There are signs: a Wimbledon towel in the downstairs loo. Another, faded, in a child’s swimming bag. Maybe a Links of London strawberry charm lingering in the jewellery box. All not-that-subtle clues of a hazy student summer spent working at the All England Lawn Tennis Club.
For two weeks swathes of impossibly well-spoken university students (Edinburgh, Durham, Bristol, Newcastle…) descend on Wimbledon to serve up Pimm’s, flog tennis racquet-shaped key rings, escort players – and clean loos. It’s the summer job to trump all summer jobs. Romance blossoms in the programme booth by Court 12, pearl-clad mothers have been known to kiss the hot dog seller hello (likely to be a Godchild) and securing the position of rolling on the covers when sun is forecast for the fortnight is akin to landing a job in the Magic Circle. For one friend, now a high-earning investment manager with three children, marshalling the Wimbledon queue as a day steward was, she says, her best job to date. ‘I still wear my Wimbledon polo shirt – and fleece – on a weekly basis, which always gets a conversation going,’ she says, harking back to her halcyon summer, where breaks were spent watching five-setters on Court 1 and lunch vouchers were illegally swapped for a glass of Pimm’s. That treasured stash is not quite old school tie/ regimental socks territory, but nearly. Like Land Rovers flashing each other on a country lane there’s a ‘What a heyday summer!’ camaraderie.
During my fortnight in the Court 1 shop in the late noughties, discipline was ferocious. Training was given by a brash Australian who made it clear that lateness was fireable, uniform needed to be immaculate, and manners had to be finishing school worthy. We were 21, but the training was more Boy Scouts in its rigorousness. There was a bizarre script of questions we were instructed to ask each customer – ‘Have you had good tennis today madame?’, ‘How long are you in London for?’ etc. – all toe-curling because they were the kind of intrusive questions you knew your own mother hated being asked.
Like Land Rovers flashing each other on a country lane there’s a ‘What a heyday summer!’ camaraderie
My shift started at 7.30am and you’d watch the hour hand creep round until you could clock off and roam the ground, sliding into the outside courts to watch the action, sunglasses on and managing your hangover from the night before spent in the Rose & Crown in Wimbledon Village. But there were thrills to break up the monotony of selling tennis racquet-shaped bottle openers: the time that Venus and Serena Williams’ mother Oracene Price swooped in and spent hundreds of pounds on those Links strawberry charms in one go. Or catching Judy Murray perusing the trainers.
But the biggest subplot to the tennis was the workforce’s brewing romance. More than 8,000 temporary staff descend each year and so roving around those 42 acres was an off-screen Tinder playing out in real time. My newish university boyfriend (now husband) had been allocated the adjacent counter in the Court 1 shop, and my parents’ friends hoping to enjoy a day of tennis were instructed to detour via the shop to get eyes on him and report back. It was while waitressing in one of the debenture restaurants that Lottie Barron, now a personal trainer and mother of three, met her husband who’d landed himself the golden ticket on the court covers team. ‘His bivvy happened to be opposite the waitresses’ locker room, so we spent the rest of the tournament flirting with each other,’ she remembers. ‘It was very cliché really, eating strawberries and watching tennis. Geordie’s job was the dream, provided it didn’t rain. Luckily, that year was a scorcher, so they seemed to spend most of their time watching tennis and getting a tan. He was some sort of court captain and got to hold Nadal’s umbrella during the final. And when they went to Wimbledon Village at the end of the day’s play it wasn’t unusual to end up having drinks with players once they’d been knocked out of the tournament.’
As a waitress, there was a hierarchy to tips and celeb spotting – you could land in the Royal Box (actual royalty and Hollywood royalty) and double your wages in tips in the members’ restaurant. Or you could be a pot washer. Needless to say, you weren’t getting those sorts of tips on the ice cream stand, with tales of repetitive strain injury after spending two weeks scooping ice cream. Savvy students flogged their uniform on eBay after the championship. And when glossy Americans were after an out-of-stock medium in the Wimbledon polo shirt, shop attendants were known to whip it off their own back in the stockroom to sell. Another friend, now a portfolio manager at an investment management firm, who worked in the members’ self-service restaurant (lilac shirts, green ties) remembers the strict strawberry cutting protocol (removing the leaves with a spoon rather than a knife so not to waste fruit) and dealing with the diva members – the late Tara Palmer-Tomkinson asked her to take the lid off her pot of jam for her. And on the days that she was too hungover to be front of house, she’d slink into the back to polish cutlery.
There was an air of possibility to that summer, like Freshers’ Week all over again, but with bodycon dresses swapped out for food hygiene hairnets and a deeply humbling uniform. So, if you’re lucky enough to be at WImbledon in this second week, keep one eye on the chemistry between the programme seller and the litter picker. As thrilling as any match point.
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