I enjoyed a day trip to York again and saw a place I had never visited before. The Treasurer's House was lovingly created in the 1920s by the son of a Wakefield industrialist, all in his own unique vision of what would suit a recreation of both medieval, Jacobean and 18th century rooms. The place is full of an eclectic mix of beautiful, highly expensive furniture and hand-crafted talking points (such as the bone and wood ship created by Napoleonic war prisoners). An unusual man, Mr Green was noted for his fine appearance. And so it ought to have been. He changed his clothes three times a day, bed linen every day, and had laundry shipped off to London once a week. A relief, no doubt, to his staff.
He believed a rich man's collection should not be a museum but available to all to see, and so when he gave it to the National Trust, it was on the basis of guided small tours for full enjoyment. His eccentricity included saying that if anything was ever moved, he would know, and come back to haunt them. He lived to 92, retired down south eventually, and would sent occasional letters of reproof that it had come to his notice something had been moved and must be replaced as was forthwith! He had a witch ball to ward off evil spirits, and given that he hung a portrait of Charles 1st over a table bought from a leading Cromwellian's relative, a Fairfax aunt, if I recall aright, perhaps had good reason to do so!
The medieval banqueting hall is an entire house he took the floors out of as he wanted, not a real one, but one on the grand scale he envisaged himself. You can find The Treasurer's House beside the Minster, where once the Minster's Treasurer's House stood before Henry the Eighth despoiled all the Minster's wealth. An enchantingly unusual place. Don't forget to book a tour, though, as Mr Green won't have people wandering in willy nilly chatting and strolling about his domain!
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.