That Summer

She thought back to that first kiss and how delirious with delight she’d been. She couldn’t bear to lose him again.

- Kathleen Conlon

The predicted heavy traffic hadn’t materialised and Frances had arrived at the hotel earlier than anticipated. As she drove into the car-park, a succession of elderly passengers were being assisted from a coach and heading towards the entrance, wheelchairs, Zimmer frames and walking-sticks being very much in evidence.

Later, having checked in and taken a leisurely walk around the town, she returned to find the same group playing bingo in what used to be the residents’ lounge. An enthusiastic young man in a red jacket was reading out the numbers: “Two fat ladies, 88. Key to the door, 21.” Frances had read somewhere that recently the references had been updated: Tinder date instead of garden gate, selfie queen for 17, but this was bingo-calling of the old school.

Even so, she thought that those residents of times past, for whom the lounge had been provided, would not have approved: Miss Prince, who regularly attended classical concerts, Colonel Baillie-Moncrieff, ex-Indian Army, who talked fondly of polo matches followed by banquets hosted by maharajahs, Mr Mafsud, who spoke four languages as well as his native Arabic. Mrs Kline, though, Frances thought, Mrs Kline who had pots of money but no pretensions to gentility, who flaunted an ostentatiously vulgar black diamond mink coat and had an account with the bookmaker, now she might have joined in, crossing off “Two little ducks” quite happily.

Permanent residents were a thing of the past and the lounge, formerly subdivided so that they did not need to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi, had now been opened out in a thoroughly democratic fashion. This meant, of course, that private conversations could be difficult, if not impossible, to sustain while games of bingo were in progress.