Muriel Pulls It Off (6 page)

The ghost of Aunt Alice, (possibly a dyke. That was where Dulcie fitted in: her Aunt Alice had once had fancies for the blood-blistered beast) waited in the long grass. Monopoly tugged at his lead and she was alone with hollyhocks and roses; looking down to water and ducks, to sunshine and vast clumps of borage that bordered the stream. But people flooded in and spoiled the fun. Dawson and Delilah, Arthur the sweetie and other friends from the outer world, if friends they were. People she knew at any rate.

‘Oh, fancies flee away,’ she bellowed to the surprise of a rook that hovered nearby while she made an effort to concentrate on the business in hand.

‘Keep calm,’ she ordered herself. ‘Today is Sunday and I shall make the most of it.’

She listed her duties; tried to fit them in to a consecutive pattern and fussed as to where priorities lay. For a start she would have to talk to
Phyllis and explain that her son and daughter-in-law were unlikely to need breakfast. What about lunch? Then there was the question of church and Dawson’s erudite sermon; the visit to her uncle; the ousting of Marco and Flavia; the telephoning to Mambles; the listing of thoughts and queries to be brought up at the Monday morning meeting with Arthur and the household; the reappearance of Sonia, and the confession of Monopoly’s existence.

She began to rein in the dog. Time was up and she was wet all over – from her feet upwards. Matins must be scrapped. Pity. Had Hugh been around he could have read the lesson loud and strong, clearing his throat from time to time whilst throwing a knowing glance at the interruption of a toddler, a ‘we-know-a-thing-or-two-don’t we-old-chap’ glance.

Churchwarden. Hugh must be sent for. Bonfires in the autumn and badinage with garden boys. There were probably many to have thus coaxed the roses.

What a feeble pair she and Hugh had been. They should have afforded their son unflinching discipline so that he might have been beside her now in the multitude of conundrums that teased her, rather than lying in bed wearing an alcoholic grin in anticipation of riches easily won.

It was time to go in.

She neared the back door, Monopoly now at her side, and they entered the house the way they had left it, to find Dulcie, unnaturally alert for the time of day, beside the cooker. She stared at the drenched,
dressing-gowned
figure of her employer; patron, landlady, owner or whatever.

‘You’ll catch your death and I’m giving you one piece of advice.’ Her tummy stuck out, girder-like; shoulders back and head forward. ‘Don’t go to that Dr Maddock from Ranton. That time when I couldn’t empty my bladder he was useless. Absolutely useless.’

‘Help,’ Muriel shivered, ‘Am I going to have to pierce that too?’

‘And what’s more, I’m letting the cats out in precisely five minutes time so you’d better watch it with that dog of yours.’

Muriel ran to her room where she dried and dressed and, as she did so, blood rushed to her head and dispelled whatever caution that had hitherto held her back. She loathed herself when it came to the matter of vacillations with her son.

She left her room and stormed down the passage to the spare room. In she went and standing in near darkness at the foot of the vast bed, railed
against the two who lay, knotted together, half across it - any old how. She ranted as she told them that they should be up and helping her in her strenuous role. If they wished to benefit from her fortune, they were to behave as adults and provide her with practical aid.

Marco, pyjamaless, features creased, forced himself to face her. ‘Hang on old girl. It’s only nine o’clock. We’re not feeling exactly our best this morning. Touch of ‘flu. I’ll give you something. A calmer. Flave’s got stacks in her sponge bag.’ No sooner had he spoken than his mother charged towards the window. In a trice he was up with a towel about his middle while his wife hid herself in bedding and Muriel continued her remorseless harangue.

‘What am I to do about breakfast? How can I get on top of things with you two raiding the cellar and ogling the silver in front of servants I hardly know by sight? You’ll have to leave as soon as you’ve had a cup of coffee if I’m to get anywhere in this terrifying set-up.’

‘Cool it old girl. You’ve flipped. Go back to bed and me and Flave’ll take over. Roger’s coming for lunch so it’s just as well you woke us. We’ll have to meet him at the nearest station - wherever that may be - as he’s broken his leg and can’t drive. Plaster of Paris and all that. Come to think of it, instead of going back to bed, can you find out about trains while we get dressed?’

‘Roger? He’s the last person I want to touch with a barge-pole.’

Roger wrote for the papers.

‘We rang him last night. After you’d gone to bed.’

