Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

FIRE! FIRE!

I noticed the first of the snow drops, ‘winter’s timid children’ in flower by the wall when I took the lads out for their afternoon walk. Despite the biting wind, these little flowers always lift the spirits. I usually feel a bit flat after the bustle of Christmas. Flat and fat. The trousers were definitely feeling a bit tight in the waistband and I was puffing as I came back up the hill. I vowed to myself that I would lose a stone before Easter, and then arrived home to more of Cook’s fruit cake. After the lamb shank/salad debacle, I didn’t dare to refuse and risk offending her again and tucked into a hefty slice.

Alyona had just finished mopping the  kitchen floor but Brexit still seemed convinced that she’d missed something tasty under the freezer. The minute we came in he went straight to the corner and started scrabbling at it again  It might well be a mouse. Mrs Tibbs had eaten so much turkey over the festive season that she's a bit off her game.  I asked her  (Alyona not the cat) the move the thing next time she's in and I got a very black look. She's a sturdy girl so can't see what all the fuss was about. Oh dear. Then she found Jerome’s fetid cashmere sweater in its carrier bag, in the boot room. TBH I'd forgotten all about it and sort of hoped she might offer to wash it, but she refused point blank.    ‘No. This is not job for cleaner lady. Is for pest controller,’ she said with some force.

   She certainly had a point, but it had been worth a try. 

I was just wondering if I should tackle the contents of the carrier bag  or just chuck the whole lot in the bin and buy Jerome a new jumper, when a crash broke into my reverie. I found Crichton thrashing about throwing newspapers to the four corners of the drawing room, alternately shouting expletives, then growling to himself. 

   ‘They’re gone!’ he yelled and lobbed a copy of Shooting Times across the room. ‘Bloody kids. Is nothing sacred?’ Country Life collided with a table lamp and sent it crashing to the floor. 'Am I not master in my own house?' He flopped back into an arm chair. ‘All I wanted was for a couple of Lindors from the tree. Is that too much to ask is it?’

   I said, no it wasn’t, and I’d get Cook to find him something nice from the pantry. I didn’t tell him that it was in fact Brexit, who sniffed out the choices hidden in the magazine rack two days ago, and devoured them paper and all. He’s ben shitting them out on the lawn ever since, wrappers included. Poor Crichton. The dear old thing calmed down with the arrival of a plate of chocolate fingers (Cook always keeps an emergency supply), and we spent a quiet evening a deux with only Trenton’s whistling nose to interrupt the silence, then went up for an ‘early night’.

   I awoke at 3 am to cacophony.

Smoke alarms screaming, frantic barking from Trenton and the terrifying whiff of burning. 

My first thought was for Arraminta, until I remembered she was back at school.

   ‘Ring the bloody fire brigade!’ I shouted at Crichton’s sleeping form, and stumbled downstairs to find Cook at the kitchen door.

I opened it to find the room full of smoke, and flames merrily licking up the side of the units in the corner. Poor Brexit, who had been crazily scratching to get out, emerged looking very bedraggled and yapping fit to bust. Crichton was close behind me clad, as he had fallen asleep, in nothing but a pyjama jacket and a pair of socks. It must have been a nasty shock for Cook, who passed him her apron without a word. He took control of the situation and approached the fire ‘sans culottes’ to flap at the flames with a damp tea towel. I was so proud of him… just like Paul Newman in Towering Inferno, but it was to no avail. We could do nothing but back out and close the door behind us. 

Thank goodness, the lads from blue watch arrived soon after (we still have the direct link to the fire station after that unfortunate business with Arraminta) and they squirted foamy stuff everywhere until they were satisfied that all was well again. One opened the windows and wafted some oxygen over poor Brexit’s snout. He didn’t seem to have come to much harm, but you never know. A trip to the vet for a check-up would be a wise precaution for a dog with such a long nose. 

The fireman with a beard and white helmet, who seemed to be in charge looked about for a cause and asked Cook a lot of questions about turning off the gas rings, leaving tea towels over boilers and letting dust build up under appliances etc. This is normal form apparently, but she was most upset. 

   ‘I told him that if he knew anything about anything, he’d know that there’s no gas rings to turn off with an Aga, madam,’ she wailed, ‘but he just went on casting nasturtiums on my nobilities.’ 

She was to close tears but I assured her that nobody was doing anything of the sort and we were very confident in her abilities, and that they were was just doing their job. Then the firemen rolled up their hoses and went away, saying they would be in touch in a day or two to give us their verdict on the cause, and we were left with a blackened hell hole swimming in what looked like grey uncooked meringue. The whole Manor House now stinks like a charcoal burner’s shack and it's going to be tricky with the Valentine shanks but we'll manage... nobody got hurt and that’s the main thing. The new freezer will be here tomorrow and there's a chance of a lovely new kitchen if the insurers and Crichton play ball, so every cloud has a silver lining.

Crichton comments

Bugger!

Took fifteen black bags of soggy food to the tip. Why did we buy so many meatballs from IKEA?

Cynthia has ordered a new freezer…I should feel grateful to have got away with just that.