The Gran Tour Read online

  For my sisters and brothers –

  Daisy, Jay, Jo, Lee, Mark, Nicola and Tom.

  I hope you get to the end of this one.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  About the author

  Part 1: Scarborough, Yorkshire, England

  1 We’re hard to spot, aren’t we?

  2 There’s an art to eating happily alone

  3 Why aren’t you in bed?

  4 I’m the right side of 80, she says – 81

  Part 2: St Ives, Cornwall, England

  5 Any student discount?

  6 Well, pardon me, Mrs Robinson

  7 Older people should be exploited

  8 Although owls appear zen and wise, they’re actually thick as sh*t

  Part 3: Llandudno, Wales

  9 Just eat your bread roll and don’t touch me

  10 Ask your mother while you can

  11 Alexa, find Facebook, says Nan

  12 It sounds to me like you could do with some grief

  Part 4: Killarney, Ireland

  13 I’m not used to the likes of you. On ye get

  14 It’s Judy bloody Garland

  15 You can’t take a picture of them. They’re not us

  16 These days, even babies don’t know they’re born

  Part 5: Lake Como, Italy

  17 Life’s not about living to 96. It’s about living to 84

  18 They’re talking of switching rooms because their neighbours were at it half the night

  19 Now there’s no whistling because he never comes home

  20 They took him to hospital in a gondola

  21 If you want to know the secret to a long, happy marriage, it’s 1) stay alive and 2) have separate bedtimes

  22 And then some paramedics arrive

  Part 6: Pitlochry, Scotland

  23 She says that thanking God gets easier and harder every day

  24 She grew beetroot and potatoes all day and in return she wasn’t shot

  25 I can’t just sit here and wait for the rain to stop

  26 There was that lark in the end

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Ben Aitken

  Copyright

  About the author

  Ben Aitken was born under Thatcher, grew to six foot then stopped, and is an Aquarius. He has four grandparents in working condition, and couldn’t be happier about the fact.

  Part 1

  Scarborough, Yorkshire, England

  1

  We’re hard to spot, aren’t we?

  ‘Are you one of the drivers?’

  That’s the first thing said to me. That’s the first impression I’ve made. I’ve made it on Pat, who’s never seen anyone like me on a Shearings holiday before. She says that on her first holiday she didn’t play bingo the first night because she thought it was for old people, but that she played the second night and realised that either it isn’t for old people or she’s an old person, one of the two. She’s been on loads since. All over the country. She says you meet all sorts. She remembers one meal when she was sat with a posh couple that looked stuck-up and not her type of people at all. In the event, they had a blast. ‘I didn’t think posh people could be funny. Goes to show: you never know who you’ll get along with.’

  On the M275 eastbound, Pat offers me a cup of coffee from her flask, then tells me she has a flat in Turkey that she bought with the lump sum she got when she retired from the NHS, and that I can use it if I give her enough notice and she’s not there. I ask what part of Turkey the flat’s in, east or west or whatever, but Pat says she doesn’t know, says she doesn’t bother with geography. Approaching Havant, she tells me to sit next to her so it’s easier to talk.

  About half a dozen get on at Havant. They’re chirpy, even at this hour, a bunch of larks or nightingales, saying hello and good morning to the coach and all its fittings. I don’t think I’ve been as cheerful my whole life, certainly not before 7.30am. An early indication that whoever said that we’re happiest as children and elders, with the bit in between made relatively miserable by responsibility and vanity and anxiety and work, might have been onto something. I used to doubt the idea – that we’re least happy in the middle. Youngish adulthood is so routinely associated with pleasure and indulgence and excitement that it’s hard to believe that – according to the boffins, according to the stats – it’s the stage of life that yields the least satisfaction. Whatever the data, and wherever the peaks and troughs, another elder’s just got on and immediately sent round a tin of Quality Street.

