My dining table — passed through generations — is the real life and soul of the party

She is a well-travelled grand old lady, about 100 years old, who has hosted almost every celebration our family has ever had. I have called her Betty, since it suits her: gracious, generous and a stable presence in our family’s life. Wherever she lives, that is where the party will be.

Betty is a mahogany table, with elegant 18-inch-thick carved legs. At full length, she is a beast at more than 8ft x 4ft, and almost 7in deep. You cannot lift or budge her alone. Her wheels stand on small wooden plinths, made by my Uncle Bill, to protect the floor.

I know her underbelly well, with its thick steel girder that we manipulate manually to add and remove her three leaves: as a child, I would often crawl under her to play. My mother, when she was small, would crouch in the same place with her older brother — seeking protection from the bombs of the second world war.

On a tropical island known for partying, our house soon became the place to go. Christmas lunch was, just like Betty, expandable. Everyone was welcome

The table bears all the scars of her life with us. Long scratches are etched into one side where my brother as a small boy would run his Matchbox cars up and down. White blotches mark out somebody’s lack of care and a too-hot pot. The extension leaves are bashed, with one missing a chunk and another having had major surgery. She is lighter in colour now since she has spent many years sunning in a bay window. 

Betty first entered the family consciousness in 1931 when she moved to my grandparents’ rambling home in Surbiton, south-west London. So began a long tradition of finding houses to fit her, and of hosting raucous parties — from Christmas to birthdays. 

She took her first holiday from hosting when she lived in storage for four years after my grandfather’s death in 1966. During that time, my parents designed (using Lego bricks) and built a house, with the chief criteria being that the dining room had to be big and airy enough to accommodate the table.

From that stay in Kingston upon Thames she crossed the Atlantic to her new home in Trinidad, where she stayed for eight years. On a tropical island known for partying, our house soon became the place to go. Christmas lunch was, just like Betty, expandable. Everyone was welcome. Even when we moved away, with Betty making her second transatlantic voyage, many of our friends from Trinidad continued to come to us for Christmas. Old habits die hard. 

Back in England, my mother again had to find a house big and airy enough to accommodate the table. Once we were settled, with Betty installed, Christmas came back. 

But no party would be complete without her. Equipped with hats, whistles, party poppers and blowouts, I threw a carnival-themed festa to mark my return from a year in Brazil. Wrapped in a homemade Brazilian flag, adorned with replicas of Rio de Janeiro’s Sugarloaf Mountain, and green and gold napkins, the table had 22 people around her that night to play games, drink caipirinhas and eat rice and beans to the sound of samba.

She has instilled in us a lesson for life: we own nothing. We are merely looking after her for the next generation

When my parents sold their house, Betty moved to Stockport, where my brother had a house big and airy enough to accommodate her. Her partying resumed. Small boys would clamber up for shove ha’penny, snap or roulette while others would play underneath her. When nobody was looking, another would hide behind a leg to take a swig from a glass of port. 

Later, she took up her role as the family hub for homework, school projects and Zoom calls. 

That is, until last year, when my brother moved to the south coast — and a smaller house. 

Showing excessive interest in our new extension, he announced that it was our turn to have her. And so it is that we have become her custodians. She arrived, rather ignominiously, legs first. Four of us heaved her parts through a tangle of nettles and brambles into the back garden and through our double doors. 

For a year now, we have got used to receiving calls and messages from local friends, colleagues and students who want to host a party. For any sort of gathering, the default is now at ours. This will be her second Christmas in Cambridge.

A discussion has rumbled on in recent months about how to celebrate my mother’s 90th birthday next year. In the end, there was little debate. Whoever has the table, hosts the party. So, everyone will come to us.

Betty completed a flurry of table acquisitions for us, including an inherited blue ping-pong table: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, says the wedding ditty for luck.

Betty is our something borrowed.

She has instilled in us a lesson for life: we own nothing. As in the Patek Philippe slogan, we are merely looking after her for the next generation. She will move on the day that my nephew Alex finds a home that is big and airy enough to accommodate her.

Sarah Provan is commissioning editor, project publishing

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