Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

ANOTHER YEAR DONE AND DUSTED

     This Christmas was the first we had spent sans enfants for twenty years. Jerome had opted to go to  Budapest with his illusive friend Hilary (we still haven’t met her), and Arraminta went off to stay with Candida Boxer. Mrs Boxer was quite adamant that she would be no trouble, but I felt it only fair to ask if they used real candles in the house during the festive season. She answered in the negative, so felt it only fair to let Arraminta go.

We needn’t had worried that our day would be lacking in childish behaviour, however. Crichton and his mother fell out with a vengeance over a needle game of Yahtzee. He should never have accused her of cheating, even though she always does. Granny T claimed five sixes with her last throw. Clearly one of the sixes was only a three but she denied it and swept the dice onto the hearth rug along with my favourite shortbreads, before it could be proved one way or another. Crichton, who had been denied victory threw a tantrum and Granny T and told him to go to his room. He fought back with ‘Gordon was always your favourite!’ and with a stamp of his foot and a bottom lip jutting out almost far enough to land a helicopter, he slammed the door and left me to poor oil onto Granny T’s troubled whatnot. Meantime, Brexit, who had been lying under the coffee table with one eye open, like a croc on the great green greasy Limpopo waiting for a passing gazelle, sneakily swallowed dice and biscuits in one quick gulp. He’s been shitting double sixes ever since.

 

We had all calmed down again by New Year’s Eve and prepared for the triumphal presentation of Crichton’s diary. He seemed smug enough to slap when he showed me it…‘We’ve got her this time,’ he said, ‘Something for every day. I can’t wait to see Bunty’s face when she has to hand over 500 smackers. One day the world may want to read it, like Nancy Mitford or Samuel Peypes.' 

I doubted it but checked it over for missing entries and found none. Although I promised not to read it in depth, I couldn’t resist a peak and was gratified to find that  a)he loves me, b) it was him and not Brexit that ate the remains of the Easter lamb that Cook had been saving to curry up for our bank holiday lunch and c) he has always liked peacocks. All good then.  Like the blessed Virgin, I have treasured up all these things and pondered them in my heart. You never know when such information will come in handy.

We arrived at Bunty and Derek’s to find Inky, Sally, Douglas and Monica, already drinking. A fair sign of a good night to come. The Parkers were invited too for some reason, and perched together on the edge of the sofa, sipping sherry and looking like a re-enactment of Grant Wood’s American Gothic, except that Dolores had on the most hideous pink chiffon gown that would have made even Barbara Cartland look ridiculous.

Dinner was announced and I was relieved to find that haggis appeared only as a canape this year. Bunty insisted on Derek reading the Robbie Burns poem, but as nobody could understand a word he said we just cheered throughout and then sat down to Cock o’leekie soup, Roast pheasant and finished up with Atholl Brose with a honey shortbread…all very Scottish without being indigestible. 

Monica felt that now was the time to thrill us with her accordion. It was hard to decide if she had fulfilled her resolution of learning to play it, and I was sure she'd signed up for the ukulele, but I’ll just say it was a relief she hadn’t committed to  bagpipes.  Inky congratulated her on her rendition of the Marseilles, and for once Douglas stuck up for her and said Inky was a fool. Anyone could tell it was it Roaming in the Gloaming. At which point Monica burst into tears and said she’d been working on Will Ye No Come Back Again for months and they were all being horrid on purpose. 

We all said that we’d been only teasing. She knew we were lying but managed to stop snivelling and asked if we’d like another tune. It would have been mean to refuse, and she set to with The Song of The Clyde to hearty applause as the port went round and the midnight hour approached. 

Bunty rose to her feet, congratulated Monica and turned her attention to Crichton. 

‘Come on then, hand it over,’ she said with outstretched hand, ‘let’s see if you’ve managed to write a decent diary.’

Crichton passed the tome over with a serene smile. ‘I think you’ll find it all present and correct.’

Bunny flicked through the pages and it went round the table for general approval. Putting a brave face on things, she reached for her cheque book (I might have known she wouldn’t have cash), when Derek shouted, ‘Hang on old girl. He hasn’t written anything today.’

How could Crichton have been so stupid? How could I not have noticed?

‘Give it back and I’ll get something down something now,’ he demanded, ‘somebody lend me a pen.’

Strange to say that not one pen could be found. I rummaged in my bag and found a lip stick. I'd was happy to sacrifice my Chanel Rouge Allure Velvet Extreme if it would help, but before he could get the lid off, too late! We heard the chimes of Big Ben ushering in the New Year.

Bunty punched the air and there was much backslapping and cheering among our so-called friends, rejoicing at Crichton’s failure.

‘Double or quits!’ shouted my husband, before I could intervene.

‘Done,’ returned Bunty.

Another year’s worth of diary and a thousand pounds in jeopardy? I am married to a mad man.

And that was that. Auld Lang Syne, more champagne and then we all trooped out into the garden to watch some fireworks going off across the valley. Monica played Agadoo to the best of her ability and we danced on the lawn until the evening broke up around 1.30 with all of us squiffy and with muddy shoes. 

‘Them were well good fireworks, Madam,’ said Stubbins who had been detailed to collect us. ‘Cook and I could see ‘em from the Manor…and hear 'em…’  

I nodded and smiled and tried to stay awake. It’s so lovely to have a driver. Even one who wants to hold a conversation when you are trying not to fall into an alcohol stupor. He soon had us home.

We were about to go up to bed when I noticed that the drawing room door was ajar. I was sure I’d closed it before we left. I could not believe my eyes when I switched on the light. Turmoil. The side table with the alabaster lamp overturned, cushions on the floor and the Knowle sofa or what was left of it ripped to shreds…

   ‘Bugglers,’ hiccoughed Crichton. He put one finger to his lips. ‘Shtay back, my angel. They may be shtill here…’ 

He picked up the poker and promptly fell over in the fire place. It was at this point that Brexit’s head emerged from the innards of the sofa, half quivering and half wagging his joy at a friendly face. 

Then cook appeared in her dressing gown ‘to see what all the promotion was about…’

    ‘I thought that little dog of yours weren’t too keen on the pyrogenics, madam…. Howling his head off earlier, he was. It’s been like llama-gedon, here.’

It would seem Brexit had escaped from the boot room and burrowed into the upholstery out of fright. What a shame he no longer has Trenton to comfort him. The Sausage will never make a gun dog. 

Crichton Comments

Here we go again. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

Bugger!