Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

A VISIT TO GRANNY T AND A WALK IN LONDON

Jerome has gone back up to Cambridge (I  still get a little teary when my boy leaves) and with Crichton up in London again, the house seemed very empty, so I decided to take the dogs for a walk across the fields to see Granny T. She always shakes the blues out of me. She’ll be eighty-four later in the month and is still as fierce as the day Crichton brought me home for her approval. We’ve had our spats over the years, but I love her for her brave refusal to stop being fearless, even now she’s getting on a bit. 

   A crisp frost would have been my choice rather than mizzling rain and mud, but Trenton didn’t care. He worked along the hedges, nose down, tail wagging in the hope of a lively pheasant. Labradors are always so reliable. Brexit is anything but. He shot to the end of his extendible lead and began to pull like a train. I know he’s ‘a hound’ but really, it’s got to stop. Maybe this will be the year. He calmed down eventually and he trotted up to The Dower House as if he always walked nicely to heel. 

I wasn’t surprised when nobody answered the door. Granny T is almost stone deaf, caused by years of shooting and refusal to wear ear defenders. She doesn’t approve of hearing aids either. 

   ‘It’s just laziness,’ she says, ‘people should speak more clearly.’ 

   I let myself in and yoo-hooed loudly in the hall. Still no reply, so I ditched my Wellingtons and walked through to the kitchen. Then I saw her passing the kitchen window, rugged up like a horse in all sorts of coats and fleeces and carrying a felling axe. Oh no, not another of her trips to the forestry block. She’d done enough damage in December ‘liberating’ two enormous Christmas trees and hauling them back on a home-made sledge. It was easier to accept the gift that try to get rid of a stolen fifteen-foot noble fir, but the wretched thing was far too big for our hall and getting up the stairs to bed was quite a challenge during the festive period. I wasn’t about to let her cut down anything else, so I banged on the glass and waved a tea towel to attract her attention. Luckily, she recognised me and came in to put the kettle on. We went through to warm up in front of her wood burner, surrounded by damp dogs. She has two spaniels, Lucy and Clive who can moult for Britain and I was soon covered from top to toe in brown and white dog hairs.

She passed me a buttered crumpet. ‘Eat that,’ she said. ‘You look like you could do with some carbohydrate. Nest empty again?’

   Oh dear, was it that obvious? I filled her in on the family news, not least the diary challenge.

   I don’t like to criticise a mother’s only son, but I knew she’d be on my side.

   ‘He said it’ll be a doddle, to write something every day for a year,' I snorted, ‘but I know I’m going to have the devil’s own job getting him to see it through.’  

   Granny T roared with laughter. ‘Don’t worry, Cynthia, my son’s not as daft as he looks. Ask Bunty if she’s taking side bets. I’ll have fifty pounds on him finishing, if you’re on his case.’ 

   That made me feel better. Granny T always has such faith in her family. I ate a second crumpet, while she polished off her third and we sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the crackling of the fire and ignoring the occasional quiet fart from one or other of the dogs (or was it Granny T?) 

   ‘I’m thinking of getting a tattoo,’ she said apropos of nothing. That brought me up sharp. 

   ‘Really?’

   ‘Yes. For my birthday. I’ve always fancied one of those Celtic bands, but I don’t think I’ve got the biceps for it any more. What do you think about a tramp stamp? Just here.’

   She lifted the back of her fleece and for one awful moment I thought I was going to be treated to a view of her bottom.

   ‘You needn’t look so shocked. Jerome’s got one,’ she said.

   'Really?' 
   There’s a lot of things I probably don’t know about Arraminta, but I always thought I was on the same wavelength as my son.

   ‘Oh yes. It wasn’t expensive.  A little ‘well done’ treat from me, for getting into Cambridge. It’s a rite of passage these days. Smoking a pipe was all the thing in his father’s day.’

   I said that it was for her to decide what she did with her skin, and would she like to come over for a birthday tea next weekend. It was time to change the subject. I had bought her a pale pink pashmina and I wasn’t about to fork out for a trip to Paddy’s Ink Palace as well. 

   ‘Of course, I shall be there,’ she said, ‘Crichton’s already invited me. Tell Cook to make some of those cheese and egg tarts that I like. I can’t be doing with sponge cake.’

Well that was me told.

Crichton Comments

I'm glad I don't live in Devon like Kitty and Biff. A ‘fat berg’ has been discovered under the Sidmouth esplanade. Inky was telling me about it as we walked back to the flat after dinner.  I'd find it rather disconcerting to be walking the streets knowing such a thing is beneath my feet and said as much. It is supposedly the weight of nine African elephants and the length of the leaning tower of Pisa …who choses these comparisons?  Inky feels that an Airbus 380 or seven double decker buses seems a neater way of describing its dimensions…I asked him if it was the bus motif that amused him most, and he remarked that he hasn’t been on a bus for years. 
In a fit of madness, we decide to catch the next one to come past and ended up in Shoreditch with no chance of a cab home. We’d have more likely to find an African elephant south of the river at that time of night.