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“Oh, not again,” said John Smith as for the fourth time that evening the heater on court four started whining away to the distraction of the players, who naturally decided that as the sky was about to fall in on them they should abandon their game of squash and come upstairs to the office to complain.

Supressing the urge to tell them what he really thought, John agreed with his members. “It’s very annoying, I know, but we have the engineer coming in to service the units tomorrow, so if you can put up with the noise for the rest of tonight’s session I’m sure we’ll have it fixed in time for your next match.”

Knowing what was coming next, he added “we’ll give you 50% discount on tonight’s court, or a free first drink at the bar, if that’s ok by you gents?”

That sent the punters back onto court satisfied - they took the drink of course, they’re squash players after all - and left John to complete his paperwork for that day’s transactions and to make the call to the heater maintenance firm that he’d been putting off in the now unrealised hope that the problem on court four would just go away.

That was the last drama for the day, and at 11.45pm John was able to finish the washing up, put the day’s takings into the safe, set the alarm, turn off the lights, lock the doors, pull down the shutters and head off home at the end of another exhausting session at Vale Squash Club.

“How was last night dear?” Jill Smith asked at breakfast the next morning, “Thursdays are always busy aren’t they.”

“As busy as usual,” replied a still-sleepy John, who had as was his custom after an evening shift slept in the spare room to avoid waking his wife, who absolutely needed her ‘eight straight hours’ to be able to function as a normal human being the next day.

“Court four heater was playing up again, I’m getting HeatCo to come in and look at it today, but apart from that it was a normal Thursday, if anything counts as normal in that hell hole,” he said.

“Now, now, dear,” chided Jill, “you know you love it really, and it’s our livelihood now after all.”

“I know, I know,” admitted John, now tucking in to his cereal with gusto, “but some of the members really get to me, they complain at the slightest thing and expect me to be able to put it right just by waving a magic wand or something.”

“We knew what some of them were like before we bought the place,” said Jill, “and anyway most of them are real gems, you just have to know how to deal with the few troublesome ones.”

“It’s ok for you,” said John, “you just flash your eyes at them and they’re eating out of your hands like little puppies. Me, they try to push me as far as they can just for the fun of it!”

Jill sighed. “You’ve never been very good with people, have you Dear, that’s why we split the duties with me on the front desk and you in the office most of the time. But you’re getting better at it, I swear that some of the Ladies’ Aerobics classes actually prefer it when you’re there to welcome them!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said John, now attacking his bacon sandwich while simultaneously trying to pour his second cup of coffee, without much success.

“And multi-tasking was never a strong point either was it,” admonished Jill, prising the coffee jug out of John’s hand to save her tablecloth from another dousing at her clumsy husband’s hands. “Just be careful,” she chided, “you’re like a bull in a china shop!”

After a third cup of coffee, a piece of toast with his favourite Vegemite spread thickly over it and a deep sigh, John rose from the breakfast table.

“Come on kids,” he shouted up the stairs that led from the kitchen of the barn-converted house that a  lottery win had allowed the family to buy outright, “we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew that he’d shouted loudly enough to be heard, and knew that demanding a reply from his children would just end up with an argument at the start of a long journey ahead and he didn’t need that, not today. He’d heard enough rumblings from upstairs to know that they were up, at least. “They’ll come when they’re ready and if we’re late they’ll only have themselves to blame,” he told himself, not really believing it.

Today was a big day for Sam and Jessica Smith, their first Gold grade junior tournament, and the results could well dictate the paths of their budding squash careers. Sam, the elder of the twins by a matter of five minutes, was a 5/8 seed in the Boys U15 event with, so the family thought, a good chance of progessing beyond the quarter-final predicted by the seedings.

Jessica was seeded two behind a local girl she’d already beaten three times this year, and was not happy about it. John simply hoped that she’d behave herself on court - unlikely as that was, given his daughter’s behaviour in previous tournaments she’d gone into bearing a grudge, whether it be against the organisers, competitiors, club staff, or quite possibly all of them. It didn’t take much to wind up Jessica Smith.

Sam was the complete opposite - mild mannered, always smiling on and off court, pretty much self-sufficient and no trouble at all. He didn’t have Jessica’s natural talent, academically or in sports, but never seemed to have any problems with the success or attention that his ‘little’ sister gained or demanded. John sometimes wondered if that was a good or bad thing for his son’s future, but more often than not decided that it was good for keeping the peace right now, so he’d consider the ramifications later, if necessary.

BANG, BANG, BANG. The crashing down the wooden stairs told John that at least one of his offspring was on its way downstairs. Jessica, probably, given the noise level.

“Where’s Mum,” asked the thirteen-year-old redhead, dropping her racket bag at the bottom of the stairs and heading for the breakfast table.

“She’s getting ready to go to the club, you know she’s working today so that I can take you to the tournament,” responded John.

“Yeah I know that,” said Jessica, “I just wanted her to fix the zip on one of my skirts.”

“And you didn’t think of asking me to do that last night,” came Jill’s voice from the living room.

“I didn’t know it was broken last night, did I, mum.”

Jill refrained from reminding her daughter that she’d told her countless times to get her kit ready the night before just in case something was broken or missing, and to save some of the inevitably short supply of time in the morning. ‘Not now,’ she thought, not for the first time.

“You’ll just have to wear another skirt Jess, I haven’t got time to do anything about that now. You must have enough surely, there’s only one match today isn’t there?”

“Yes mum, but I just wanted to wear my matching red outfit. Oh well, I’m only playing Fiona Young I should beat her easily so I can wear it tomorrow. You can fix it tonight, can’t you,  pretty please,” Jessica beamed enquiringly at her mother.

“Come on Sam,” John shouted upstairs, hopefully stopping a potential skirt argument in its tracks. “We need to leave in five minutes, maximum.”

Three minutes later Sam appeared, complete with racket bag that had been prepared the night before, a point he thankfully resisted telling his sister. He never took breakfast, preferring to grab the last piece of (non-vegemite) toast or fruit from the table. Today’s leftovers would suffice on the journey to the tournament, and he always took full advantage of whatever food was on offer at the host club.

“You really should have something proper before a tournament,” said Jill, more out of habit than in any expectation of changing her son’s behaviour.

With that, a peck on the cheek for her husband and a “good luck” to the kids, Jill took her car keys from the hook and headed out for her morning session at the helm of the squash club they had bought two months previously with the remaining proceeds of the lottery win that was enough to allow them to give up their jobs, but annoyingly short of being sufficient to take proper early retirement.

John shepherded the children and their assorted bags out into his car and set out for the latest in a long line of junior squash tournaments.

Both were hoping for a quiet and successful day. Neither had any realistic expectations of the former.

Next Up: Chapter Two by Mick Joint

About the Author

Steve Cubbins

Steve is 57 years old and lives in Whitley Bay, in the North-East of England (not a ‘Geordie’ though, for his first 18 years he was a ‘Brummie’ and has been in the North-East for just 33 years).

An avid squash player ever since his school days he has played team squash for 35 years, played for his County at O45 level once, and after a diet and fitness campaign during the summer of 2011 recently regained the County “C” title after a gap of 15 years.

From running his own club’s leagues and competitions Steve moved into organising events at County level, ran the County Leagues for 15 years and was at the forefront of the internet revolution as he worked on various squash-related websites from the mid-nineties to the present day.

Currently webmaster of SquashSite, Steve spends “far too much time” in front of the computer, as well as several months away from home each year covering tournaments on site.

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