Card Games

Lucy’s column for February 3.
Cardlo…1
Time was when folk would while away the wintry hours playing indoor games.
As a kid, it was snakes and ladders, snap, tiddly-winks and Ludo, with, perhaps, the odd game of dommies with granddad, just to make you feel a little bit grown up. And many a kitchen door had, hidden under the coats and work overalls, a dart board. But that was strictly for the big boys.
In those pre-telly days, I grew up in such a household – though the dart board is perhaps a figment of my imagination because I was raised in an all-girls household, and throwing a nifty arrow was the stuff uncles and boy cousins were made of. But cards? Tell me about it.
Or, indeed, let me remind you. Because my over-riding memory of my mother’s nights out was the humble whist-drive. Living, as we did, within spitting distance of my granny, and three of my aunts, the highlights of the week were the, at least, three of those nights they spent in each other’s company, going, if not for gold, then the wartime and immediately post-war equivalent – be it a packet of tea, a pound of sugar in a blue bag, a much-coveted five-bob (25p in today’s money), or the ultimate in luxury, a tin of salmon.
They shuffled from church hall to village hall, public house to dance hall, in their quest for a bit of light relief from the struggles of rationing and tedium of boredom, battling for Britain, and attempts to make ends meet. It was their social whirl, their outlet, their chance to catch up on all things family, gossipy, and find out what the neighbours were up to. But it wasn’t all beer and skittles. More a cup of tea and a Spam sandwich at the interval if they were lucky. Then came the inquest. And it’s here that mum Lavinia, and sisters Ada, Lucy and Mary had me riveted. How, I would ask myself, could they doll up, dress up, make up, and troll along for a pleasant couple of hours, pencils as sharp as their competitive brains – and end up having the mightiest of rows?
It was usually about who partnered whom, who dropped what card at the wrong time, and regular references to "trumping", which is a card-sharp term and nothing to do with wind. All that for, often enough, a packet of dried peas or a few parsnips from somebody’s allotment.
This didn’t begin and end at the inter-village gambling dens. Family weekends were often spent at each other’s houses. Playing Solo, which, I believe, is even more intense than whist. It’s there that they played for points, not even pennies, but the ensuing family feuds were the stuff world war three was made of, and many’s the time sisters and brothers-in-law barely spoke for days – or until the next whist drive, and a partner was needed…..
It was the onset of Bingo which disrupted the Pursglove sisters’ little tantrums and triumphs on the card front, though as a family, we continued to wreak havoc round the table at Orgill Towers come Christmas or some such get-together. Turn full circle, and with the credit crunch, we’re back playing cards again. Thanks to Ken and Mave Monk in Mallorca, who introduced us to the game, we’ve taken up Kaluki. Sister Natalie and brother-in-law Pete are in on the act, together with friends Julie and Rob Skivington.
Son Simon won’t entertain it, undoubtedly a throw-back to the card wars he witnessed as an impressionable child. But then, he’ll spend a small fortune on a Rams season ticket, and still be miserable for an entire weekend.
Could there be a whist drive revival? As entertainment, it can be cheap. And, if you choose the right partner, even cheerful.
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