So, unless they had made more than one call, there was a chance that she was still safe from Hugh. But did she want to be? Muriel was spent. ‘OK, then, lunch, if there’s anything to eat. And I mean just lunch. You must drive him back to London in the early afternoon.’

‘Steady on old thing. I told him about the cellar. He wants to go through it. He’s doing a piece on undiscovered booze in forgotten country houses. Surely this is just the ticket. He foamed at the mouth when I told him about the Château d’Yquem. He’ll have to have a day or two here if he’s to do the job properly. Useful for us to know exactly what is down there. Might be worth a fortune. God knows how he’ll tackle the steps with his leg in plaster.’

‘Very well for now but, both of you, get dressed and come downstairs.’ She left them.

Flavia, face lined from the stillness of her sleep, rootled to isolate recollections. Marco fell back beside her. ‘Christ! What got into her? The whole thing’s turned her head. I’m going for a bit more shut-eye.’

Flavia fumed. Her hangover was horrible. She had smoked too many cigarettes. She knew she was slack and knew Marco to own a dormant brain. She considered leaving him, joining Alcoholics Anonymous then, illogically, of joining Roger and his animal appeal. She wasn’t well. Not far from vomiting. Every morning now, notwithstanding the amount she had or hadn’t drunk the night before. Marco’s drinking left him with little leaning to romance whereas Roger, however inebriated, seldom faltered in this respect. All the same, of the two, she favoured Marco, in particular with this promise of property.

But Roger had his points. Even when the worse for wear, he wrote his columns and breakfasted at a reasonable hour. For Flavia, nosy by nature, it was Roger’s past involvement with her mother-in-law that intrigued her and carried her one stage further in her dealings with him than instinct willed. The ping that Muriel heard in the night had been Flavia urging Roger to join them. Marco had stood beside her, egging her on. With Flavia feeling seedy he needed Roger to help him knock back bottles.

Flavia kicked Marco. ‘There ought to be breathalysers on telephones.’

‘Come on Flave. It’ll be fun. We’re no good on our own with Ma.’

‘Shouldn’t we try? She can be tricky, though. Roger says she was dreadful to ditch. Whinged and blubbed and nearly topped herself. Poor old bat.’

Marco rose. ‘Let’s get our show on the road. There’s the train to meet and Ma to get round.’ He walked to the window and looked to the haze on the hill.

Muriel stumped down the stairs to find Phyllis in the hall. With a sly stare, she proclaimed, ‘Someone to see you Mrs Cottle.’

A man, clean-shaven, bright-eyed, middle-aged and wearing an evangelical expression, thrust his hand at her and spoke rapidly. ‘My good lady. I’ll start by mentioning that I take an interest in old coins. Anything old. It’s my hobby, you might say.’

She watched him in silence as he rattled on. ‘I use a metal detector and you’d be surprised by the treasure I’ve accumulated. Who plays that?’ His eyes went to the deathly blackness of a grand piano.

‘Might I try it? My mother was an entertainer but she didn’t pass the gift on. I’ve got one tune - or did have.’

‘Did have,’ she judged as he played a few bars from
Home on the Range
with many mistakes.

He sprang from the stool. ‘I come to the point. I’d like to hunt for treasures in your field.’

‘Certainly,’ said Muriel.

With amazed eyes and soothing voice, he told her that she was a truly good woman and promised to share proceeds from any Roman coins or agricultural implements that the detector might uncover in her field with the good lady herself. He told her that he was a member of the Salvation Army and that he lived in a nearby village.

Off he went to detect and Muriel quaked with fear lest she should join the Salvation Army, buy a metal detector or find herself rolling about in a Roman ditch with this unsavoury fellow, as she faced Phyllis’s wrath.

‘Mr Atkins told him time and time again to keep off the land here. Now. Well.’ They glowered at each other as Muriel rapped out the order for another bed to be made up. Then she made for the kitchen in hopes of finding Kitty and to explain about the arrival of Roger in time for lunch. Roger. The utterly appalling - unwelcome at any time anywhere, given any circumstance - Roger.

She walked towards the kitchen, wishing with utmost fervour that things were otherwise. How happy she might have been on that hot day, quietly acquainting herself with the dawn of a new life, enjoying the church service and the excitement of Delilah as local eyes fell upon her. It might have been rewarding to have conquered Phyllis and the rest by careful timing and the use of authoritative manners but she was trapped into disadvantage; handicapped by Marco drooling and issuing invitations to the ultimate loose ender - free to catch a train (even whilst in a plaster cast) on a summer Sunday at the drop of a hat.

