The Browning Racquet - stolen... and recovered

Sometimes it’s right to fight! ~ a birthday anniversary story about my firecracker of a mum, nei Babera

It was exciting keeping a birthday-surprise secret.  It was a special racquet and Emma and I knew it.  Dad had had to order it internationally, because Honiara didn’t have anything that came close to the “Browning” brand that mum and her buddies coveted.  Organised as dad always is, it arrived well before mum’s birthday.  We knew where it was stored and had to keep quiet about it.

I wondered if she would know what it was, wrapped up?  The shape does look a lot like I tennis racquet, I thought as an eight year old.  But it’s wrapped, she probably won’t guess I reassured myself, satisfied.

June the 15th finally came.  We clambered onto mum and dad’s bed, Dad returning in his brown satin dressing gown, holding the gift in one hand and in the other a cup of tea for mum.  We looked from the gift, to mum, back to the gift.  If she knew, she didn’t let on. 

“This is from the girls and myself”, Dad said cheerfully, placing the cup of tea on the bedside and handing her the package.  She opened the card first, as we squirmed impatiently.

And once she unwrapped the wonderful Browning racquet, under our excited gazes, she didn’t disappoint with her delight. 

“Ooooh!!  Ooh, wow!  Wow. Thank you so much, thank you!”, she exclaimed, beaming at us, and then the racquet.  She twirled it in her hands slowly, admiring it.  “Really good! Thank you” she said again with exhilaration.  “No one will have a racquet like this”, her eyes glistening with pride.  She clutched the grip with satisfaction and ran her fingers over the strings.  We could see it felt good.  She was happy.  And we were happy, we had got it right!  

Mum wanted to use the racquet that very day.  So, as we often did after school, we went straight to the “G Club” (short for Guadalcanal Club).  Mum, already wearing her tennis clothes entered the court gate, whilst Emma and I, well familiar with the place, crossed the carpark with our togs and towels for a swim in their large sea water pool.  Entering the pool-area we could see it was just in the final minutes of being refilled, the water pumped in through a large pipe from the ocean, which squirted five metres out into the pool with great force.  “Good timing”, Emma said, dumping her towel on a nearby lounger and walking towards the edge.  The pool took around three hours to fill, many times a large crab or three would come flying through the spout and into the pool, sometimes a fish or two survived the ride through.  The crabs never seemed to be move once they settled on the floor of the pool, perhaps their journey through the pipe too harrowing.  Either way, I avoided them; dead or alive they looked menacing!

We played and swam for a good hour before hunger got the better of us.  “Let’s go and ask mum if we can go home” Emma said, climbing the pool ladder.  We wrapped our towels around us and wandered back to the car barefoot.  Mum was still playing – she gave us a dismissive wave, so we went and sat in the car.

Once she finished and returned to the car, mum wanted to discuss the Browning racquet again.  We glanced at eachother, thrilled our gift continued to please her.   “It’s much better than Nei Ari’s racquet”, mum gushed, her lips tightening with pride.  “And everyone wanted to look at it”, she continued, “they all asking me where I got it from, I said ‘sorry, you have to order this from overseas, you can’t get it here’. 

“Poor things”, she added, barely masking a smirk.

The following day we returned, and the following.  Mum was finding she could hit accurately and with less effort with the Browning, it was absolutely perfect.  She was the envy of all the tennis ladies.

One afternoon, a week or so later, as we entered the G Club, it was mum’s turn to surprise us.  “After your swim, go inside and I’ll get you a fizzy drink”.  Woohoo!  Emma and I looked at each other with glee as we both agreed in unison before taking off to the pool.  Fresh seawater in the pool, and NO crabs, what a day!  And mum kept her word, she emerged from the changing rooms, still in her white tennis gear minus visor, her temples damp with perspiration.  She had her handbag but had left her belongings in the changing room as everyone else did.

We enjoyed a chilled Fanta each and even some bar snacks outside, leaving wet patches on the timber benches when we got up.  It was good times for mum, she was on form with her game, feeling fit and fresh.

“I’ll meet you at the car”, mum called as she went back to get her gear from the changing room.  Emma took the keys and we wandered back across to our red corolla.  “Don’t forget to put your towel down, the seats are will be boiling”, she casually commented as she unlocked the driver’s door and reached in to unlock the back door.

Suddenly we could hear mum – shouting – and not in a good way.  She was marching towards us, well, towards the tennis courts. “Who’s taken it!”  Players mid-game turned with the commotion.  She strode through the gates, “Where’s my racquet!”  One court paused their game, a little confused, looking from mum to each other.  Mum spun on her heel, returning to the changing rooms, before re-appearing a moment later, heading this time to reception, her body language visibly angry. 

