Last Writes (11 page)

‘We must be very careful about what we do about this,’ said the secretary of the Berebury Bridge Club. ‘Very careful. Remember Tranby Croft.’

‘Who was he?’ asked the director.

‘It wasn’t a he,’ said the secretary. ‘It was a place. A house where a man was accused of cheating at cards. Baccarat, as it happens. It’s a French game and it all ended in tears.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘Well, in court, actually.’

‘Don’t like the sound of that,’ said the club’s chairman, edging his coffee cup to one side. The committee was meeting in his dining room.

‘Moreover, it was with the Prince of Wales giving evidence,’ said the secretary. ‘The one who became Edward VII.’

‘Tum Tum,’ said the chairman.

The others stared at him.

‘That’s what they called him,’ said the chairman, whose own corporation was on the generous side. ‘Liked good food.’ He picked up a plate and looked round. ‘Another biscuit, anyone? I don’t like the sound of court at all.’

‘And I don’t like the idea of anyone cheating here in our club in Berebury,’ growled the director.

‘And getting away with it,’ chimed in the secretary.

‘They haven’t got away with it if we know about it,’ pointed out the director.

‘They have if we let them go on doing it,’ said the secretary energetically.

‘Get away with what, exactly?’ asked the chairman. ‘I need to know if I’ve got to take a view.’

‘I’ve taken one,’ said the director flatly.

The chairman suppressed a sigh. The director was inclined to take the football match view – the old-fashioned one, anyway – that the referee was right even when he was wrong and as far as the Berebury Bridge Club was concerned, the director was the referee.

‘Suppose you give me the facts,’ the chairman suggested. ‘All I seem to remember is hearing that there had been a problem with a finesse at a match at the club last week. Is that what you’re all talking about?’

‘You weren’t here at the time,’ said the director pointedly. ‘Holiday or business or something like that.’

The chairman ignored both his tone and the implied criticism and said, ‘Go on.’

‘It was someone …’ began the director.

‘Better just call them North,’ advised the chairman cautiously, ‘to be on the safe side.’

‘Oh, all right, then, North it shall be,’ acquiesced the
director readily enough. ‘It was like this, chairman. If he was North then it was East and West who were in a contract of four spades and I can tell you it was a bit iffy.’

‘For one thing,’ amplified the secretary, ‘East had only given West, who was the dealer, a small raise on his opening bid of one spade. It was West who went on to a game contract in spite of that.’

‘Not a lay-down then,’ said the chairman, nodding his understanding.

‘But West is a good player and knew what he was doing,’ said the secretary.

‘Such as finessing the Jack of Hearts,’ said director. ‘I know that because I was there.’

‘So?’ said the chairman, a man chosen for his eminent tact, discretion and good sense. ‘I wasn’t, so tell me.’

‘I had told you that dummy wasn’t all that wonderful, hadn’t I?’ said the director. ‘Anyway, it was near the end of play. The Ace and Queen of Hearts were on the table – and the contract hung on either the Queen or the Jack making, all the trumps being out by then.’

‘The lead was in West’s hand at the time,’ added the secretary, ‘and he had the Jack of Hearts.’

‘Not exactly a tenace, then,’ nodded the chairman.

‘What’s that?’ asked the secretary sharply.

‘The combination in one hand of the cards next above and next below the other side’s best in the suit,’ explained the chairman. ‘From the Spanish for pincers.’

‘As I was trying to say,’ interrupted the director, ‘West leads the Jack of Hearts from his own hand up to the Ace and Queen on the table, naturally hoping that North will cover the Jack with his King.’

‘Which he could only have done if he held it, though,’ pointed out the chairman.

‘Exactly,’ said the secretary. ‘That’s the nub of the matter.’

‘Which King of Hearts,’ carried on the director, not deflected, ‘could then be taken by the Ace, thus making dummy’s Queen good.’

‘Which Queen of Hearts West would subsequently play from dummy when it suited him,’ finished the secretary.

‘And thus making the contract,’ said the director.

The chairman said, ‘So if West played the Jack to dummy to finesse it and South and not North had the King and he puts it on the Jack and takes the trick, West loses the contract? That it?’

‘It is. Although of course the Queen would be good after that, West doesn’t make his contract and doesn’t collect a lot of points. If my memory serves me right East/West were vulnerable at the time.’

