Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

BUNTY TAKES SANCTUARY AT THE MANOR HOUSE 

There has been high excitement in the village for the last few weeks. Channel 4’s ‘Trash or Treasure’ was coming to Twillinghurst. Cook came rushing in to show me the advertisement in the Gottknowe Gazette. She was almost beside herself when she read it out to me.

   ‘Oh Madam, I love Adam Gizzard. When he says, ‘Twash or Twesher,’ in that accent of his, I go all peculiar.  Might I take a half day and go along?’

I can’t stand the man myself, but one should occasionally give one’s staff a treat, so I assured her that not only could she have the whole day off, but if she wanted something to take with her, she could borrow the shepherdess figurine from the second-floor landing. 

I think it’s Minton but we’ve never really liked it. 

   ‘Oh, no madam. I wouldn’t feel right doing that, ‘she said, ‘I have a little ‘drinket’ of my own to take along. I’m sure it isn’t worth anything, but it’s just for fun isn’t it?’

   On Sunday, Rev Colin preached on the sin of avarice. Considering that most of the congregation is in a muck sweat about the auction programme, it seemed appropriate.

Derek told me in confidence that Bunty would be taking the painting of camels in the dessert, that hangs above their fire place, because she is sure she will get onto the tele with it. How vulgar. No wonder she didn’t tell me herself. It was Derek’s 21^stbirthday present from an beloved aunt and is now worth five figures… it’s apparently by some cove called Charles Vacher. I wouldn’t give it house room, but Derek seems very attached to it.

The great day came, and Cook was beyond jittery at lunch. So much so that she grated her thumb into the cheese sauce for the cauliflower. Blood everywhere. It took ages and three plasters to stop. 

   ‘It’s because I take Waferthin, madam,’ she said, ‘for my heart.’

Eventually haemostasis was achieved and off she went, with her secret treasure in a Waitrose carrier bag, to make it look more valuable.

She was decidedly cagey when she got home. Cagey and dare I say it…smug!

   ‘Yes, madam, they liked my drinket very much but I can’t say any more than that. Mr Gizzard was most emphatic. Might I have another half day next week? I wouldn’t ask but I would so like to hear if it's Twash or Twesher? They don’t tell you until you get to the auction.’

How could I resist her?

   ‘Oh thank you, madam. Mrs Gainsborough will be there too, but I expect you already knew that.’

I think she might have winked.

So, Bunty was going to be on the programme as well…

Cook went off again with sandwiches and a flask first thing. The film crew set up very early and like to do the interviews before the auction starts she told me, so I was stuck clearing up the breakfast things. She returned at tea time looking worn out and clutching a signed photograph of her hero. When I asked if the day had been a success, she laid a finger to the side of her nose and looked very serious.

   ‘I can’t say much, madam, but he told me my drinket was ichronic.’

We must now all wait for the showing next month.

Crichton Comments

No bloody lunch again and everyone talking about antiques. Went down to the Plump Pig and found it shut. I’d forgotten they don’t open on a Monday. Who should turn up but Derek who had also forgotten. Bunty had gone the auction too, so no scoff at his place either. The sooner this Adam Gizzard goes back where he belongs, the better for us all. 

We consoled ourselves with a chicken slice and a cup of coffee at the service station on the ring road. What have we come to?

Crichton and I don’t normally watch TV at 4pm but this was to be Cook’s five minutes of fame. She had made two cakes for the occasion…one chocolate and the other fruit and we all sat around in the drawing room waiting for the programme to start. Crichton insisted that she should have his big winged arm chair so that she could get a really good view. We were recording it so we could play it back in case we missed anything.

I squeezed onto the sofa or what’s left of it (Brexit has been busy again), with Crichton and Arraminta, and the catchy signature tune began to play. 

There was Adam Gizzard in pink trousers and a tweed jacket with the collar turned up even though he was clearly boiling. We all knew it had been 87degrees that day. 

   ‘His face isn’t quite as orange as that in real life,’ whispered Cook with a wistful look in her eye.

We watched as his team of experts trawled through some china dogs, old EPNS salt pots and costume jewellery and then suddenly we saw Cook, holding the most hideous lamp I’ve ever seen.

   ‘This is Helen,’ says Mr Gizzard and she’s brought along something very special.

   ‘Helen?!’ shouted Crichton. ‘That’s not Helen. That’s Cook.’

Cook ignored him.

    ‘The team think it could be valuable so are you willing to take it to the auction and see if it’s …the whole crowd shouts out with him …TWASH or TWEASURE?

On the screen Cook simpers and nods. 

The programme goes to a commercial break and Arraminta went to refill the tea pot. It seemed mean to make Cook miss a second of the fun.

Next up is a little girl with her Granny’s wooden doll, a man with a silver topped walking stick and then  Bunty with her painting up on an easel. She looked rather overdressed if I might say so… Huge ear rings and far too much lip stick.

   ‘…it’s been in my husband’s family for years. We love it.’

   ‘So why have you brought it along today?’ asks the orange faced one, ‘Do you really want to sell it?’

Bunty falters. 

I honestly think this was the first time she realised the deal. The treasures are auctioned whatever the value…no reserves…no regrets…Would she back down? Of course not. 

