Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

DRINKS WITH THE FAIRBROTHERS

   How Caro manages it, I do not know. Sixty-five guests in a drawing room the size of a rabbit hutch…soggy Ritz crackers spread with tinned pate, egg sandwiches and sausages on cocktail sticks, all served on chipped plates.  

Crichton has always said she’s still stuck in the 80’s. Best place to be imo, but I digress.

Yet again, it was the best party of the whole Year. 

That could be because Stephan and Caroline live within walking distance of the Manor, (so no driving for me) and they always serve their home-made cider. Neat, it would take the skin off an egg, but watered down with a drop of gin, it’s truly delicious. 

Just for once, Crichton didn’t go for the record (maybe New Year’s Eve has taught him a lesson), and we walked home arm in arm in the chilly afternoon air, with a certain amount of rolling from side to side, and I allowed him a little snooze in front of the television. I’m not a total ogre, whatever he says.

   In fact, we’d both dropped off when the phone rang. It was Caro.

She sounded very upset. I’d promised to take the hired glasses back in town in the morning for her and I asked if she was calling to arrange a pick-up time. But no. 

   ‘I might as well hang onto them for the wake,’ she wept.

   The wake? What was she talking about?  She told me the sad news. Caro’s Aunt Dorothy had apparently passed into glory just as they finished the washing up. 

   ‘She’d taken the black bags out and said she might go for a jog later, when she just keeled over sideways into the remains of the canapés.’ said Caro.

   I could hardly believe it. Dot had been a bit off colour since December but only with a cold. Nothing life threatening. In fact, she’d been the life and soul of proceedings a few hours before, passing round the cheese and pineapple hedgehog and telling risqué jokes, as if she’d go on for ever. 

   ‘Are you sure?’ 

   That was probably the wrong thing to have said, but it slipped out before I could stop myself.

   ‘Sure? Of course I’m sure. She’s laid out on the coffee table as we speak, and the pug won’t leave her alone. It was awful, Cynthia…path all over her best blouse and not a thing we could do.’

   She began to sob again. ‘… and the undertaker can’t come until the morning, so we’ve covered her up with some banqueting roll. We’ll just have to have an early night and watch Morse on the upstairs TV.’

    I said I thought that was the sensible thing to do, and that I was sorry for her loss. I hate that phrase, so American, but what else does one say? ‘If there’s anything I can do, Caro, you must let me know.’ She said if I was going into town I might take her black coat to Timpson’s for cleaning and I said, of course I would. I’d take mine too. I considered getting Cook to make her a nice casserole, but they had masses of left overs from the party and Dot hated things to go to waste.

So that was the end of an era really. The Girl Guide Movement would certainly miss her...

as would we all.  I believe Dorothy had been district commissioner for over four decades. 

But bless her, she had hung on and not to ruined Christmas or Stephan’s birthday partyfor the family . She was always to think of others before herself. 

The following morning, I drove round to Bickering Mews, to collect Caro’s coat. The undertaker’s wagon was outside. I call it a wagon for want of a better word. It certainly wasn’t a hearse in the ‘shiny limo and huge glass panels’ sense of the word. More like a black delivery van…except they were collecting not dropping off. 

Caro opened the door, puffy eyed and white faced. She’d obviously had a bad night.

   ‘They’re bagging her up now,’ she whispered, ‘would you like to see her before they take her away?’

   I said I’d rather not. I didn’t know her that well and it seemed like an intrusion, although I was intrigued by the idea of ‘bagging’.

   ‘She’ll get a nice coffin back at the chapel of rest. It’s more discrete this way and the hall is very narrow. Auntie didn’t like a fuss,’ said Caro and went off for the coat. 

   I was left in the doorway. 

At that moment, the sitting room door opened, and two men dressed in black emerged with what I assumed to be Auntie Dorothy on a trolley. What started as a stately procession soon degenerated into an unseemly scrummage. Caro was right about the hallway. They had a terrible job to get to get through the front door and although I flattened myself against the wall, they still managed to run over my foot. I didn’t complain. It would have seemed churlish at such a time, but my toe will be black for weeks. 

   I hobbled off to the dry cleaners with both the coats. Imagine my embarrassment, when that nice woman behind the counter, the one with the curly hair, told me that Jerome had been in to collect a dinner suit, two pairs of tartan trousers and his pale lemon cashmere sweater, but not paid for them. How many of these sweaters does one boy need for heaven’s sake? And since when have boys of nineteen worn tartan trews anyway?  Of course, I coughed up without a murmur but really, is it TOO much to expect that he settles his own bills? His allowance is very generous. My guilt over chucking out the carrier bag has dissolved into the ether.

Crichton Comments

So old Dot has dropped off the perch.  Pity. She used play a mean game of bridge and told the filthiest jokes. 

Pulled handle off the cutlery drawer while making a sneaky bacon sandwich but managed to screw back on quietly. I am hoping Cynthia won’t notice…Maybe the units are getting a bit tatty.