Wyvern Mote

Tags

Alan Titchmarsh, Alexander Armstrong, Antiques Roadshow, Boris Johnston, Bunny Campione, Bunny Guinness, Cavalier, clay pipe, Gertrude Jekyll, Grinling Gibbons, Henry Moore, herbaceous border, Inigo Jones, King Charles Spaniel, linen fold panelling, Lulu Guinness, Pointless, Pomeranian, pre-nuptial, pre-prandial, Prince William, pug, Rokeby Venus, Roundhead, Songs of Praise, Strictly, stump work, sundial, William the Conqueror

Hi!  It’s Diana again. I’m still here in Suttonford. Sonia had taken us to

Ginevra’s house, as the nonagenarian was allowing Dru to use her tablet

to Google ‘ Wyvern Mote.’  (I must say that a lot more goes on here than in

Bradford-on-Avon.)  That’s why I am moving back to these airts and parts,

I suppose.

Magda, the Eastern European carer, brought tea in for Sonia, Dru and

myself, but not for Ginevra.

She was having something a little stronger.  Early in the day, I thought.

Tell me about your Aunt Augusta, she commanded Dru.  I think that she and

I would have a lot in common.

You do, replied Dru, without taking her eyes off the screen.  You both like

Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.

But she isn’t a grandmother, is she?  I am.

Nevertheless.. Dru’s voice trailed off and then she exclaimed excitedly:

The original earls had Wyvern Mote decorated by Inigo Jones.  There’s a

photo on this site of a portrait of a rather pink and billowy-or is that ‘pillowy’?-

female called Lydia Van Druynk, who is recumbent on some kind of a divan,

like the Rokeby Venus.  She’s surrounded by King Charles Spaniels.

I prefer pugs, or Pomeranians, opined Ginevra.

Dru ignored her as far as she could, considering that she was

borrowing the old girl’s tablet.

It says that the spaniels are significant, as the langorous lady, far from

being inactive, set the said dogs on a Civil War unit, thereafter influencing

and modifying the motto on the Van Druynk coat of arms, which then read:

Begone vile blusterers!

I take it she was on the side of the Cavaliers? said Sonia.  I know all about

that contingent.  As you recall, I have to live with one of them occupying

my attic.  He doesn’t even pay me rent.

And would you call him a considerate house guest otherwise? asked Ginevra.

Not too bad, but I wish he’d take off his boots, as I can hear him pacing up

and down the length of the attic.  He’s a bit of an insomniac, as I am.

I’m surprised that you haven’t exorcised him, commented Diana.

Well, in a funny way he keeps me company, said Sonia.  But I wish he

wouldn’t smoke all these clay pipes and leave the broken shards in my

herbaceous border.  I wrote to Gardeners’ Question Time, but Bunny

Campione just said that the clay detritus probably helps with drainage.

She could have put you in touch with one of those bee keeper types and

they could have smoked him out, suggested Diana.  Like the way they

fumigate greenhouses.  They use a puffer thing.  By the way, I think you

mean Bunny Guinness.

Sonia looked horrified.  But I like my Cavalier, she protested. He’s got

attitude, as they say.

She continued, You know, I always thought these two Bunnies were the same

person- just one amazingly talented woman who knows everything about

groundwork AND stump work. 

Doesn’t one of them make designer handbags as well? Ginevra chipped in.

That’s Lulu Guinness, interposed Dru, who was becoming slightly rattled,

particularly as she couldn’t afford one of these desirable accessories, yet

most of her boarders could.

I’m not criticising gardeners, clarified Sonia.  Gertrude Jekyll is a bit of a

heroine of mine, but nowadays they are not of the same ilk, to use a clan

reference.  I mean, Alan Titchmarsh may be compost mentis, but he simply

doesn’t have such a breadth of cultural knowledge as the two women, even if

he does present Songs of Praise, in my opinion.  They could have that

programme fronted by a Singing Snowman; it’s not particularly challenging.

I don’t think it is meant to be, Diana tried to point out.

(Which Bunny?)

Dru tried to keep the peace.  The motto proliferated onto stair newel

posts, shields on the linen fold panelling and was featured on a particularly

fine lead sundial which was regrettably stolen from The White Garden in 1995.

It was recovered three years later when some idiot brought it to an Antiques

Roadshow and one of the experts remembered its loss had been reported in a

professional journal.

Why was the person who brought it an idiot? asked Diana.

Because he had been the gardener at Wyvern and someone recognised

him, according to this article.  He was put away for a couple of years.

Well, at least it wasn’t melted down for scrap value like some of those

Henry Moores probably have been, ventured Sonia.  Where is all this

information published?

It’s from a Newspaper Archive site.  The article came from ‘The Rochester

Messenger’..Hey! There’s an earlier headline from 1946 which says:

‘Missing Heir Found Safe and Well.’

Read it out, ordered Ginevra.

Dru scanned the front page.  There had been a supposed accident. 

Peregrine, the younger son of the estate had been thought drowned. 

He’d been missing for nearly a week. Estate workers dragged the moat

and searched surrounding woodland.  His mother was frantic.  She had

questioned Lionel, the older boy, but there was something evasive in his

replies.  He had been known to bully his ten year old sibling.

