But I deal with Burns before the match. It had to be a more serene environment to make use of him properly. And he deserves to be dealt with properly, by a character who would appreciate him - the Scottish Housewife and surrogate mother, Fiona Murdoch.
Fiona is one of the two influencing women (Marie Clement being the other one). And it is a critical role she plays before that match when left alone with Lee Porter whilst the others go ahead to Melbourne Park. Like me, Fiona comes from Ayr, which is where Burns hails from, so she would know his poems like I do, and would have celebrated Burns Night as a girl. I'll say more later about the conversation which is a turning point in the book. But for now let's stick with Rabbie - Scotland's national poet...
Part of Lewis’s ritual involved going to Melbourne Park long before the match would start. As per usual, Jim and Mike went with him, leaving Lee and Fiona behind. It would be another hour before they made their move to join coach and trainer in the supporters’ box at courtside. This had been
explained in advance, so Lee was prepared, and to be honest he welcomed the situation. He sat down in the living area with Mrs. Murdoch and awaited the inevitable questions whilst harbouring a few of his own.
They came slowly, with charm and innocence over a cup of tea – a beverage that Lee was actually quite fond of – taken at the table with a plate of biscuits on offer that Mr. Porter politely declined at first.
“Oh on you go – just the one,” Fiona insisted, nudging the plate in his direction having taken a biscuit herself. “It’s shortbread! I’ve been hoarding it specifically for today... Not that anybody’s
bothered.”
“Bothered? Bothered with what?” asked Lee, eyeing the biscuits suspiciously – the perfect body required the perfect diet and biscuits rarely featured.
“With the date!” Fiona cried, pretending exasperation. “There’s more to today than a tennis match, you know... The twenty-fifth of January! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It’s Australia Day tomorrow,” Lee optimistically offered.
“Australia Day!” Fiona exclaimed. “And what would Scottish shortbread have to do with that?”
Lee splayed his hands in apology of his ignorance.
“Robert Burns!” it was explained to him. “I’m Ayrshire born, as is Lewis, and Rabbie’s our local hero. I used to love reading his poems when I was a girl – ‘To a Mouse’ that was my favourite... ‘Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie. O, what a panic in thy breastie!’...” Having delivered her lines in a broad Ayrshire brogue, Fiona smiled at Lee’s incomprehension and reverted back to her more Anglicised accent. “...I won a prize at school for reciting that. Use to know the whole thing off by heart, although I doubt if I could manage it now. Anyway, tonight is Burns Night, and all over the world there’ll be celebrations to commemorate the birth of Scotland’s national poet - traditional Burns supper with haggis, neaps and tatties, and a fair amount of whisky as well. Not that we make much of a fuss in this household nowadays... The shortbread’s my token gesture - so don’t offend – eat a piece!”