Muriel Pulls It Off

by Susanna Johnston

  Phyllis joined them.

  ‘There you are. We wondered what you were up to.’ Dulcie in command, ‘She’s brought a dog with her. Josephine. I’ve told her it’s just as well it’s a Saturday and Sonia’s not about.’ Muriel lit a cigarette and held it, between puffs, behind her back. Phyllis had perked up since their last meeting and shone bright as a button.

  ‘We’ve prepared the four-poster bed for you. That’s what Mr Atkins would have wished, not that he had any say - poor dear. What about your luggage?’

  Muriel hoped that Monopoly, now Josephine, fared well in her car. Her own luggage rested with his basket in the boot. Arthur went for the case and Muriel told Phyllis that she was pleased to be where she was. She asked after her uncle.

  Phyllis said it was a shame. He knew nobody - not even yours truly, in spite of his promises. She had been to see him most days. He was slipping, she thought. ‘He hasn’t mentioned you Mrs Cottle but then, of course, you weren’t acquainted.’

  Arthur returned with the case and together they ascended the powerful staircase. On the landing Muriel nearly bellowed with joy as she gloated over needlework hangings and Gothic chairs. Rugs from the ancient East piled one upon the other in dark and peaceful gloom, and shadow gave the impression of winter in spite of the heat that dried the earth outside.

  Phyllis led her to the four-poster room where Arthur laid her case upon a stand at the end of the bed.

  Never, Muriel thought, unless I absolutely have to, will I spend a night in any room other than this. What is more the bed is single and has no space in it for Hugh.

  Wax figures under glass domes stood on Chinese cabinets; tapestry curtains, held back by fat tassels, fell in heavy coils to the floor. An ironstone ewer, set in a bowl, was beside her bed. Flavia was certain to freak.

  As for Mambles. There might be problems with Jubilee, but she would be hard to discourage in the face of beauty and comfort; square pillows and fine linen.

  Phyllis explained, ‘Mavis prepared the room. I don’t do housework. I was here to look after Mr Atkins and I shall need to know where I stand. Will he be returning here? I gather it’s up to you. Did he get the opportunity to mention anything about me?’

  Arthur weighed in. ‘Plenty of time for all that, Phyllis. We have a round-table conference here on Monday. You are not to trouble Mrs Cottle for the present.’ Phyllis elected to withdraw.

  Arthur accompanied his new client into the drawing room where, Phyllis had said, tea awaited them and where no fire burned in the vast grate. With the incarceration of Jerome, Dulcie had let herself off the task of humping logs during the heatwave.

  Muriel and Arthur sat down to sandwiches and cake, prepared by God knew who, as Phyllis returned to summon Muriel to the telephone. She jumped, very nearly, out of her thin skin. Who had tracked her down to this forsaken world? She followed Phyllis down a passage to a telephone, picked it up and listened. It was Delilah.

  ‘Welcome. We heard you were here. Dawson and I wondered whether you were up to socialising. I gather you have Arthur with you. Isn’t he a sweetie?’

  Muriel said that she considered Arthur to be a real sweetie and that, alas, she wasn’t up to socialising. Possibly tomorrow.

  ‘That’s Sunday of course. Will you be in church? Dawson’s preaching. I probably shouldn’t say this but his sermons are very brilliant. He’s an academic, you see. Not like me. I’m just the rector’s wife.’

  Muriel promised that she would try to get to church; would keep in touch, loved the place, needed time, needed sleep, was grateful for the attention.

  Back in the drawing room, Arthur warned that things would not be easy. ‘Monday morning. How does that suit you? I’ll get up here at about ten o’clock. I’ll bring a list of everyone on the payroll and we’ll set about defining their duties and so forth.’

  He took his leave and Muriel reached for a sandwich filled with chopped egg. Did she keep chickens?

  The time had come for her to turn her attention to Monopoly. He and his basket were still in the car and it was plain that this situation could not continue. Phyllis reappeared, smothering a sigh and wearing a knowing look that said ‘Is there going to be no peace from now on?’ ‘Telephone again.’