  My nan could get on here, at this pick-up point I mean. She lives just round the corner. As far as I’m aware she’s not been on such a coach holiday. I can’t remember the last time she went on holiday, to be frank. She mostly busies herself digging up the family tree. She’s dug up two paupers this week already, while a few months ago she hit upon an illicit connection to Henry VIII. She’s 81. If this trip goes alright I’ll drag her along to Torquay or Windermere or something. Somewhere nice. She showed me a picture once that contained the outlines of two women in one image. A sort of visual puzzle. I only saw the younger one. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘we’re hard to spot, aren’t we?’

  It’s hard not to get more interesting as you get older. That’s what I’ve come to think, and that’s what’s led me here. Some manage it, of course, and manage it well. But as a rule of thumb, one can expect a person over 50 to be more interesting than a person under it, if only by dint of having more grist in the mill. And yet for the most part, I ignore this probably-more-interesting section of society, preferring to robotically and thoughtlessly mingle with my own generation, some of whom, indeed many of whom, are about as interesting as margarine on toast.

  So over the past year or so I made an effort to shed my millennial skin. I started spending less time online and more time hanging around bowling greens and bingo halls, hoping for chance encounters. Why? Because it appeared to me that my elders had more to offer. Every time I went near a grandparent, or someone of grandparental vintage, I invariably came away from the encounter with some kind of snack and a new perspective on things.

  Then a friend told me that his great aunt had been on a coach holiday to Exmouth with a company called Shearings, whereupon she had enjoyed four nights full-board in a period hotel, return coach travel, entertainment each evening, various excursions, a fair bit of wine, and the uninterrupted company of people of pensionable age, all for a hundred quid. I quickly calculated that I could live on such a holiday for less than the cost of renting a room in London, and I just as quickly booked one: four nights in Scarborough, excursions to York and Whitby, twelve courses of dinner, a quartet of cooked breakfasts, plus the outside chance of being mentally extended and winning the bingo. £109. That’s how much my sister paid to get into a disco in Ibiza.

  My ambition – as you might have deduced – wasn’t especially earnest or high-minded. I didn’t mean to bridge gaps or get a handle on geriatric issues. I didn’t mean to examine myself (or anyone else), or take the temperature of anything. I didn’t have a quest, or a resounding or convincing existential motivation – the sort beloved of publishers. I didn’t seek wisdom. I didn’t seek revelation. I didn’t seek vengeance against any baby boomers that might have stolen my future.1 Simply put, I did it because I thought it might be nice.

  On the A3 heading north, Pat says that it’s only when she looks in the mirror that she remembers she’s 68. She says she’s not comfortable with her age, not really. Am I comfortable with my age? With being 32? Not entirely, else I wouldn’t routinely tell people I’m 30 or 31 or 29 – whatever I fancy, so long as it’s not older than the truth. There’s a film, The Age of Adaline, which is memorable only for its central conceit: the protagonist doesn’t
age beyond 29, because she can’t stand the idea of being 30. I can relate. I couldn’t stand turning 30. I denied it. Deferred it. Kicked it down the road. But why? I don’t want to live forever. It’s not that. I get bored on Sunday afternoons. What would I do with forever? Perhaps it’s a latent fear of non-existence. I might do a good job of pretending otherwise (a bit grumpy, a bit complacent), but the fact is I cherish life, am uncomplicatedly fond of it, and so I shy away from birthdays, from moving on, from running out. I’ve no time for death, and so I distance myself from it, however stupidly, however ineffectively. Time to grow up, Ben.2

  10.00. London Gateway services at the foot of the M1. This is the interchange, where passengers switch to coaches heading to their respective destinations. Shearings has its own lounge. It’s like heaven’s waiting room – or your average GP surgery. I buy a coffee and take a seat on the edge of things, the better to weigh up the scene. I don’t want to put too fine a point on it, but it’s fair to say that this lot are probably better at bridge than me. A couple from Reading are off to Bournemouth. Both are retired but busier than ever, don’t know how they ever found time to work. She’s writing a book about a bear who’s made in China and gets up to all sorts. ‘For kids, is it?’ ‘Rather adult, actually,’ she confides. Her husband, for his part, is a ‘street’ photographer. He gives me his card, wishes me a pleasant trip, and then the two of them head off. I stay where I am, wondering what the next pair I chat to will be working on – perhaps a concept album and a pornographic comic. Everyone’s got something up their sleeve, I suppose, and I shouldn’t be surprised if sleeves get bigger with time.

