Orlando and I were comfortably settled upon the sofa, it was a scene of utter contentment; Orlando lay beside me with his head upon my towel covered lap with that soppy look that dogs often have when their ears are being stroked; especially large dogs which Orlando being a fully grown Newfoundland could definitely be classified as.
Digby returned home from his afternoon bridge session a little earlier than usual; it was obvious that something was amiss as his face was as black as Newgate’s knocker.
“That’s it” Digby announced dramatically “Bridge is over for me; I’ve been banned for life from the club”.
“Good heavens; what happened?” I asked.
“I called my partner a silly old moo”.
“You must have had a good reason to be so rude; you’re normally such a placid sort of chap” I said.
“Yes there was a good reason” said Digby; “Twice; not once but twice she passed my opening bid of two clubs, people have been shot for less”.
I know little about bridge but suggested to Digby that a life ban appeared to be rather extreme for such a small misdemeanour.
“You’re right of course” he said “unfortunately my partner is the wife of the director”.
“What will you do? You love your bridge so much” I said.
Digby looked gloomy, “I guess I will catch up on my reading, I’ve shelves of unread books. I’ll start with my Folio edition of Decline and fall of the Roman Empire; that alone should keep me going for a year or so” he said.
I left in a state of despair for I realised I was about to lose a useful addition to my meagre pension, thanks to a large inheritance from his Aunt Adeline Digby had been recompensing me generously for dog sitting twice a week. As I had became rather fond of Orlando I knew I would miss his company, when I dog sat it was my habit to take him some cooked chicken which he adored, a strong bond of mutual affection had grown between us.
Some two weeks after Digby had been drummed out of the bridge club he phoned and asked me to call and see him as a matter of urgency. He was positively euphoric when I arrived. “You’ll never guess what I’ve done” he said.
“What have you done?” I asked.
“I’ve started my own bridge club” he said. He went on to explain that as money was no problem he had hired a room at a rather plush hotel for three afternoons a week, he had approached all the members of his old club and nearly all had been happy to join as it would get them away from the droughty church hall they usually played in and also the director and his wife who were not the most popular of couples. He continued his discourse. “Hope you can manage to sit with Orlando three times a week, he still continually howls and disturbs the neighbours if left alone, I’ll reimburse you accordingly of course”. He did not wait for my reply. “I’m trying to come up with a name for the club; I did think of Digby Bridge the Club but the initials could be confused with the Danish Bacon Company, any suggestions?”
I too was now euphoric; in my head was the song of a nightingale. “Why not Orlando Bridge Club” I said as I looked at the animal who I’m perfectly willing to swear winked at me.
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bridgewithken 