‘But not doubled,’ said the director quickly. ‘That would have made a big difference to the play in any finesse. West could have had some idea of where the King was if the contract had been doubled.’

‘Only, that is,’ pointed out the secretary pedantically, ‘if the double had come from the stronger hand. Of course everyone knows that it’s always better if it’s the weaker hand that does the doubling.’

‘And so,’ said the chairman, never one to waste time, ‘who did have the King of Hearts then?’

‘That was the funny thing,’ said the director. ‘South had it and didn’t put it on.’

‘So West made his contract,’ chimed in the secretary.

‘Exactly,’ said the director.

‘Saving our bacon, if you ask me,’ said the secretary, who hadn’t liked the sound of Tranby Croft.

‘Why on earth didn’t South play his King?’ asked the chairman. ‘He gets the others down if he does.’

‘I think,’ said the director, choosing his words with some care, ‘it was because he’d noticed that North hesitated before he played a low heart.’

‘West must have noticed it, too,’ said the chairman logically, ‘which is presumably why he felt confident about going ahead with the finesse.’

‘Exactly,’ said the director, bringing his fist down on his other hand.

‘And I say that’s cheating,’ insisted the secretary. ‘On North’s part, I mean.’

‘Worse than that, he fingered a different card before he played a low one,’ said the director, ‘and South must have seen that as well as West.’

‘That’s cheating, too,’ said the secretary.

‘Misleading body language, that’s what I say it was,’ muttered the director, ‘and it shouldn’t be allowed.’

‘I think you mean condoned but do go on,’ said the chairman, who also served on the local Bench of Magistrates, and had learnt early on there not to pass judgement until he had heard the whole story, let alone both sides of it.

‘And we – that is, I – think North did all that in order that West would think that he had the King even though he didn’t and would therefore run the Jack through, leaving the Ace and the Queen on the table, thinking it safe to do so …’

‘To be taken by South’s King?’ said the chairman intelligently.

‘Which North must have known South was holding because he hadn’t got it himself,’ said the director.

‘And if West had had it in his own hand he wouldn’t have had to try a finesse?’ said the chairman. ‘That’s so, too, isn’t it?’

‘Bingo,’ said the secretary inappropriately.

‘And thus make the contract fail,’ concluded the director, ‘and whatever you all say, I say that that’s cheating.’

‘I’ve always believed the best way to win at Bridge is never to say anything except “no bid” or “double”, especially if there’s drink on the table,’ remarked the chairman inconsequentially.

The director’s colour rose alarmingly. ‘I would certainly not permit that, chairman. Not calling to your hand is quite reprehensible and certainly not cricket.’

‘Same thing,’ muttered the secretary under his breath. ‘Reprehensible and not cricket, I mean.’

‘I take it,’ said the chairman, whose capacity not to rise to each and every provocation made him an excellent choice for this office, ‘that after making the Jack in his own hand, West would then lead another Heart in order to repeat the finesse?’

‘The attempted finesse,’ insisted the secretary, whose pernickety ways made him such a good secretary.

‘Not exactly,’ said the director immediately, ‘although obviously when he did so North simply played another low Heart.’

‘Because he couldn’t do anything else,’ agreed the chairman, whom no one had ever thought to be slow on the uptake.

‘Exactly,’ said the director. ‘But this time – and this is the
beauty of it, chairman – I guess West doesn’t have another Heart after that and so he plays the Ace from the table and … wait for it …’

‘I am waiting,’ said the chairman mildly. He had been working hard on establishing the principle in the club that one should only ever say one of two things to one’s partner, whatever the provocation. They were ‘Well done’ or ‘Bad luck’ but he wasn’t expecting this to be all in this case.

‘South’s King falls under it,’ said the director triumphantly, ‘because he hadn’t another Heart either and so he had to play his King. That makes the Queen of Hearts good, of course, and West makes his contract.’

‘That’s when the fun began,’ said the secretary.

‘Fun?’ said the chairman with the raised eyebrows. Nothing was exactly fun on the Bench, either.

‘North started storming at South for not putting his King on when he could and so getting their opponents down.’

‘And?’ said the chairman. There was always more to be said in the Magistrates’ Court, too.

‘And you’ll never guess what South said,’ grinned the secretary, ‘when North asked him why he hadn’t put his King on when he could have done.’

‘Tell me,’ said the chairman.