  11.36. Somewhere on the M1. We’re eleven in total, but will be collecting another load near Coventry. The driver says: ‘We’re a small group today, ladies and gents. Average height, five foot four.’ It’s not a complicated joke but I didn’t see it coming so it does a job on me. I’m in seat 13A. More or less at the back, more or less alone. With nobody to talk to, I give Scarborough some thought. I know Alan Ayckbourn’s from Scarborough. I saw a programme about the playwright a few years ago. He was sat in his back garden, which overlooks the town and the beach. I remember thinking: I wouldn’t kick Scarborough out of bed. It used to be a so-called spa town, put up in the 1800s so well-heeled folk with broken ankles could dip said ankles in medicinal waters and be, well, well healed. It grew to become one of the most popular holiday spots in the world, before easy aviation got Britons in the mood for Spain and Florida. They used to fish for tuna off Scarborough, and the town’s in Yorkshire, God’s Own County. That’s about all I’ve got.3

  13.45. Corley. The East Midlands interchange. A dozen climb on. That’s better, they say, ’ere we go then. They look younger, this lot. I suppose they didn’t have to get out of bed until mid-morning. Unlike the rest of us, who’ve bags under our eyes as well as under the coach. Our driver suddenly identifies himself, as if he’s just remembered what his job is. ‘My name’s Roger. This is the service to Blackpool.’ A few whispers and doubts. ‘Only kidding. We’re off to sunny Scarborough. Scarbados they call it – the mad ones anyway.’ That’s enough of Scarborough, reasons Roger, let’s move on to the essentials. ‘You’ll get four free alcoholic drinks a night. There’ll be no discriminating. Even the oldest will get served. Unclaimed drinks don’t carry over to the next night, unfortunately. Given the choice, I’d have sixteen on the Thursday.’ Good on you, Roger.

  15.00. Yorkshire. England’s biggest county, its broad shoulders, its steely, sooty, verdant pectorals. On average, Yorkshire folk are unusually proud of their county. Exhibit A: August 1 every year is Yorkshire Day, whereupon children dress up as Yorkshire puddings and bat stubbornly until September. Exhibit B: Yorkshire County Cricket Club recruited only from Yorkshire until the mid-90s, decades later than any other county. YCCC wanted God’s own leg-spinners, and nowt else. If Yorkshire is God’s own county, then God knows what Hampshire is. Hampshire folk, to my mind, aren’t in the slightest bit proud of their county. They might be proud of their village, or their town, or the size of their mortgage – but not their county. Indeed, most residents of Hampshire, as far as I can tell, are unaware they are residents of Hampshire. They probably all think they live in Surrey.

  16.20. The land around the A64 seems ancient, medieval, out of time somehow. The land is tumbular, if that were a word, a washing pile of downs and wolds. And when the light goes and a mist comes, it’s like we’ve entered a different genre of book, of story, of land – from old pastoral to neo-Gothic. Out on a limb, is how you feel, and so you might. York’s the nearest large settlement to Scarborough and that’s 40 miles away.

  I like Scarborough’s preamble, its build-up. Two colossal hotels headline the scene, while two bridges make light of a valley, with the illuminations of a promenade below. Roger points out what shops we might pop to, where we might break for tea, where we might rent mobility scooters. A longish climb brings us up to the hotel – the Norbreck, a bit of which fell into the North Sea a few years ago, suddenly providing one guest with an unexpected en-suite. We’re up on a headland here, a promontory. The next settlement east is a town in the German state of Schleswig-Holstein, while due north, via the Norwegian and Greenland Seas, is the Arctic. And to think this was the spot chosen for Britain’s first seaside resort.

