Edward and Victor

Edward lived with a daughter, a son-in-law and a twenty-year-old grandson.  He was an enormous old gentleman, more than 6’ tall, and as broad as an ancient oak.  He was quite deaf, more so when he did not want to hear and refused to concentrate.  We were told that he was beginning to get unsteady, and the family found him more a ‘tie’ as he began his ninety-seventh year.

 

We had been persuaded to accept him for a holiday so that the rest of the family could go elsewhere.  It was early in our holiday history, and only two coach loads had been accepted.  With such a small party it was quite satisfactory to allow everyone to make friends with one another on the journey to the rendezvous and pair them into chalet companions at the other end.

 

We had had our mid-day arrival meal, and were sitting in the sun, sorting out who would sleep with whom.  Most had decided, but Edward, being deaf and rather slow, was still an individual without a buddy.  We approached him and, shouting into his ‘good’ ear, asked him who, among the remainder of the company, he would like to sleep in the other bed in his chalet.  Edward looked around the small group before him.  He scanned possibilities, and then, without the hint of a smile, pointed to our eighteen-year-old student nurse.  “How about her?”, he enquired.

 

We eventually housed him with another elderly gentleman who had been left behind by another party.  Victor had spent the greater part of his week’s holiday in hospital and the organisers, deciding that he had not really had much of a holiday, had agreed to pay for another week for him at the little Camp.  It was fortunate for both Victor and Edward.  Although there was a vast disparity in their ages, it did provide a helpful companion for Edward, and what else could we do but include Victor in all our outings and activities?  We received a jubilant letter from him after our return home, and a grateful expression of appreciation from the home organisers who had hoped that Victor would not be too desolate all on his own.

 

For Edward the sequel was less happy.  While he had been away, his daughter’s family had moved into a fresh house with just two bedrooms.  No room, therefore, for Edward.  His son, very reluctantly accepted the obligation to offer him hospitality.  The arrangement was short-lived.  A few months later, I was asked if I could explain to Edward what was implied in going into a Home.  Edward was rapidly having to accept the message that he was superfluous in the community.  I took him to see one of the little Homes, and introduced him to everyone in the large sitting-room.  A few weeks later, Edward was safely settled in his new residence.

It is difficult to know whether he was happy or not.  He died three months later, but then, he was ninety –seven.

 

Another gentleman who obviously preferred his own company was Phillip.  He was a large chap with thick iron grey hair, along thin face and a well built upright figure.  He was always dressed in a black suit and white shirt and well polished black shoes.  His appearance was reminiscent of Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre, silent, withdrawn and giving an impression of complete self sufficiency and confidence.  The illusion to the character in Charlotte Bronte’s novel was enhanced by his name which was that of another well know English town.

 

His daughter brought him to the station and bade him au revoir to which he murmured just a brief response.  On the train, he sat silent in his seat gazing out of the window watching the fleeting landscape apparently oblivious of the animated chatter which swelled and ebbed from his fellow passengers.

 

We put him into a chalet with another gentleman who informed us that the only conversation they had was a brief goodnight or an almost inaudible good morning.  Phillip arrived at his meals punctually, put himself to bed in good time each evening; took long walks alone in the local roads and lanes or sat reading in the sunshine beside the footpaths on the Camp taking no notice of the life and noise among the rest of our large party.

 

At the end of the week, the chalet supervisor assisted Phillip and his companion to pack their cases which were left according to instructions, on the step outside the chalet and escorted the two gentlemen to their breakfast.  Soon afterwards, the big dining hall emptied of its excited travellers most of them jostling to be as close to the point of departure as they could crowd themselves.  Phillip stood alone behind the milling crowd, apparently quite content to be at the end of the queue.  Several people spoke to him but his replies were brief and seemingly disinterested.  Yes, he assured them, his family would be meeting him.  He had enjoyed his holiday but he had missed his daughter.

 

The passengers pushed their way on to the coaches which were to take them to the jetty; the personnel at the Camp came out and waved goodbye and hoped to see them all again the following year.  We were off.

 

The embarkation at the jetty was orderly.  The walking passengers filed slowly up the gangplank and made their separate ways to the tea bar on the upper deck or into the small sitting areas on each side of the wide car deck.  Half an hour later they were crowding the gangways and the exits to get off and to get on to the platform to board their train.  They streamed up the walkway and here herded into the large car park to wait until the Southampton train had been and departed and the vehicles waiting to board the ferry had been driven on to the boat for the return journey to the Island.

 

One of the disadvantages of train travel is that it is impossible to arrange a roll call of all the passengers.  They stray from one end of the platform to the other; they stroll from one group to another, seeking friends saying their farewells; exchanging addresses and making arrangements for future meetings.  But neither should any check on passengers be necessary.  The train arrives; within minutes the crowd has boarded the coaches and the platform is deserted.

 

It was on arrival at our home station that we began to be concerned.  It seemed impossible that anything could have gone awry but two young people were standing around looking puzzled and bewildered.  Where, they asked us, was grandfather?  The station platform teemed with people.  Our guests were being greeted by sons, daughters, grandchildren and friends.  Wait, we assured our worried friends; when the crowd disperses, it will be easier to spot an old gentleman in a black suit.

 

We busied ourselves among the milling throng searching between the rows of luggage for their property.  We scrutinised labels. We identified their owners and gradually the lines thin until the last two or three cases have disappeared.  It is then that we are aware that the two young folk and their car are still with us.  But where is Phillip?  We re-enact the return journey.  We find the nearest telephone and start t pull through exploratory enquiries.  The folk at the Camp assure us that there is no one from our party still with them.  They undertake to ring the departure ferry and enquire there so we wait.  Back comes the message; all the passengers boarded the ferry; there was no one left behind; there is no sign of a missing elderly gentleman.

 

So the next call was to Lymington.  Here some difficulty arose.  No, we were told; we could not speak to the personnel at the pier head.  Our messages would have to be relayed from the station.  But the information began to sound successful.  Yes, came back the reply; there was a gentleman standing around outside the booking office at the ferry.  Yes, he was dressed in black.  What was he like?  We enquired.  He looked about sixty.  Sixty?  But Phillip was over eighty.  The next piece of description confirmed the identity.  The gentleman was now sitting on a low wall and told his questioners that he was waiting for a bus to Hayes End.

 

We consulted among ourselves for two or three minutes.  We anticipated having to send one of our vehicles back nearly a hundred miles to collect our missing charge but his grandson accepted the challenge; he climbed into his car and his wife took her place beside him and they drove off.  Meanwhile we began pleading with the staff at the distant station to allow us to speak to the booking clerk at the pier head.  At first, the reply was a definite refusal but we had noting to lose and time was of secondary importance.  We pleaded; we cajoled; we argued; we explained with all the pleading vocabulary we had of the urgency of using every avenue to prevent our prodigal from escaping.  Eventually, our persistence was rewarded.  With an impressive show of the unprecedented favour we were enjoying, we were allowed a few minutes conversation on the sacrosanct line.

 

“Please keep him there for a couple of hours”, we pleased.  “How are we to do that?”, came back the reply.  “Give him a chair and tell him the bus will be some time”, we suggested.  “We’ve got our work to do”, was the reply.  “If he leaves there now, it could take hours to locate him”, we explained.  With a somewhat reluctant reassurance we had to be satisfied. 

 

Later that evening we had a call from Phillip’s daughter.  “He is home and O.K.”, she assured us.  “We knew he was a bit confused at times but you would know that by now since it would be obvious from his strange conversation”.  His strange conversation?  If only she had warned us that her father objected to talking to strangers.