The tutor testified to the police that he had observed Lionel engaging in

what the nasty child called ‘giving the little sprog a good trouncing’ and

the teacher had endeavoured to enlighten his charge regarding his abusive

behaviour. He found the boy intractable.

Lionel even jealously tortured his mother’s favourite pet, a spaniel that was

directly descended from one of the dogs who had sent off the Roundheads and

whose life-like ancestor featured in a lozenge-shaped cameo carved by Grinling

Gibbons over the mantel in the Red Sitting Room.

Sounds like that awful boy that everyone talks about at St Birinus, Ginevra

butted in.  There’s nothing new about bullying.

Dru screeched suddenly: It says that the boys’ mother had no husband to

support her in her grief, as she had been widowed.  She turned to the boys’

tutor, a young man called Anthony Revelly!  He seems to have saved the day.

He is called a hero.

I need a drink, said Ginevra.  Let’s all have a break and you can tell us the

rest after I have had my pre-nuptial.

Prandial, corrected Diana, before she remembered that she was the guest.

Then, Yes, Dru, she advised.  Let’s have a hiatus while we take all this on

board.

Anyway, Ginevra stated.  I want to watch ‘Pointless’ just now.  Magda and I

always like that Armstrong chap.  I wish he’d do the stupid dance though- the

one he did with his friend on his comedy programme.  You’d never think that

he was related to William the Conqueror.  Not when he wore a tank top.

I didn’t know they had tank tops in 1066, said Sonia.  I don’t think they

even had tanks.

Somehow you’d expect someone of that stature to be able to dance more

elegantly, Ginevra persisted.

Who? William the Conqueror? asked Sonia.

Well, him as well, now you mention it.  Mind you, Boris Johnston isn’t that

great a mover and he’s more royal than Prince William and the whole bang

shoot of them.

Boris was jiggling around at the Olympics, if my memory serves me aright.

Not a pretty sight.  Mind you, some of those big ones can be light on their

feet. You see it time and again on ‘Strictly’.  But I don’t think Boris would do

an appearance .  I mean, who would be his partner?  Poor Alyona has had

enough of the weaker candidates. It’s time she was given a winner.

Top me up, Magda!

The rest of the article would have to wait.

Letting Go

Tags

Bath stone, Cavalier, clairvoyance, dv, engagement ring, foreknowledge, foreordination, lacrosse, Memory: Cats, Mother Shipton, noun phrase, poltergeist, Tarot, wedding band, Zen

Diana Fotheringay had removed her rings and was having the stone

in her engagement ring re-set and her wedding band was in

meltdown.  She was now seeing herself as a Free Woman.

In fact, she had made the New Year Resolution to sell her cottage

in Bradford-on-Avon and to move much closer to her daughter and

erstwhile lover.  Consequently her home was now on the market

and had been appraised by a rather posh, but dim representative

from an estate agency.

She could have written the schedule herself and could see immediately

that the description of her home was off-beam and would be guaranteed

to deter any prospective purchaser.  She had to proofread a document

which she was paying someone else to generate.  A sign of the times,

she sighed.  I mean, what is it with the breed that they have to construct

inordinately long noun phrases?!

She read: An absolutely charming, exceptional, sought after, deceptively

spacious, smartly-appointed, versatile, detached Bath Stone, character

cottage…

Could this be her property?  She hardly recognised it.  The lenses of

the camera had made it seem as if it had curved walls- which, in all

honesty, it had.

The vase of lilies on the dining room table looked good and covered the

redcurrant sauce stain which simply would not wash out of her antique

tablecloth.  Really, Augustus was a very messy eater.  It must be that his

table manners were being corrupted by his professional habit of dining

with children.

At least Dru’s harp was no longer in the way and the alcove in the hall

could just about justify its description as an additional study/bedroom.

Anyway, there was no turning back.  It was a good time to sell and she

could put her hand on her heart, like all sellers, and swear that she had

the most wonderfully quiet neighbours and that she had never had a

single altercation with them, not even when their son was learning

the drums.

Now that his pupils came to the house, it was remarkable how there was

always an available parking space.

If the cottage sold in one open weekend, as was being suggested, she

would simply put everything into storage and would go and see her ex-

colleague, Sonia Peascod, in Suttonford.  They’d exchanged Christmas

cards religiously since Sonia’s retirement as Deputy Head at St Vitus’,

which had also been the year of Diana’s confinement.

Sonia was Diana’s daughter’s godmother.  Our vendor felt that

she would be welcome to stay for a week or two until she got on her feet

in a new county.  Sonia was rattling around in that huge Royalist House,

so she would probably welcome some company.  She was getting on and

maybe Diana could take her shopping, or help with the housework.  If

the legalities took longer, she could always offer her some rent.

Sonia had once reminded Diana:  I always foresaw trouble when you

married that picture framer chap.

Diana had snapped:  You didn’t need to be Mother Shipton to see it

coming!

But they hadn’t fallen out over it.  And, in retirement, Sonia had

progressed in her skills of clairvoyance.  At least she thought so.

She even took up Tarot reading.