  I’m in room 312. I’ve been given my drinks vouchers for the week and told not to photocopy them. A porter, operating on autopilot, insisted on carrying my backpack up the stairs. When I told him not to bother, he said: ‘Better safe than sorry, sir.’ If he’s assuming the incapability of a millennial, I can only wonder what he assumes someone in their 80s can’t manage – ‘Need some help with that biscuit, madam?’ The room is singular: if you had a guest, they’d have to sit on your lap and share your teacup. But it’s warm and cosy and done in yellow and green and red, soft shades of each. My curtains bring a fruit salad to mind.

  I go down for dinner. I’ve been allocated table 13, as I was allocated row 13. The table’s for four but for now I’m alone. I’m dressed in a new outfit and I’m recently groomed (haircut, shave, etc.) with the result that I look smarter than I have done since my christening. I’ve made the effort because my nan insisted upon it. She said it wouldn’t do to turn up to dinner looking relaxed. She said that her generation ‘wouldn’t be seen dead dressed casually in a hotel’, which is an interesting scenario to consider.

  There must be about twenty tables of two, and half a dozen tables of four, tucking into their meals watchfully, each diner as much aware of the strangers around them as what’s on their plate. Everyone in the hotel’s on the same holiday as me: four nights, excursions to York and Whitby, full-board etc. I read the menu self-consciously. I feel like a menu myself, being read and judged. Anomalies attract attention. That’s just how it is. Oddness is intriguing. The odd or anomalous thing needn’t have any special qualities or enviable attributes, they need only be odd or anomalous – a potato among plums, for example. I order the fishcakes.

  A man sits down opposite me. He doesn’t look anomalous.

  ‘I don’t know about yours but our driver was full of it. I wanted to chuck him off the coach,’ he says.

  ‘That wouldn’t have got you far.’

  ‘I only booked yesterday. I fancied exploring. I reckon I’ve seen enough of Birmingham.’

  We talk easily over bread rolls. Alan was married at eighteen, and a father of two at 21. For most of his life he worked in a foundry, pouring liquid metal into a mould, where it adjusted to its cast, filled its boots, and then altered not. Alan tells me he had a couple of heart attacks in 2006 and then retired ten years later. I suggest he might not have waited so long, but he reckons you’ve to muddle through.

  ‘I used to tell the young lads at work who were moaning about the heat or the tedium – “Don’t worry, boys. It’s only for a lifetime.”’

  ‘I suppose you might have said the same about marriage.’

  ‘I might have indeed. I divorced at 38 – which was
twenty years too late, I can tell you.’ He orders the chicken, then adds: ‘The kids take everything you’ve got. You’ve nothing left for each other.’

  Alan later remarried, but his second wife has claustrophobia and gets nervous around people. I ask if it’s his first time.

  ‘Oh no, I’ve had chicken before.’

  ‘I meant—’

  ‘I’ve been to Eastbourne with Shearings. They’ve got a nice big place down there. I was sat with a young woman for dinner.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Well, she was 60-odd. Flirting, she was. I said, “Stop it, I’m married.” She said, “Relax, so am I.” We had a nice day out in Hastings.’

  Our puddings turn up. Alan looks at his vanilla ice-cream.

  ‘Getting down to Eastbourne opened my eyes a bit. On the way home, I wondered where else I might have liked, if only I’d been. I got settled where I was and didn’t know anything else. Everything just sort of got stuck after a while. I thought West Bromwich was the end of the world.’

  We sit longer than the rest, talking about the grandkids he doesn’t see enough of, and the amount of gel in the waiter’s hair. ‘He’s young,’ explains Alan. ‘Lad’s got bugger all else to do.’

  It’s three quid to play bingo. The lounge bar is packed – there are more in here than were at dinner. I’m pretty good at bingo. I’ve only played once, on a ferry from Zeebrugge to Hull, but did alright for myself. There’s about a hundred playing tonight, I’d say, but it makes no odds to me – I only go and win again. My triumph doesn’t go down well. They don’t mean to be rude, I’m sure, but when I go up to collect the cash price, someone tries to trip me up with their cane.