‘He looked straight at North and said, “Because I thought you’d got it”.’

‘Lovely,’ said chairman, rubbing his hands. ‘Now that’s what I call good endplay.’

‘I’ll tell you two here one thing for sure,’ said Martin, ‘and that is that as far as I’m concerned Aunt Maude is not going into a care home. Ever.’

‘It’s all very well for you to say that,’ objected his sister, Paula, ‘but who on earth is going to look after her if she goes on staying at home alone?’

‘Have you any idea what care homes cost?’ said Martin.

‘I have,’ said Gerald morosely. He was the son of Aunt Maude’s brother and thus cousin to Martin and Paula who were her sister’s children. ‘I come across it all the time at work and I know that it’s a devil of a lot. The fees can eat up a family’s capital in no time at all. And usually do.’

The three of them were having a family conclave – convened by Martin – about what to do about their childless old aunt who, notably self-reliant and independent until now, had begun to have falls and not remember yesterday. The bad winter of 1947 in very great detail, yes – but not
yesterday. They had foregathered in the Calleshire village of Cullingoak and were now sitting round a table in The White Hart Inn having a pub lunch before going up the hill to Church Hill Cottage to visit their old aunt.

‘Besides,’ went on Martin, ‘if she goes into a residential home she’ll have to give away all those ghastly plants of hers first …’

‘That wouldn’t be easy,’ shuddered Paula. ‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting them. They’re absolutely awful.’

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t ever do it anyway,’ said Martin. ‘She’s much too fond of them for that. Anyone want my onions? I think they spoil a Ploughman’s Lunch and anyway I can’t stand them.’

‘Better than having a cat to leave behind, though,’ said Gerald, withdrawing his own platter of bread and cheese a little: he didn’t like pickled onions either. ‘In my experience that can get really difficult. Or, come to that, a dog.’

‘Plants must be easier to leave than either a cat or dog,’ said Paula. ‘No more onion for me, thanks, Martin. I’ve got plenty on my plate already.’ She looked up and said seriously, ‘Actually, I think we’ve all got quite enough on our plate, too, as far as Aunt Maude is concerned.’

Martin said, ‘She’s extremely attached to that wretched collection of hers although don’t ask me why. And they’d never let her take them with her into a home. Nobody in their right mind would.’

Paula nodded. ‘I agree they’re enough to give anyone the heeby-jeebies, but she dotes on them.’

‘If she was seventy years younger,’ avowed Martin, ‘I’d say she was an anorak about them.’

‘I’d forgotten about all those funny things she grows,’
admitted Gerald. ‘Flycatchers or something, aren’t they?’

‘Flowers of Evil,’ supplied Paula, ‘that’s what they’re called. I don’t like them.’

‘You haven’t visited her for a while, have you, Gerald?’ said Martin rather pointedly. ‘Well, I can tell you that there are more of them than ever in that precious garden room of hers. A specialised collection of the most revolting-looking plants you’ve ever seen but at least she can still get to them with her Zimmer frame. She doesn’t go out in the garden alone any more, thank goodness. We don’t want her to fall down and break her hip out there.’

‘I think they’re what are known as the insectivorous plants,’ supplied Paula.

‘Carnivorous, more like,’ said Martin. ‘Gardening can bring out the worst in some people. I shall never forget being with her once when I was little. We were in her greenhouse and she stood there in her brown Oxford shoes, pointed to the cucumbers with her umbrella, and said, “They’re all right provided you nip out the male flowers”. I was quite nervous at the time, I can tell you. I wanted to run away.’

His sister smiled and as was her wont, stuck to the subject. ‘The hooded ones usually grow in poor soil and that’s why they need the insects for nourishment.’ Actually Paula had looked them up in a gardening book before she came but did not say so.

‘I don’t care what they’re called or what their nasty little habits are,’ said Martin strenuously, ‘but I do know that they wouldn’t want those in any care home that I’ve ever heard of and I must say I wouldn’t want them in mine.’

‘She does own her own house, after all, though,’ pointed out Paula practically, again sticking to the point. She had
travelled a long way to be there today and had to get back that night to her husband and three children and said so now. What she didn’t tell them was that the aforementioned husband had taken to the whisky bottle and was slowly and surely ruining the family financially and emotionally as he descended into alcoholism. ‘If it did come to a residential home,’ she offered, ‘Aunt Maude wouldn’t be short of capital.’

