Bondings

A plain woman, simply dressed, slim, five feet two’ish with a harsh, no-nonsense presentation. There was nothing frail about her.

She started to stay with us fairly frequently. Sometimes two nights B & B. Taciturn, for several months saying no more than the necessary to check in, check out and get breakfast. She always had the cheapest room. Of course, we were curious, but satisfied to have an undemanding regular, we didn’t pry.

Came the day she phoned to book a double room, “I’m coming with my husband”, she said.

And our patience yielded some of her mystery. “And a table for 3 at lunchtime,” she added.

Her father was a retired accountant, a senior partner. The lunch was the occasion of his ninetieth birthday. Her mother was dead. They were local people, and he was resident in the Methodist home two hundred yards along the front from the Continental.

Susan, our regular, was a nursing professional in pharmaceuticals and lived in Holland in a suburb of Amsterdam.

When the old gentleman died, she stayed with us for a short while arranging and settling affairs after the funeral.

“Come home with me to Holland”, she invited as she left for what could have been the last time.

Strangely for us we were easily persuaded and found ourselves at the wag of a tongue with her taking our first trip on the Stena Line ferry to the Hook of Holland. We were met at the quay by her husband and chauffeured through the tulip fields.

Theirs was a large, detached property. Very Dutch, with one of those staircases just a degree short of a fire station speedo emergency pole. They had a garden and I remember the dining table. Very large with a glass sheet over a truly elaborate landscape deeply carved into the thick mahogany top. Truly luxurious opulence.

Visits to the Rijksmuseum, rides on the canals, the Ann Frank locus, wandering generally absorbing the flavour; the railway station; and we spotted a hotel Continental. Not a yellow one and we only walked past, didn’t dare to go in. When travelling we are brave-faced timid and of course I find myself bombarded with images all-consuming my concentration. What is important, what do I want to absorb? My travel experience is often a kind of late arrival. I play catch-up later, much later, months, years even with odd little bits of flavour that linger. Our hosts took us to a fabulous and famous fish restaurant on the docks of Rotterdam. It was a busy, informing few days.

We kept in touch and not long passed before she gave up the job of travelling all over Europe, Scandinavia and Russia as pharmaceuticals rep. They planned to sell their house and take on a B & B. This could be anywhere including England and for a short spell they used the Continental as a base from which to investigate. However, Susan’s husband, Patrick, a dapper man always impeccably dressed and manicured was Irish and eventually Ireland found favour. Dreaming of tried and tested B & B’s which became a Youth Hostel which on waking became a virtual Golf Course.

In a countryside covered in natural golf courses with real grass and all the hassle of walking about, that pesky fresh air blowing and rain. Much better play modern, comfortable, virtual reality golf with a sit-down and cup of coffee between strokes and in the dry. A real pleasant day out. Great. Absolutely great. Couldn’t fail in an area where people loved golf.

Anyway, Patrick bought one of these set-ups and didn’t give up till he’d spent all their money.

His other and concurrent venture was a house, an eco-friendly house to live in. In this I must admit to thinking it worthwhile and sensible. Double-glazing, heat pumps, solar panels, thermal insulation, hardwood throughout and high-spec kitchens and bathrooms and all perfect.

Because the golf failed, and their money disappeared they had to sell the super dwelling unfinished and for a loss. All the promise, all the energy, all the good intention, that dodgy vector good intention, imploded, vaporised.

We in Dovercourt knew nothing of these tragic developments until we became aware of not having received a phone call from Susan for some time. On ringing we learned all the above and that her breast cancer, treated and thought cured ten years previously, had returned.

Even so she was working full-time at a nearby hospital to make ends meet whilst receiving, with her consent, last-chance experimental treatment.

We went to Ireland almost immediately. Flew to Dublin to self-drive hire all the way up and across to Sligo.

They were in a small house. Rather cold and damp. It was owned by Patrick’s brother and hadn’t been lived in for some time. It was not a morbid visit. It could easily have been. We visited various places travelling past some serious defences looking like medieval castles made of concrete and seemingly without windows. There must have been doors but none I could see. These were truly worrying erections of a sculptural nature, very impressive. I enquired, “Police Station” I was told.

We went to the real golf course at Sligo for lunch and visited the home of poet W.B.Yeats. We enjoyed the holiday though the whole of Ireland had a shifty, eerie feel.

We left them in the early morning, still dark and raining heavily. It was a suitably dramatic send-off, Wagnerian, but we carefully refused to acknowledge an end hanging over the scene.

But that wasn’t the end.

We were out when Patrick called unannounced at the Hotel. Not waiting for our return, he left leaving with Reception a container, a simple box, with a note requesting we spread Susan’s ashes on her parents’ grave in Dovercourt cemetery.