Ohh dear… Emma and I looked at each other, as we climbed into the back seat forlornly.  The Browning had been stolen.  Less upset were we about our gift being taken as we were about the mood this would put mum in.  And we weren’t wrong.  When she returned to the car, she said nothing to us as she did an aggressive three-point turn before we squealed out of that gravel carpark, distracting some of the tennis players again. 

Mum could barely focus on the road, such was her rage.  Her eyes paced from left to right as they always did when she couldn’t find resolution.  At one point she took a small gap and another driver tooted.  She made a rude gesture at him and sped off, us as quiet as church mice in the backseat. 

Storming into the pilots flat where we stayed, mum dumped her things on the table, “Some bruddy bastard stole my Browning!”.  Dad quickly assessing the situation went into damage-control mode immediately – “ohh… ohh dear Babera, oh no, that’s not good.  It’s ok, it’s ok…” He went to embrace her

“No it’s not!”, she jerked her shoulder back.  “I just went to get the girls a fizzy drink, and some bastard took it from the changing room”, mum’s eyes darted wildly from left to right.

“It’s ok, we can order you a new one, I have the phone number” Dad reassured, as he moving to open a draw on the side table.

“NO!”, she snapped.  “My Browning is the only one on this island. And I will find it”, Mum fixed her eyes on something in the distance. Dad looked at us, resigned. arguing would get this nowhere, one just had to look at her to know she had hardened her resolve. 

The next day after school we cruised slowly past the tennis courts on our way home.  All the courts were against the road which was convenient for mum as she scanned each player, each person standing to the side, anyone entering.  And the next day, we repeated this, and for many days.  Emma complained once “Mum, we won’t see, we can’t even see what their racquets look like”. Mum didn’t even hear her as she examined each player. One time we braked a little, was that the Browning a lady was holding..?  Argh, no.  Back home.

But not too long later, her vigilance and sharp eye paid off.  As we did our daily drive-by, she abruptly pulled over onto the shoulder, undoing her belt simultaneously.  Leaping out and barely checking left and right, she nimbly crossed the road.  “Mum, mum”, Emma attempted to settle her. “what are you doing…” her voice trailed off weakly.  We already knew…. Passing the driveway entrance Mum swiftly entered the courts like a black shadow, her face dark.  Passing behind the first players playing doubles on the first court, her pace quickened, like a cat, eyes fixed on it’s prey and committed to it’s imminent pounce.  I sank low in the back seat, “oh gosh, what if it’s not the Browning?  Who is the person...?”.  Anxiety and trepidation.  Emma wound the window down, we couldn’t look, yet we couldn’t not look!  We heard mum clearly from the car as she approached the young man of around eighteen…

“HEY, YOU!”  The man turned in surprise, taken off guard.  

“Where did you get that racquet!” she demanded, grabbing it.  He didn’t surrender it immediately.

“What? My, my… my father bought it for me from the professional shop”, he answered.  Emma and I having ducked down ventured a peep over the bottom of the car window. 

Emma whispered, “Oh my gosh, it’s Elma’s big brother”.  Ohh how embarrassing, we both sank down, before coming back up despite ourselves.  Elma was a cute Year 6 at school, he had three or four brothers and they all looked identical.  Yes, it was definitely one of Elma’s brothers. 

“Let go”, he said, tugging it, “it’s mine”. 

“LIAR!” mum declared venomously, re-positioning her hold on the racquet.  A brief struggle followed that felt like forever from where we watched. “You stole this, you’re a bruddy LIAR” she repeated through clenched teeth, finally wrenching the racquet from his grip as he conceded. “You touch my stuff ever again, watch out” she warned fiercely, pointing the racquet at his face as she turned to leave.

He stood pathetically, lifting his hands incredulously. 

“You’re crazy” he called meekly, as mum walked back behind the first players, he himself left standing mid-game with no racquet. 

Mum casually called out a profanity without turning back.  I forgot to sink back down, it was too good viewing.

The other players didn’t seem phased, their games continued as mum departed, head high, clutching her racquet with conviction.

“Bruddy idiot”, mum uttered, getting back in the car.  Emma and I couldn’t help but burst into laughter and congratulate mum.  Mum started laughing too.

“He tried to tell me his dad bought it for him”, she scoffed.  “he doesn’t even know you can’t get a Browning on this island, stupid bruddy idiot” she added scornfully, with a cackle.

We entered the pilot flat victoriously.  Dad was standing reading a paper at the table, mum strode across the room and placed the Browning in front of him triumphantly.  He stared, and blinked in surprise, before turning to us.  And Emma and I enjoyed relaying the whole story over the top of eachother. Mum smiled and began to prepare dinner.  We repeated the story again and again, “Mum wrestled it out of Elma’s big brother’s hands, he didn’t even really fight Dad, he was so embarrassed”.  Dad listened as he examined the racquet, yes it was indeed the beloved Browning.  He smiled, laughed, and shook his head in disbelief. 

Only Babera… only Babera.