‘Oh, she’s well minted, all right. I grant you that. And if it comes to the crunch, she’s got a GSOH, too,’ said Martin, giving a wicked grin. He turned to the others. ‘In case you two don’t know it, the letters GSOH stand for “Good Sense Of Humour” in all those advertisements for dating services for partners you see in the newspapers.’

‘Really?’ said Paula stiffly. Her brother Martin had just parted acrimoniously – and expensively – with his wife. This probably meant that he was now looking for another one – or a new companion, anyway. He must have been scanning the newspaper pages carrying advertisements for New Relationships headed ‘Women Seeking Men’ or even perhaps put one in himself in the ‘Men Seeking Women’ column.

‘That’s right,’ said Martin. ‘And for your information, sister dear, OHOC is their shorthand for having your own home and car.’

Paula had no doubt that Martin would be wanting to meet someone to whom that would apply since his former wife had decided that possession was nine points of the law and throughout the divorce proceedings had made it abundantly clear that she had no intention of moving out of the matrimonial home. And, moreover, hadn’t done so.

‘That would be a pretty dangerous thing to do,’ put in
their cousin Gerald. He was a cautious man, an accountant by profession, and certainly couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be said to have a Good Sense Of Humour. He owned his own home, though, and more than one car but was definitely not in search of a wife. He had one already although he didn’t care to tell the other two about her notable extravagances and the delusions of social grandeur that he was finding it very hard to keep up with money-wise, qualified accountant or not.

‘Never give anything away, especially information,’ quoted Martin lightly. ‘I agree – people should be much more careful in those advertisements.’

‘Perhaps their own home and car is all they have to offer,’ murmured Paula. She wondered idly if Martin himself was actually doing any advertising on his own behalf: if so, he was probably describing himself as ‘Active, fun-loving and handsome’. She thought ‘Broke, ex-divorcee with expensive tastes’ would be nearer the mark but she did not say so. Instead she added her own credo: ‘I expect a good sense of humour makes up for most things.’ That it failed to do so when dealing with her husband’s condition was something that was becoming more and more apparent.

‘Well, Aunt Maude has got her own home anyway,’ said Gerald prosaically. ‘Thank God she was sensible enough to give up driving before driving gave her up. I know she hasn’t got a car any longer because she told me she’d sold it and bought some more of those ghastly plants with the money.’

‘It’s a nice house, too,’ said Paula, ignoring tempting conversational byways and still sticking resolutely to the matter in hand. ‘She’s always kept it in good condition.’

‘And whatever you say it’s not being sold for all the money to be spent on care home fees,’ declared Martin firmly. He brightened and said, ‘Perhaps we should send her off to a granny-grabbing party and let someone else look after her instead of us.’

‘What on earth is …’ began Paula. She subsided when she realised he was only pulling her leg.

‘Are you sure we shouldn’t be talking about a nursing home rather than a residential one?’ said Gerald, always a worrier. ‘I mean if she’s started to fall about already one of these fine days she’s going to break something and they won’t keep her in a care home if she does that.’

Paula groaned. ‘And nursing homes are twice as expensive as residential ones.’

‘What Aunt Maude needs,’ pronounced Martin, ‘is someone to come and live with her as a companion or something – all found, of course.’

‘Then I WLTM them,’ said Paula swiftly. When her cousin, Gerald, looked totally blank she explained, ‘I think it stands in those advertisements for “Would Like To Meet”. Martin’s living in the past. People like that just don’t exist any more. All the spinster nieces of the old days have gone the way of all flesh.’

‘Not like you to go in for the double entendre, old girl,’ murmured Martin sotto voce as Paula flushed.

‘I would say that there would be plenty from the sale of the house to pay for care fees for a number of years,’ said Gerald prosaically, not part of that exchange. ‘I could do some sums, if you like.’

‘She’s not going into care whatever you come up with,’ persisted Martin mulishly.

Gerald raised his eyebrows in much the same way as he did when his clients finally confessed not only to having salted away their surplus funds in tax-free offshore islands but absent-mindedly also having forgotten to tell either him or the relevant authorities about them. He had his ready-made speech about rendering unto Caesar that which was Caesar’s honed to a fine point when this happened but he had nothing to say now.

‘That’s all very well, Martin …’ began Paula.