  It was Marco who wailed dementedly ‘I’ve tracked you down.’

  ‘Why?’ his mother answered. Her voice was silvery and light; wispy. Marco didn’t catch her single word.

  ‘Answer for Christ’s sake.’ Her son was drunk.

  ‘Sorry Marco. It’s difficult. Things to sort out. Nothing straightforward.’

  ‘We’ll come and help. We’ll leave now. Flave’s found it on the map. See you in an hour or two.’

  To whom did she apply? Where were they to sleep? What about supper? Resentment overtook her. Whatever unexpected new dawns broke for her she carried her incubi. Marco and Monopoly. Nothing to choose between them. Phyllis hovered, putting two and two together - not that she spoke. She was pleased to note that the disadvantages under which the interloper struggled were busily multiplying.

  ‘My dog.’ Muriel intended to tackle one hurdle at a time. She stood straight and made up her mind, in a flash, to take command. ‘As you know, I have a dog with me. I am going to take him for a run. Will somebody please carry his basket to my bedroom? For the time being he will sleep there with me. When I come in I will have to find something for him to eat. He isn’t fussy. Will you stand by? I’ll need to be shown to the kitchen. Later we can discuss plans for the evening.’

  Monopoly, plaintive and resembling Flavia, was barking in the car. Dulcie stood nearby. ‘I was wondering when you were going to let Josephine out. You’ll have to keep her on a lead. Some of our cats are elderly.’

  A stretch lead, a conjuror’s rope, lay in a car pocket. Muriel attached it to Monopoly’s collar as he pulled. ‘How many cats?’

  ‘Well. I have seven. There’s two belonging to the house. Phyllis has one and there’s the other that Sonia fostered. She lives here and Sonia feeds her weekdays. During weekends she muddles in with mine. Sonia normally pops over in the evenings. That’s to say in summer. She brings a picnic for Tabby, who I call Corin, and they eat it together down by the stream. Won’t take Corin home with her since she lives on a busy road.’

  Eleven cats.

  ‘There’s never been a dog here and we’ve sworn there never would be.’ She fermented against Muriel as one about to strike. ‘So long as you can keep Josephine on a lead until matters are resolved.’

  The knacker’s yard?

  Dulcie snorted and shuffled off; rounding a bend and disappearing. At a run, Monopoly took the entire length of the lead and made for a clump of shrubs that grew, dense and dark, beyond the gravel sweep.

  It was a warm evening and the lawn that spread away from the clump was green and fresh; well cut and sprinkled. It contrasted with the hard, burnt surface that surrounded the nursing home at Shifford. Was Muriel, on her estate, breaking the water laws? Was she eligible for arrest? She felt dejected and guided Monopoly away from the house and down the drive under the ilex trees.

  As they exercised, Monopoly wrestling for freedom, Muriel tried to stifle her rage. Marco had no right to thwart her. Phyllis, who appeared, in the absence of Jerome, to have become her housekeeper, had no right, whatever the grievance, to greet her with ire. She dreaded learning on her return that Mambles, Jubilee, Lizzie and Hugh were also on the rampage; eager for their slices.

  A word with Peter would help.

  A car approached head-on. It was too soon for Marco even if, inebriated, he had driven at a rattling pace. It slowed and Muriel was scrutinised by the smiling lady of the apron and patterned frock who had witnessed Jerome’s departure.

  She spoke in a wonderful way. ‘I’m Kitty. I cook here. We live in the village and I do lunch and dinner. Well, I have done up to now. Phyllis is to see to the breakfast now you’re here - like she did for Mr Atkins. How many will you be? You tell me. Plenty to eat up there - especially at this time of yea
r.’

  With no qualms, Muriel told Kitty that her son and daughter-in-law were on their way and that there were to be three for dinner. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course it’s all right.’ She laughed. ‘That’s lovely for you. It’s your home now. You must do as you please. Do they know up there or should I get Phyllis to help me with the double room? She’ll grumble but don’t take any notice.’

