“One spade.” “Two hearts.” “Two no trumps.” Pause. “Three hearts.” Pause. “Why did you do that?” said the plump, rather soft-spoken woman to her partner. “Well, I couldn’t leave you in no trumps,” he protested.
The game proceeded with the usual hesitation, exclamations, groans and sighs until it was finally done and the little group around the table paused to do the inevitable post-mortem and drink their sherry.
Across the hotel lounge another couple sat in companionable silence in a secluded corner. The elderly woman under the reading lamp reached for her Word Search from the little table next to her and scrabbled in her handbag for a pen, whilst her husband dozed in the armchair opposite her, a half-empty cup of coffee beside him. “Don’t let your coffee get cold, Donald” murmured the woman, leaning across and nudging his knee so that he stirred, came to with a start and blinked, looking around him as if not sure where he was.
The scene took me back to thoughts of my parents and their habitual jaunts to the Scottish Highlands or the Lakes on a series of ’55-plusser’ coach holidays. On their return their tales would be full of wonderful rides through glorious scenery, games of bridge played in hotel lounges and early morning starts, after hurriedly packing their minimal luggage, Mum washing out the undies and her one pair of ‘slacks’ and hanging them to dry over the bedroom radiator ready for the next day’s adventure. There were innumerable stops at motorway services, queuing for the toilets during ‘comfort breaks’ and visits to touristic beauty spots, with never enough time to walk there from the coach before it was time to board again and be whisked off to the next stop. Mum walked with a stick and tried hard not to complain about the perpetual trouble she had with her feet. The holiday itineraries, designed by enthusiastic, able-bodied people, never seemed to take age or disabilities into account in their packed schedules. Still, they all did the best they could and the little company of fellow-travellers banded together to help one another out during their short sojourn together. “Dorothy’s just coming” one of them would say when they returned to the coach. “Don’t go without her.”
Whether the verdict was good or bad on their return from these short holidays – and they were often disappointed – they came home with new friends, new bridge partners and happy memories. Then followed little weekend breaks to look forward to, staying with ‘George and Doris from Worthing’, whom they met on the Yorkshire Dales trip, or Eileen and Frank, who sat at their table every night in the hotel dining room at Barnstaple.
Sitting in luxury in our armchairs in the Wentworth Hotel, we had entered their world and their generation and I began belatedly to gather a picture of what their lives must have been like during those last few precious years together. Sadly, my father’s last days were spent in one such hotel on a trip to Torquay. With some sense of the painful irony of the situation, I remember that they were there taking a little trip away to celebrate because he had just received the all-clear from the hospital where he had been undergoing treatment for lung cancer. However, the strain had clearly been too much and one peaceful afternoon, resting in their hotel room, he suffered a final heart attack and Mum, turning to ask him the answer to a crossword clue, as she so often did, discovered that she was alone and Stephen would never again provide the answers.
But they were good years. Those last few years of retirement were filled with leisure pursuits, new surroundings to explore, favourite ones to revisit and congenial company. Like all good coach trippers, they enjoyed their share of enthusiastic sightseeing, gossiping and complaining, wining and dining, sharing jokes with newfound friends and, of course, playing bridge…
The bridge party is over now. They are gathering up their belongings, uttering thanks and appreciation all round, making sure of the arrangements for next week’s repeat performance and shuffling off home. It matters little in the end who won. A good time was had by all.
The game proceeded with the usual hesitation, exclamations, groans and sighs until it was finally done and the little group around the table paused to do the inevitable post-mortem and drink their sherry.
Across the hotel lounge another couple sat in companionable silence in a secluded corner. The elderly woman under the reading lamp reached for her Word Search from the little table next to her and scrabbled in her handbag for a pen, whilst her husband dozed in the armchair opposite her, a half-empty cup of coffee beside him. “Don’t let your coffee get cold, Donald” murmured the woman, leaning across and nudging his knee so that he stirred, came to with a start and blinked, looking around him as if not sure where he was.
The scene took me back to thoughts of my parents and their habitual jaunts to the Scottish Highlands or the Lakes on a series of ’55-plusser’ coach holidays. On their return their tales would be full of wonderful rides through glorious scenery, games of bridge played in hotel lounges and early morning starts, after hurriedly packing their minimal luggage, Mum washing out the undies and her one pair of ‘slacks’ and hanging them to dry over the bedroom radiator ready for the next day’s adventure. There were innumerable stops at motorway services, queuing for the toilets during ‘comfort breaks’ and visits to touristic beauty spots, with never enough time to walk there from the coach before it was time to board again and be whisked off to the next stop. Mum walked with a stick and tried hard not to complain about the perpetual trouble she had with her feet. The holiday itineraries, designed by enthusiastic, able-bodied people, never seemed to take age or disabilities into account in their packed schedules. Still, they all did the best they could and the little company of fellow-travellers banded together to help one another out during their short sojourn together. “Dorothy’s just coming” one of them would say when they returned to the coach. “Don’t go without her.”
Whether the verdict was good or bad on their return from these short holidays – and they were often disappointed – they came home with new friends, new bridge partners and happy memories. Then followed little weekend breaks to look forward to, staying with ‘George and Doris from Worthing’, whom they met on the Yorkshire Dales trip, or Eileen and Frank, who sat at their table every night in the hotel dining room at Barnstaple.
Sitting in luxury in our armchairs in the Wentworth Hotel, we had entered their world and their generation and I began belatedly to gather a picture of what their lives must have been like during those last few precious years together. Sadly, my father’s last days were spent in one such hotel on a trip to Torquay. With some sense of the painful irony of the situation, I remember that they were there taking a little trip away to celebrate because he had just received the all-clear from the hospital where he had been undergoing treatment for lung cancer. However, the strain had clearly been too much and one peaceful afternoon, resting in their hotel room, he suffered a final heart attack and Mum, turning to ask him the answer to a crossword clue, as she so often did, discovered that she was alone and Stephen would never again provide the answers.
But they were good years. Those last few years of retirement were filled with leisure pursuits, new surroundings to explore, favourite ones to revisit and congenial company. Like all good coach trippers, they enjoyed their share of enthusiastic sightseeing, gossiping and complaining, wining and dining, sharing jokes with newfound friends and, of course, playing bridge…
The bridge party is over now. They are gathering up their belongings, uttering thanks and appreciation all round, making sure of the arrangements for next week’s repeat performance and shuffling off home. It matters little in the end who won. A good time was had by all.
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