   ‘Well it’s going under the hammer right now. Let’s see if it’s Twash or Tweasure,’ brays Mr Gizzard.

Oh dear…the auctioneer brings his gavel down for just £300.

   ‘You must be thwilled with that,’ gloats Mr Gizzard, ‘what will you spend the money on?’

   ‘Oh, maybe dinner out with my husband…,’ she chokes.

   ‘It’ll take more than dinner out to calm Derek down,’ laughed Crichton..

Cook’s up next.

The lamp is square, grey and ugly. It is also happens to be made by Troika and there are two collectors desperate in a bidding war.. It sells for the princely sum of £7,900.

No wonder Cook looked smug.

Cricton Comments

Marvellous fun. Bunty has sold Derek’s birth right for one tenth of its value. Three hundred quid minus the seller’s premium? She’ll be lucky if it does cover dinner for two. I could hardly wait to phone Inky and Douglas. They were in stitches when I told them about the painting. They said they would pop round on Saturday to watch the recording. Cynthia says I’m being unkind, but Derek would do the same to me, given the chance.

It turns out that Cook is called Helen. I suppose she had to have a name…I had her down as more of an Enid.

  

Later that day, Bunty came around in tears. Derek has been quite horrid to her about the painting. Justifiably so imo, but I didn’t say that. It’s not the money so much as selling it in the first place. 

   ‘I thought it was like the Antiques Roadshow, where they just tell you how much things are worth,’ she wailed, ‘How did I know the paper I signed was an agreement to sell without a reserve?’ 

She was in no fit state to drive home again after Crichton had plied her with gin, so I popped her into the spare bed in one of my nightdresses, with a large glass of water and a box of tissues. I hoped things would seem better in the morning. 

There was no sign of Bunty until well after ten. We must have given her more gin than I thought. Eventually she appeared blotchy and unkempt, begging me to let her stay on. Of course, I couldn’t refuse, but I couldn’t see how hiding here at the Manor would help. She was drinking gin as if her life depended on it and driving Crichton mad. He can’t stand women crying and she hasn’t stopped sobbing into our Gordon's Export, since she arrived. Thank God, she was spending most of the day in bed.

I made Crichton promise to speak to Derek the following day without fail. It would be better coming from him.

Eventually Bunty roused herself enough to take solid food. We had to be thankful for that. Stubbins did an emergency run to the supermarket for more gin and Kleenex in case she had a relapse. Crichton rang Derek. He was still furious with Bunty and when Cricton pointed out that we were going away on holiday in two week’s time and that was the ABSOLUTE cut off, he just snorted and put the phone down. 

That was a real blow. They say a friend in need is a pain in the arse…never a truer word spoken. I was at my wits end. 

Crichton went off up to London without a backward glance…thanks Crichton. I didn’t think Bunty should be left alone so I called in reinforcements in the form of Granny T to take a turn keeping an eye on her, while I took Trenton and Brexit out. I owed it to my own sanity as much as their fitness and just had to get away from the grizzling for an hour or two.  Granny T never listens to what people are saying anyway, so she didn’t mind at all. In fact, I think she enjoyed herself. We were nearly out of gin again when I got home and Bunty, poor girl was asking to watch the recording of Trash or Treasure one more time. Heaven knows why. It was just rubbing salt into the wounds. Rather like Catherine Howard asking to see the block before her execution, or was that Jane Grey? Anyway, she insisted on my sitting with her and I could hardly refuse. The mood was rather more sombre than when last I saw Adam Gizzard the human citrus, utter those fateful words, ‘Do you really want to sell it?’ 

It was pitiful to see poor Bunty shudder as she watched herself nodding agreement.

I ran to the drinks cabinet, and while the auction took place she gulped down another four fingers of Tanqueray. When she had calmed down, I left her snivelling into my velvet cushions. They are dry clean only and will never be the same again. 

I could take no more and rang Derek myself. I gave him the for better for worse spiel and told him there would be no more invitations to Cook’s Sunday lunches if he didn’t do the decent thing and we clinched a deal. I was to delete the recoding before anyone else saw it, in return for him collecting his wife. Frankly it wasn’t much of a loss. We’d all seen enough of Trash or Treasure to last us a lifetime and I’m sure there will be a repeat on Gold or Dave in a year or two.

Derek came banging on the door at 9.30 the following morning, demanding to see his wife. She appeared at the top of the stairs ashen faced. You could have heard a pin drop. He spoke in a stern voice, such as headmasters use in Victorian school stories.

‘Coming home?’

‘Yes please.’

And that was that. 

Alyona had the sheets off the bed and into the washer before you could say ‘mid-estimate’

Crichton offered to take me out to Marconi’s for dinner, but I refused.

A quiet night on our own in front of the TV is what we both needed. Later he asked me if I loved him. It’s not something I’ve thought about for years. 

Crichton Comments

At last. The woman is gone! Fair play to Derek, there was no ‘scene’ at our house. Bunty may have had a spanking when she got home but somehow, I doubt it. 

Makes me appreciate Cynthia all the more. She can be difficult to live with at times but at least she isn’t stupid.