Gerald coughed. ‘Although I do believe these days in some counties their social services visit people at home to keep them out of these care places. That can’t cost as much, surely?’

‘It doesn’t,’ said Martin flatly.

Paula stirred and said, ‘The problem then is what happens when that’s not enough. They can’t stop people either falling down or wandering and that’s when the real trouble begins.’

‘Coffee, anyone?’ said Martin, ducking the issue. ‘Then I think we’d better get going. Brace yourselves for the cousinage having seedcake at Church Hill Cottage.’

Paula gave a little giggle. ‘It ought to be Garibaldi biscuits.’

‘Come again?’ said Martin.

‘Don’t you remember? We used to call them squashed fly biscuits.’

Gerald gave an unexpected chortle. ‘I’d forgotten those. Nasty chewy things.’

‘You’ll have to feed them to those awful flycatcher plants of Aunt Maude’s, Martin,’ said Paula, amused, ‘and find out what they think of them.’

In the event Aunt Maude didn’t offer them Garibaldi biscuits but there was a cake on the table when they arrived. Paula thought she caught a glimpse of mould at one edge of it, confirming what she had long suspected – that Aunt Maude’s eyesight wasn’t good any longer. There was more than one cobweb festooned across the corners of the room. Those, too, had clearly not been noticed by the old lady.

Martin had spotted them. ‘It’s a straight fight for any flies in the house between the spiders and the plants,’ he hissed under his breath as Aunt Maude tottered out of the sitting room to make the tea. ‘My money’s on the spiders – quicker on the uptake.’

‘Let me help you carry the teapot,’ called out Paula after her.

‘I’m quite all right, dear, thank you,’ said their aunt firmly. ‘I can manage quite well. There’s plenty of life in the old girl yet, you know.’

Nevertheless Paula rose and held the door open behind her aunt, averting her eyes as Aunt Maude came back into the sitting room with the heavy teapot swivelling about on a tea tray, the tea spilling out of the spout as it tilted dangerously to one side.

‘Now then, my dears, tea first and then you must come and take a look at my little darlings,’ said Aunt Maude, pointing to the open doors that led to the garden room and the several trestle tables beyond loaded with green, flowerless plants. She only got half the tea into the cups, the rest going either into the saucers or onto the tea tray as the teapot waved about uncertainly above them. ‘Sugar, anyone?’ she asked, quite oblivious of the fact that some of the tea had gone into the sugar bowl too.

‘I’ll help myself,’ said Martin hastily, getting up and crossing over to the table. ‘Let me cut the cake, Aunt, while you pour. I’m on my feet, anyway.’

The old lady did not demur at this and Martin, his back to the other two and his aunt, carefully cut four slices. He handed these round on plates, taking one himself and leaving one for his aunt. Maude insisted, though, on handing Paula her tea, the cup wobbling noisily in the saucer as she did so. The strain was too much for Gerald who nipped quickly behind her and collected his own cup and saucer before she could turn round again.

‘Thank you,’ said Paula, mentally debating whether she should emulate Queen Victoria, similarly caught in awkward circumstances, and drink from the saucer, (calling it an old-style ‘dish of tea’ the while), or simply toss the tea from the saucer back in the cup when her aunt wasn’t looking. In the event she tipped the tea back into the cup from the saucer, slipping behind her aunt’s back to do so while their hostess tottered towards her own chair. Paula examined her own slice of cake surreptitiously before she bit into it, hoping that Martin, too, had spotted the mouldy bits and cut the cake accordingly.

Aunt Maude sat down at last, peered short-sightedly round at them and said, ‘How nice to see you all. Now, have you all got everything you need?’

‘Everything, Aunt Maude, thank you,’ said Paula politely.

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Gerald.

‘Did you make the cake yourself?’ asked Martin, looking innocent.

‘Oh, yes, dear, although,’ she said doubtfully, ‘I’m afraid
I mightn’t have given it long enough in the oven. It’s a bit undercooked in the middle.’

‘I quite like sad cake,’ said Paula gamely, the cake being definitely still very moist in the centre. Making conversation was proving much more difficult than she had expected and none of them liked to be the first to bring up the question of care of any sort.

In the event there was no need. Aunt Maude went back to her own chair and facing the three younger ones, took a sip of her tea and then, always a good trencher-woman, a couple of big bites out of her slice of the cake.