W A R W I C K E M B U R Y.
What a fabulous name that so befitted such a fabulous man!
I first met Warwick during his sale of a van to my parents Kevin and Eileen, fellow antique dealers and kindred spirits – and I instantly liked him. I was probably about 17 or so and was fascinated by this flamboyant and charismatic guy with his mane of coiffed hair and matching silk scarf. He was the sort of person whose presence demanded attention – but in the most good humoured of ways. He simply had it; an indefinable quality that made you want to engage with him and be in his company. The protracted and entertaining sale was negotiated over the course of a day, exchanging stories and anecdotes, accompanied by endless cups of coffee, cake and some very odd smelling cigarettes.. In the end, a deal was brokered involving cash – and a very ostentatious French gilt console table that hadn’t managed to find a client (or victim as Warwick liked to refer to them…). Warwick exclaimed that it was ” just my taste darling – very tart’s boudoir!” The deal was done. The raison d’etre for his visit, with his gorgeous wife Jo and daughter Chantelle became peripheral in the end but ignited a fabulous friendship that lasted from then until he prematurely departed this world, leaving many vivid and happy memories with those of us that were blessed to have counted him as a good friend.
Over the years there were many fun moments, whether it was an impromptu arrival on his way back from somewhere with a couple of bohemian types in tow for breakfast, or watching him “perform” at an antiques fair; there was never a dull moment with Warwick around. Often he would come out with the most outrageous things, at seemingly the most inappropriate of times, but his delivery and grin was always such that he got away with it!
He had an adoring entourage that travelled with him to the antiques fairs which included Jo in the role of Set Dresser, Mick as The Restorer and Eileen as The Sales Assistant. On one occasion, he told them he was going to stump up for a room at the hotel the night before the fair but then told Eileen she was sleeping in the bath of the ensuite! The following morning we joined him for breakfast but when it came to settling the bill, he informed the server that he was the antiques fair organiser, to put it on the room tab and that he was staying in the Presidential Suite… followed by a mischievous glance and a wink, explaining that “last night was all a blur up there darling …!” Another such occasion was at an antiques fair in Cork where a very stern and conservative looking lady asked him to tell her something about a bed he had on his stand, to which he replied “Shall I tell you darling (a preamble to many of his great one liners..) could you imagine anything better than being tied to this bed with white silk handkerchiefs, whilst a young girl in a Nazi uniform beat your bare behind?!” Oh sweet Jesus I thought, he’s misjudged this and it’s not going to end well. There was a moment of hesitancy and uncertainty, as this seemingly uptight and conservative prospective customer processed the visual imagery of the alarming proposition she had just heard, before her stony face cracked and she erupted into the most raucous laughter! She didn’t end up buying into the dream by purchasing the bed but Warwick somehow managed to cajole her into buying a lamp that he told her was “Jewish Renaissance” in style – something she understood to be a niche stylistic movement, but which was Warwick’s stock term for anything he deemed to be devoid of any aesthetic merit….
Warwick had an insatiable and incorrigible appetite for fun and found endless ways to entertain himself and others in the most mundane of situations. At another antiques fair, a rather smug lady was directed to him for an appraisal on a vase she had inherited and considered to be quite special. He took it from her gently and examined it in some detail. He took great delight from her hanging on his every word and facial expression – and played up to it mercilessly! After some time, whipping up her expectations into a tense crescendo, he pronounced his verdict in an Antiques Roadshow style delivery, asking what she currently had it insured for. She babbled on before he interrupted her and said “Have you any idea what we actually have here?” to which she replied that she hadn’t. “Absolutely fucking nothing… worthless in fact … but thanks so much for bringing it in!”
On another occasion he convinced me he’d seen a flying saucer whilst crossing over the Vee on his way back to Tallow early one morning. He explained that he was happily driving along and all was well with the world – when suddenly everything appeared in vivid colours and a large dark disc hovered briefly and then shot way into the distance when he put on the brakes. It was only when he stopped the big white Volvo estate and got out to take a better look that he realised that the sheep also looked rather colourful and that the flying saucer turned out to be the top of a big circular table that had become loose on the roof rack and shot off the roof of the Volvo into a field as he slowed sharply… “Damned mushrooms darling…!”
Then there was the story of the stool. Not an elegant duet stool or foot stool as you would imagine this story to be referring to, especially given that Warwick was an antiques dealer of some note, but the type that is generally not spoken of. He recalled that he was in the doctors one particular day and was asked to provide a sample of the aforementioned unmentionable. He was duly furnished with a receptacle and what he referred to as a “small mustard spoon”. Many people would approach this awkward task in a particular fashion, realising the purpose of the equipment provided, which would, in theory, indicate the method to be used. Not Warwick. He concluded the story by saying that when the doctor returned, he was somewhat embarrassed, trying in vain to locate and retrieve the “mustard spoon” from his derriere after misplacing it whilst trying to complete the task!
His artistic temperament also excused some of his hilariously demanding behaviour, which was an intrinsic part of his larger than life character. Jo, unerringly saint-like in her devotion and understanding when he would ask “Darling, more pate please?” or “Darling, can we get Mabu (his fictional, long suffering housemaid) to bring more coffee please?”, would calm him down and reply saying “Of course darling, I’ll put it on my list…”. I said to him on many occasions that I was convinced that Jo must have killed somebody and he was the only person who knew, such was her patience! Warwick was always a fan of delegation, seeing no good reason to do something himself, when there was somebody he could charm into doing it for him!
I also have Warwick to thank for my introduction to and abiding passion for all things Gothic – he positively influenced and developed my aesthetic sensibilities and I still have a passion for all things Gothic today, including my somewhat eccentric home which is a converted church. I’m glad he got to see much of the initial restoration work completed, but lament the fact that he never got to see it finished. He was one of the few people who would get it and whose opinion I geatly valued. I remember his visit, not long before he passed, striding up the drive, shouting with gusto “Darling, can you send someone to fetch the luggage? Just park me up somewhere in a sunny south facing room like a good chap!” In retrospect, Warwick would have fitted in very well here amongst the artistic boho set in Thomastown. He knew and was highly regarded by many people here, including the late John Martyn who invited him to jam with him – something which Warwick relished, validating his musical prowess.
When it came to introducing my new “girlfriend” Clive to Warwick when visiting him in hospital in Waterford, he could see I was a little nervous but put me at ease with his typical wit and irreverence, exclaiming “I always knew darling – but it took you a while longer to figure out whether you were Arthur or Martha!”, a line he delivered with impeccable timing and inimitable theatrical camp.
Terry Pratchett once wryly observed of premature death “Don’t think of it as dying …. just think of it as leaving early to avoid the rush…” a statement I think could easily have been uttered by Warwick.
There was only one Warwick Embury. It was a privilege to have known him.
Kerry Mullaly
April 10th 2015