Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

   

MOTHERING SUNDAY IN MUCH BICKERING

Edith always makes the Mothering Sunday posies with the Sunday school, but with her still being out of action, after her fall on Valentine’s Day, I felt I had to volunteer in her place.

   ‘The older girls set it all up and there won’t be much to do but supervise,’ said the vicar. 

   Huh! 

   He forgot to tell me that Edith also provides the flowers from her garden, so I arrived at St Appolonia’s with nothing but a roll of tin foil and an expectant smile. The few daffodils and primroses that I found by the lych-gate, plus a few sprigs of blackthorn blossom proved a rather meagre hoard so I cut down some greenery from the memorial garden and liberated a six stale crysanths from Aunt Dorothy’s grave (she wouldn’t have minded). Even so, it was a poor show.

Thankfully only one child turned up but, just my luck, that had to be Tanya Hooper. 

   ‘This is rubbish…don’t you have any decent flowers in your garden, Mrs Trehorlicks?’ she asked with a smug smile and her head on one side. 

   I gave her a beaker of squash and a lift home. 

   ‘Your car smells of dogs,’ she said as a parting shot and slammed the door so hard that the wing mirror fell off. 

   Really!

   

I spent the afternoon making twenty-five posies on the kitchen table, helped by Cook…one daff, two primulas and a bit of spruce tied with some birthday ribbon. It was a lot quicker and the conversation far nicer without the children. 

While my back was turned, Brexit got up onto the worktop and made free with the tray of flowers, but I don’t think anyone will notice. 

When I rang Bowman’s, they said they can’t fix my wing mirror until Thursday. After all the business I’ve put their way over the years, you’d think they could make an effort, but customer loyalty counts for naught these days.  They assure me that the car is still legal to drive even though the mirror is flapping about, and why don’t I ask my husband to secure it with a bit of black tape? What an absolute nerve! I’m more than capable of doing a botch job myself. There’s no need to involve Crichton to make things worse. 

   On Sunday, I awoke to a pretty homemade card and a potted azalea from Arraminta by my breakfast plate. By the state of the dry compost and shrivelled buds, I surmise it may have be bought some days ago, but it’s the thought that counts and I was thrilled, as any mother would be.

Inevitably, as the clocks had gone forward, many of the congregation and of course the vicar were late for morning service, and Godfrey Langton our church warden, had taken it upon himself to kick things off with the General Confession. We’d just got to the bit about provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation when Rev Colin appeared to take the helm and we could move on to something a bit jollier.

Those posies that had survived Brexit’s attentions were distributed by the under tens and the Sunday school amused the congregation with their Acrostic prayer on the theme of 

MOTHER

Thankyou God for

My Mum…she is 

Old and 

Tries to look younger… she likes to

Have a little drop of gin

Every day…and plays with us when she’s not having a 

Row with Daddy.

Amen.

How we all roared.

The whole thing ran well over the expected 50 minutes and Granny T, who had booked herself in for lunch and a bunch of daffs, was rattling her empty sherry glass by the time I got back. Crichton had been keeping her topped upand she’d guzzled half a bottle of best Amontillado. How her liver can survive it at her age is anyone’s guess. 

Eventually we three sat down to a roast beef lunch followed by one of cook’s best plum crumbles and a very ripe Stilton. Crichton ate far too much of it as usual. After the coffee and Simnel cake was cleared away, Jerome called. I really didn’t think he would remember.

He’s such a sweet boy. He has made a new friend Hilary and seemed very keen on her. They met at a coming out party last summer apparently, and got together again at the Cambridge Union debate a few weeks ago. 

This house believes cup-cakes will be the death of English literature. 

They both voted against the motion. 

I hope he will come bring her down to stay very soon.

Crichton Comments

  Mothers Day is a worrying time. If the twins don’t come up to scratch with cards and good wishes, it’s me that gets it in the neck for some reason. But Cynthia seemed satisfied with the card and pot plant from Arraminta, despite its shrivelled state. 

Thank God, the boy rang too. Just squeaked in before the Antiques Roadshow. It made his Mother’s Mother’s Day. Ho ho!

He seems to have got himself a girlfriend, which will mean one more woman in the house. At least I’ve still got Trenton on my side.

Cynthia was right about the cheese. Terrible nightmares. At one point, was being pursued by giant dachshund dressed as a Roman Centurion. The dachshund not me. 

Enough to make one’s bowels turn to water. 

I will stay off the Stilton for a bit.