Half-life – 43 - ashes and pizza
August 13th, 2021
It was the number of things no one wanted which came as a surprise. Everyday essentials, their chairs, tables, glasses, cups, and plates were all orphaned. Nowhere to put them, or simply not liking them, sealed their fate. None of us had realised, as we’d used them over the years, we didn’t like them much. It was like life, but without the living. The house, slowly being dismantled after their death, was losing its identity as each picture was taken off a wall, every bookshelf emptied, drawer cleared, and box filled. The cardboard stacks now contained what had once been their lives, although not as dramatically as the canister holding my mother’s ashes had, with its centre spot on the dining table the last time I’d been in the house.
The boxes will be carted off to the care home for unwanted possessions, the charity shop. Books too, mountains of books. Each one of them interesting and once loved now destined to be removed by the carload by yet another charity, who will try to persuade someone else the bring them into their family until yet another day of reckoning, when rejection will drive them back onto the shelves of shops filled by free contributions.
Our escape hotel, a sanctuary away from sifting awkwardly through the possessions of the dead, was chosen so we could combine a holiday with family duties and a visit to the, now buried, ashes. Joined in death by her husband a few months after her, they both now reside together in the Fellows Garden of a Durham University College, a more comfortable final resting place than next to the salt and pepper. For The Boys it was the chance to say goodbye to a grandmother who died during, but not from, covid and who was, even at the best of times, a difficult person.
Leeds doesn’t promote itself as a vacation destination and that part of the City’s marketing plan is realistic. Although we were some distance from the metropolis, it dominated the skyline trying to out-grey the weather and only by careful choice of seating outside did we avoid the need to admire its concrete glories. The beautiful 18th century manor house hotel promised relaxation, extensive grounds, good food, and to be dog friendly. The Scottish wedding, in full flight as we checked in around teatime, should have been enough of a hint that the hotel was not up to dealing with guests after its covid closure. The bar was almost self-service. Tight fitting lime green wedding outfits, kilts, whisky chasers with every pint, and the gradual drift towards bawdy singing provided The Boys with a cultural experience they are unlikely to forget. Polite and chatty, even when struggling to be vertical, the wedding guests were making the most of the new liberties with not a mask or a soft drink in sight.
After the last of the Highland hangovers had left the next morning, peace descended and lunch on the near-empty terrace in the sunshine seemed the perfect start to some days doing very little. It was a very good pizza. The gluten free version for The Wife was at the top end of gluten free expectations and, once all of them had arrived, we were full of praise. Getting them, in a hotel with a service training ethos inspired by combining The Office with Fawlty Towers, had us hungry and in stitches. Charming, friendly, willing, and polite, the staff were new and didn’t have a clue. Taking an order usually requires a pad and pen, plus bringing at least one copy of the menu. She came back with the pad and pen but had forgotten the menus. Just about to head off on her third walk from the terrace back into the hotel when we saved her the trip, we knew what we wanted. Sadly, although we gave her the drink and the food order, she failed to write the drinks down and had to make that third trip anyway. Trip four got the drinks to us, trip five achieved half the required cutlery but no napkins, six was the napkins which, apparently, could not wait for the food to join them, seven was the food and more napkins but no salt, pepper, or any sauces, and eight finally achieved it; food, drinks, condiments, and equipment all in the same place. Her ninth trip was voluntary to see how we were doing and if we needed anything. We didn’t have the heart to ask for more water for the dog, even if it would have brought the number of visits to our table to a satisfyingly round number. While devouring lunch it occurred to us that we should have liberated some of the cutlery from my mother’s house to use in the hotel, it would have been quicker to have brought our own. The unwanted stack of white paper napkins we’d found in a cupboard, eventually used as packing material for breakables, would also have been a good idea.
The daily sit-com of the faded glory hotel never disappointed with its ability to surprise. On asking for two boiled eggs for breakfast a day later, The Wife was encouraged by the enthusiasm with which she was told they would be cooked right away and brought over. The server even remembered to ask, in broken English, how many minutes she wanted them cooked for. Full of smiles he turned up at our table, and presented them – not in egg cups, but each one rolling around in a small coffee cup. He vanished before words could be found and The Wife stopped any attempts to call him back, worried the eggs might not return even if eggcups did exist in the kitchen.
The torrential rain kicked in with few days to go and, like the service disasters, never stopped. Swimming in the pool, adventures with JJ the dog in the huge grounds, movie night for The Boys with room service (and no parents), late-night binges on the Olympics, and some good food in their restaurant kept us busy and happy. Sleep debts were repaid, wine was drunk and, although not the same as a week or two in France, we got home relaxed. JJ the Dog was the only one who’d hated it. A home dog if ever there was one, she sulked in the hotel, barked at the slightest noise, and whimpered the whole time for no reason. As the car came to a halt at home, and we let her into the garden, it was clear she was very happy the whole experience was over. It may have been a hotel that tolerated dogs, but we found out we have a dog who is not willing to tolerate hotels.
Hilariously vivid. I'm still chucking. Love "Leeds doesn’t promote itself as a vacation destination and that part of the City’s marketing plan is realistic."
Brilliant! xxx