickie, I’m not made of glass. Do something useful and help me to the bar, I need a drink.’
Loitering nearby is Feret, who glowers at me with ill-concealed contempt. I return his stare till he breaks, turns his back and stalks away towards the pavilion.
The Ellinghams continue to bicker in the low, aggressive tones that seem part and parcel of married life. With their backs to me and nobody else about, my opportunity presents itself.
I stoop over our three kit-bags to put away my racket, and simultaneously remove Amelia’s watch and bracelet. Such is the intensity of the Ellinghams’ quarrel that I am also able to abstract three hundred francs from Dickie’s wallet. Never look a gift horse, and all that.
I stand, make my excuses and return to the pavilion at a leisurely pace. So intent are they on each other that they barely notice me go.
Now, an ordinary fellow might be shocked by the brazen character of this theft. But that is the thief’s art: daring the risk to gain the desired reward. One must be prepared to act when one has opportunity, however fleeting. Indeed, the more decisive one is, the greater the safety. That being said, one must always be wary of subsequent discovery.
The bar-service is swift: I tip the cocktail-waiter handsomely with Ellingham’s cash, then sit at an umbrella-table, nursing a well-earned Gibson and smoking a Player’s Navy Cut. Soon, the Ellinghams pass the terrace, heading back to their Lancia.
All seems serene now. Dickie puts away their tennis-kit and extracts two sets of golf-clubs from the boot. I know from a casual inspection of the club diary this morning that they tee-off at two-thirty. Leaving, Dickie places the car-key casually on the dash. No thought of security at all, these people. Evidence of a sheltered upbringing. I might feel sorry for him if he weren’t such a fool, and soon – yes, very soon, I think – to be a cuckold too.
Smiling, I lift the cocktail-stick from my Gibson and in one swift, decisive bite, the pearl onions are gone.
(c) Alex Edwards, 2025
After completing the Crime Fiction Short Course at City St George’s with bestselling crime writer Caroline Green, Alex Edwards graduated with Merit from the Crime Fiction MA at UEA. He recently completed his debut novel Stakeholder, a fast-paced thriller starring truck-driver turned criminal John Morrigan. An avid fan of classic pulp, adventure & crime fiction, this is his first published short story.
Dan Starkey is an actor & voiceover artist, best known for the BBC’s Doctor Who and the BAFTA-winning children’s series Class Dismissed. He was also a member of the BBC Radio Drama Company. Recent theatre includes The Government Inspector, and Habeas Corpus.
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