This is a Short Story by a leading story writer who resides in Holmes Chapel.

Frank Collins

   Dealt a Bad Hand

The Church Hall hummed. Not with expectation or with an unpleasant smell, but with a growl from the air-conditioning. Warm on arrival, tempting the players out of their wholly cardigans, only, later in the evening, to wash blasts of cold air around the table legs, displacing the precious warm air aloft.

It was a full house for the regular Bridge Club night; seven tables, 28 boards to play. It is a card game for four players in two pairings; North-South and East-West. Points are scored according to how well the pairs perform against their prior forecast for the number of tricks they think they can win. That is translated to a percentage for the night by a formula so complex that it needs a computer to work it out.

This night, following the dictate of the half inch thick rule book, the prior auction proceeded in an austere silence, the bids being indicated by cue-cards displaying the suit and the number of tricks predicted, the players often fumbling and squinting before they were happy with their offer. The game follows a strict etiquette. Snap it is certainly not.

To the fanatic, Bridge is addictive. The ultimate card game. One hundred percent skill. But to the outsider it must look like watching paint dry – the hunched figures, four to a table, handbags on the floor, cough sweets at the elbow, a drink to hand. And overseeing the proceedings, disapproving, the image of Jesus staring down from his cross, high on the east wall. On the long wall, a list of the deadly sins, explained in deadly detail, with a list of the pious virtues to show the alternative path to righteousness, all seemingly designed to remind the players that there is more to life than cards. What did the preacher once say? ‘Fifty-two soldiers in Satan’s army!’

The silence was broken.

‘Director!’

Tim Davies got to feet, laying his cards face down. Table five. Frank Collins. Again! Every bloody week! The man was a pain in the arse.

‘How can I help?’

‘Illegal question.’

‘Go on.’

‘North to lead. But South asks if West’s heart bid was natural.’

‘So?’

‘He should have asked after the actual bid. The late question is contrived, indicating to his partner to lead a heart.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ gasped Tim, then glanced warily at the crucified figure. ‘This is Holmes Chapel Bridge Club, not an international congress. Let it go!’

He’d been a hard businessman. Now, in retirement, he was a hard Bridge tournament director. It was all he had left.

Frank glared back, his handlebar moustache bristling, then snatched up his flask for a stiff pull. His wife and playing partner took off her steel-rimmed spectacles, cleaning them vigorously, looking down so that her piggy eyes were hidden. The silence hung. North and South sat back smugly. They’d successfully yanked his chain. Tim moved off, quietly determined that so-called ‘Major Collins’ would be kicked out of the club. And his mousy little Japanese wife could go with him, shuffling behind and whimpering. Anyway, it was Tim’s view that husband and wife should never partner each other. And how the hell had they got together? Talk about chalk and cheese.

The evening had started badly for the Major.

‘Last week’s results,’ recited Tim. ‘East-West. First, as usual, Keith and Rob. 81% I might add. Could well be a club record.’

A jealous ripple of applause, before Tim continued down the rankings.

‘The wooden spoon to Frank and Sato again, I’m afraid. 29%’

A scowl from the Major, and his first pull. A nervous giggle from his wife.

Mercifully, Tim had not ventured that 29% was probably a record low. And so the evening wore on, each table playing four boards before the East-West pairs rose to move to the next table, taking their medicaments, drinks, cushions and opinions with them. North-South stayed put and the boards moved off in the opposite direction, the four hands in each being preserved for others to play. Then, after three hours of musical chairs, tedious post-mortems and “what might have been” scenarios of play, everyone had played the same hands. It was what each pairing made of them that sorted the good from the bad players.

At first, it was a distant murmur, the Major muttering, his wife’s apologies barely audible, nearly every hand. As the pairing moved closer to his table, Tim caught some of the detail.

‘I signalled! You led the heart Ace. I encouraged with the nine, meaning you to continue the suit. I held the king, woman! But you switched to a bloody diamond! Then it turns out you had a doubleton heart! I win with the king, return a third heart, you ruff and we defeat the contract!’

‘Sorry, I didn’t notice.’

‘You don’t bloody concentrate, that’s why! How many times do I have to tell you? Watch the cards.’

Another stiff pull ended the episode, before they rose to move on.

‘And get me a coffee. Do something useful for a change.’

Tim watched the Major as he slumped into the next chair. How would he get rid of him? In the old days he’d have squeezed the employee until he squealed, chipping away at the man’s morale; questioning, criticising, piling up the workload, picking over the expenses and cancelling the perks. He’d leave – eventually. No redundancy payment, no employment tribunal. Yes, he’d find a way.

Inevitably, the Collins pairing arrived at ‘Table 1’ for the final hands, the Director’s table, and Tim braced himself for more conflict. But strangely, fortunes were reversed. The Major, glassy eyed, had shaken the dregs from his flask into another coffee, swigged it down, and then gestured irritably to his wife for his back-up. Wearily, she’d fished a battered flask from her bag and pushed it across, lowering her eyes with embarrassment. He’d taken a generous pull and then played some of the worst Bridge Tim had ever seen. The full details are too tedious for the non Bridge player, but suffice it to say that Tim’s North-South partnership scored the top percentage on all four boards. Three times, the Major had played high to a trick that his wife was already winning, meaning that chances to defeat a contract had gone begging.

Later, when Tim put the last table away and stacked the final chairs, he looked up again at the Christian symbols. Consumption of alcohol! That was it! Not allowed in the Church Hall was his bet. Yes, he’d use that. Kick the prop from under him. Get rid of the old bugger for good. So with that happy thought he made his way home in a surprisingly good mood.

Sato drove, peering into the night over the top of the steering wheel. Frank slept deeply, his head back, snoring. It was usual. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night. For how long? She hardly knew. Time seemed to have stopped for her.

The journey took longer than usual, even though the weather was fine and the traffic was sparse, so it was midnight when the headlights illuminated the garage door as it rolled upwards. She edged the car in, nervous as always. A dent or a scratch.

God forbid! She switched off the engine and quietly opened her door, pressing the fob and watching the shutter door roll down. Her husband remained still, staring blankly through the windscreen at the back wall. The Japanese Tai Chi mini-sword, her mother’s precious letter-opener, pinned the ace of spades to his chest, the red trickle of blood defiling the black emblem.

‘That’ll teach the swine to trump my ace,’ she announced out loud, as she closed the interior door. ‘Now a stiff whiskey I think, my dear. You’ve earned it.'

Keith Stevens