The two-hour ferry crossing

On the ferry back I managed to get one of the tables by the window. As foot passengers are allowed on first they tend to get the best seats. Gradually the car passengers came up from the lower decks and the remaining seats began to fill up (not that it was really crowded).

The seats at my table remained unfilled, and I congratulated myself on having a quiet voyage ahead. I got myself a cup of tea while the ship was still stationary, and took out a book and a copy of a local newspaper (the only serious paper I could find - is it unreasonable for me to expect to buy copies of English newspapers in a European capital city?). Just as I began reading an elderly couple moved into the two seats opposite me and settled themselves with a lot of fussing and rustling.

My heart sank, as they looked the sort who were going to make a lot of noise. They looked aged in their mid-sixties. They were so wrapped in layers of warm clothes that they appeared shapeless, and the woman was wearing a woollen Fair Isle hat which she kept on even though the cabin was well-heated.

“You don’t mind if we sit here?” the woman asked, after they had sat down.

Presumably something in my demeanour must have made them doubt whether they were welcome, so to appear a bit more gracious I asked if they had been on holiday, where they had been, whether they had enjoyed themselves.

We talked the entire journey.

Their names were Ron and Margaret. They were from a town in the east of England and were on a coach holiday. They had worked all their lives in the NHS as had most of their family (the total years worked amounted to over a century).

Instead of being aged in their mid-sixties they were, incredibly, aged in their mid-eighties. After announcing this fact Margaret went off to buy some teas, despite the ferry rocking from the rough sea (most younger people would have been wary of carrying hot liquids in such circumstances). She came back with one cup for her husband, then went back again to get one for herself.

They had only recently started going on holidays. Previously their hobby had been showing a vintage car which they had restored. About five years ago when Ron had been driving the car around a show he had suffered a stroke at the wheel and collapsed (this had been in the west country).

He had been rushed by air ambulance to the local hospital where the medical staff were quick enough to be able to save his life (when someone suffers a stroke there is only a brief opportunity to prevent more serious damage). From the west country hospital he had been transferred to their local hospital. Although they had worked in the NHS they were completely unprepared for the decline in hospital standards since their retirement (the dirt, the slovenliness, the disinterest).

In disgust Ron had discharged himself from the hospital and made his way home. Margaret attempted to look after him at home. Their GP had then come to their assistance and arranged for a nurse to visit.

The GP had also given them some serious advice:

“She said we were in the evening of our lives, which I thought was a nice way of putting it. She said we should just keep about two thousand pounds for emergencies and spend the rest on enjoying our life. She said we should go on lots of holidays, which is what we are doing.”

Reading between the lines, the GP had obviously told her that Ron was not going to get any better. That soon Margaret would be left on her own. That she would need memories to sustain her through the years ahead.

Ron looked lively enough, but he couldn’t talk properly, and had trouble remembering specific words. He would stumble over phrases. After long minutes of stuttering he would wave the lost words away with a defeated “doesn’t matter”.

I asked where their next holiday would be, and Margaret told me they were going to the Isle of Wight in June. I asked whether they would go to Osborne House while on the Isle of Wight. Margaret hadn’t heard of Osborne House, and when I described what it was like she was so captivated that she produced her small appointments diary, turned to the page where “Isle of Wight” was written in wavering old-person’s writing, and insisted that I wrote “Osborne House” underneath so that they would be certain to go there.

We talked continuously the whole of the two-hour ferry crossing. When we docked and the announcement came that motor-vehicle passengers had to make their way to the appropriate decks Margaret seemed amazed at how quickly the time had passed. They made their way off towards the stairs, two people determined to make the most of every day.

A very rewarding conversation - I was glad they had sat down opposite.