Would he make it in time for lunch? Sunday trains? A leer was sure to excite his features as he congratulated her on her newfound wealth, prior to exposing and raiding her cellar.

Roger.

Muriel, during one of her periods of gloom triggered by Hugh’s defection, had tumbled into a fling with Roger. Peter was particularly non-committal and she was under-occupied.

Roger had called in for a browse at Lizzie’s shop during a barren afternoon when Muriel had been in charge there. After her contretemps with the press, she had maintained a certain newsworthiness that had attracted the brute. She particularly resented having to remember this as she found herself in the kitchen telling Kitty that he was to be fed and housed within the day.

Her brief liaison with Roger had been gruesome from start to finish. He had used every opportunity to stupefy or to sponge off her. She recalled vile visits she had made to him in the northern outskirts of London. On the first of these she had driven grimly, willing things to take shape, squinting at a guide to the city streets that slithered on her knee. She had passed through inelegant streets and wondered that Roger had pressed her to visit his quarters. The entrance into the building where he lived was squalid, the front door half-hidden in a jumble of tumbling dustbins and scary pieces of flying paper. Motives for the visit escaped and avoided her but she made up her mind not to linger or to look back. Here she failed and returned to the scene.

Before her finger left the doorbell, she had heard footsteps. Roger wore a blue towelling dressing gown that stopped, short, above his knees. His feet were bare. He kissed her punchily on the lips and propelled her towards a dismal sitting room. Clearly he was not a home bird. Drink, glasses, newspapers and ashtrays but no pot plant or hearthrug. No lamps. Just gleaming light from above. Roger smelt of men’s toiletries. His magnetism was crude, set apart from his person. He carried it about with him in a plastic bag.

The bedroom was cramped and housed little more than a double bed. Its purpose was soon and speedily served. A short night passed before he was up and asking if she wanted a cup of tea. ‘Great that you came round.’ He looked at a battery-operated clock that sat on the floor. ‘A cup of tea and then, I’m afraid, I must be off. Pressure of work. Dearie me. I must get dressed, but do have a bath if you want one.’ There lay Roger’s strength. He was interested only in his next arrangement. Women were dismissed. He knew no shame and his victims lay hell-bent upon improvement or revenge. Nothing less.

He had wished to be deposited from her car in a central part of London. He did not pinpoint the spot but proposed a certain piece of pavement near Hyde Park.

It was horrible having to relive these moments, and Muriel cleared away Roger and all those who had inhabited her head in the garden. She appealed to Kitty.

Kitty said, ‘Of course. That’ll be nice for you. Company,’ when learning that an extra visitor was expected.

Muriel made for the telephone. What could she say to Mambles? She’d have to ring Lizzie and explain her defection from the shop. She dreaded Lizzie’s deadly eagerness. Her nosiness was unstoppable. She was ill at ease when those she knew failed to remain in the slot she allowed them and the slot allowed to Muriel by Lizzie was not that of landowner. Before reaching the instrument, Muriel hummed a tune and sang words firmly under her breath.

‘My story is far too sad to be told

For practically everything leaves me totally cold.’

It occurred to her that her mind was slipping in every direction. It was only a matter of time before she joined Jerome and the, as yet, invisible matron. Marco and Flavia would seize the reins and install Roger as major-domo in charge of liquid refreshment. She urged herself to take a pull. She was in a position of extraordinary power. Chatelaine.

Something warm and wet touched her leg. It was ginger and it startled her. Muriel had almost forgotten Monopoly; had supposed, without fully focusing, that he had wandered away down passages and into rooms and that he was appreciating priceless chattels.

‘Oh Josephine,’ she pleaded. ‘Stay with me for a while.’ Monopoly pushed his head under her hand. Fortified by his unconditional encouragement, she dialled the number of the grace and favour residence and asked to be put through to HRH Princess Matilda.

‘How are things going,’ the morning voice replied, ‘in your horrid house? I can’t make head or tail of what’s going on. You’re here one day and gone the next. What about our rendezvous? Marco rang yesterday to ask where you were. Of course I told him as best I could, but I didn’t understand why he was in the dark. Why the mystery?’