When an answer is forming as it’s coming out of his mouth, he stares off at a 45-degree angle and talks to the middle distance. On courts 16 and 17, two men in Wimbledon uniforms set wooden posts in sockets and roll out a net across the lawn between them. Whole nurseries of bedding plants are lined up, hydrangeas and petunias in white, lilac and purple. The championships are a couple of months away. It’s cool still at the end of May, jumper-and-jacket weather. Outside of our suite at Wimbledon, it’s all going on. “It had gone totally black and blue and I lost this nail and it's never grown back properly since then. His nail immediately started going weird. “My mum had to pull the van over,” Andy says now, looking at his hand. Eventually, the older Murray retaliated by punching his brother’s hand straight down into the armrest. The minibus ride back to Dunblane stretched out ahead of them. When he was a kid, Andy was winding his brother Jamie up, gloating about finally having beaten him at an under-10s tournament in Solihull. The nail of his ring finger has an odd jagged crack running across it like a geological fault line. He splays his left hand out on the table. Andy Murray thinks it might be a boring story, but he tells it anyway.
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