Diana opened her address book and, just as she was about to contact

Sonia, her phone rang and she nearly knocked over the vase of lilies in

her rush to answer it.  Maybe it was the estate agent!

Sonia here!  Happy New Year!  Long time; no speak.

You must be telepathic, Diana began, before realising that she, of course,

was, in her own opinion, at least.

Of course I am, Sonia laughed. Listen, I haven’t seen you for ages, so why

don’t you come and spend a few days with me? We could go to the new cafe

we have in the town.  That is, weather permitting and DV.

Oh, it’s okay,  Diana reassured her.  I haven’t had that bug.

What bug?

The diarrhoea and vomiting one.

I didn’t suggest that you had.

I thought you said ‘d and v’?

No, replied Sonia, puzzled.  Oh, no.  I meant DV -deo volente.

As a lacrosse teacher, Diana hadn’t required a qualification in

Latin.

I think there was interference on the line, Diana excused herself.

I couldn’t hear you.

Well, can you hear me now?  If you can make it through all the floods

and fords, drive up and stay.  I’ve always got the attic room free

because people are too pathetic to cohabit with the ghost.  But I know

you don’t mind sharing a bed.  You’ve met our resident Cavalier before,

haven’t you?

Diana was not phased by occult presences.  After all, she had coached

a team of weapon-wielding teenagers who were capable of behaviour

which would have made the activity of your average poltegeist seem like

a single Zen hand clap.

There was only one drawback: Diana may have been accustomed to

Sonia’s foreknowledge over the years, but she didn’t want to be the

subject of her fore-ordination.

As for the phantom fugitive from The Battle of Suttonford, sleeping with

him couldn’t be much worse than having to share a bed with Murgatroyd

Syylk.

She replaced the handset and started humming Memory from Cats.  Yes, a

new day had begun.

The Phantom Cavalier

Tags

Carrie, Cavalier, Chlamydia, Clammie, Classic FM, Costamuchamullah, ghosts, Harry Potter, Haunted house, Laughing Cavalier, Madam Blavatsky, Pipesof Pan, Sonia, Suttonford

Clammie passed the well-coiffed woman she privately called Madame Blavatsky almost every morning, after she had deposited the children at school. The woman sat outside Costamuchamullah café in High Street in all weathers, because she was one of the last addicts who smoked openly in Suttonford.

Often Clammie would reckon that she was due some me-time, which usually spread itself over most of the week, so, after indulging herself with- say- an alpaca purchase from Pipes of Pan, the Andean boutique, she would pursue her own addiction, namely a caffeine fix.

So it was that one morning, Clammie came to be sitting opposite the mysterious lady who had graciously removed her shopping bag so that a tired yummy mummy could have a spare seat at her aluminium table.

Normally Clammie wouldn’t have been able to tolerate smoke wafting over, but there were no seats vacant indoors and there was a slight breeze, which was blowing the offensive miasma in someone else’s direction.

I’m sorry. I know that I’ve seen you sitting here for a number of years, but I don’t know your name.  I’m Chlamydia, she volunteered, removing her Mocha out of contamination’s reach.

Madame Blavatsky flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette, perilously close to Clammie’s cup and saucer:

Oh, my name’s Sonia and I’ve been living in Suttonford for aeons.

Clammie asked where exactly in the town she lived.

In the haunted house, darling, – the one with the resident Cavalier.  Not laughing, you understand, but rather fleeing from capture in The Battle of Suttonford. He hid in our attic.

A haunted house?  I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, countered Clammie.

Well, you should, stated Sonia firmly.  I’ve experienced many over the years and, like more corporeal members of the opposite sex, you have to talk nicely to them if you are to co-habit peaceably.  For example, I have to ignore the fact that my resident often plays my instrument.  And no, it’s definitely not a pianola.

What! The Cavalier takes liberties with your instrument?  How very-eh-cavalier.

No, darling.  Pianos weren’t invented when he was around.  He prefers to tinkle my harpsichord.  He is considerably quieter and more mannerly than your modern day Jools Holland, for example.

How do you know that he is responsible and not someone next door, listening to Classic FM?  The wattle and daub is thin and there is no cavity to speak of between the walls in High Street.

I see the keys being depressed, said Sonia with utmost conviction.  Look, I’m a clairvoyant.  Can you come round next Wednesday for afternoon tea, and I’ll prove it?  I’d read your leaves now, but I see that you are having a Mocha.

Privately Clammie thought that if Sonoa was a bit of a soothsayer she should have known the answer, but publicly she replied:

Would you be able to tell me if I will ever live in High Street?

That depends on the leaves.  We can look into that later. But perhaps you will hear the harpsichord.  Sonia laughed at Clammie’s widening eyes.  Royalist House.  Three and three quarters High Street. Don’t fail me. Three o’clock.

She blew a smoke ring around Clammie, so that she had to close her eyes to prevent them from stinging from the ectoplasm.  When she opened them, Sonia had disappeared.  There was only a smouldering butt on the table, from which emanated a curling plume .

Like the feather from a Cavalier’s hat, Carrie mused.  I think I’ve been reading too much ‘Harry Potter’.