  Kitty left Muriel standing at the end of Monopoly’s lead. Thanks be to heaven for Kitty.

  Nearly six o’clock. Muriel and her husband’s hound walked into the house where Phyllis, disdain pressed into every pleat of her skirt, scowled before them.

  ‘You never told me there were to be two more. Kitty always has to be first with the news. She’s only cook here. I’m housekeeper, having previously been companion and nurse.’

  ‘I didn’t know until an hour ago. I was going to discuss arrangements, as I told you, when I came in from my walk. It happened that I met Kitty on the drive and she asked me, very properly, how many we were to be for dinner.’

  In the dimness, Phyllis’s breath upon her and Phyllis’s gesticulations fanning the air, Muriel craved a biscuit. A Mars bar or a chocolate ice cream would be ideal. Her body hung lumpy and lifeless, in spite of the brief burst of exercise. Her eyes wheeled to a possible perching place.

  A purple and blue armchair, smothered in stitch-work, stood at an angle to the stone fireplace, its skirt touching a long beaded stool.

  ‘Sorry Phyllis. I need to sit down.’ A mighty pain in her stomach warned Muriel that she must ask Phyllis to direct her to a lavatory. She had not noticed a single one since her first appearance at Bradstow. It was remarkable that she had not even been shown a bathroom when ushered to the four-poster bedroom of her dreams; remarkable, considering her bathing habits, that she had not asked for one. Time ran short. ‘Before discussing anything further,’ she began, ‘can you show me to a lavatory?’

  Phyllis waved her arms about; enraging Muriel. They ought to be pinned, by law, against her back - those arms, she thought. As she followed the woman, Muriel wondered if she walked deliberately slowly. The matter was urgent but she didn’t admit it as she strode with tightened buttocks, the pain in her middle gathering momentum. They were in a passage again, the one that followed curves and wiggles to the telephone and off which lay cottagey rooms with latticed windows.

  Muriel was in crisis.

  ‘Hurry. It’s urgent.’ Nothing to be ashamed of. The Queen, in all probability, had the squitters from time to time. Princess Matilda certainly did, as Muriel knew to her cost, for on occasions she had had to cope with the aftermath. Not actually with buckets and cloths but with Mambles’s laments. They ran the last lap and Phyllis pushed past her to open a china-handled panelled door. A mahogany lavatory was revealed and Muriel hurled off the wooden lid which spun and clanked upon the flagged flooring. The whole contraption was a work of art; the china, the chain, the warmth of the wood.

  Phyllis waited outside and Muriel heard her fidgeting as she ran the basin tap to muffle her sounds. Never, normally, did she suffer in this way. She flushed away the confusions of the last week, stood tall once again and inspected her face in the mirror; flicking at her hair with both hands. Her inside subsided and she stalked out into the passage; keen to show poise. Making no mention of discomfort, she suggested to Phyllis that they return to the hall to resume their administrative talk. ‘As you know, I am in ignorance of everything here. I am relying on all of you and on Mr Stiller, who will be here on Monday morning, to explain things to me and to the household. Meanwhile I have to take charge. That is the way it is.’

  Was Dawson deep in prayer as he brewed his own beer and as Delilah planned her socialising calendar?

  Phyllis replied, ‘Very well. What are the orders?’

  ‘I want a room prepared for my son and daughter-in-law who will,’ she glared at her watch, ‘be here in an hour or so. Dinner for three - no matter how simple - at about eight-fifteen, if that suits Kitty. Drinks before that. Where are the drinks normally set out?’

  ‘Never. Mr Atkins didn’t indulge and he’d sooner others didn’t when they came.’ She was not to be humbled or crushed.

  ‘Perhaps there are no drinks, then, in the house?’

  ‘There’s the cellar. That’s stacked. Has been since the start of time.’

  Whew.

  Muriel asked to be taken to the kitchen. A word with Kitty would cheer her up. The kitchen was unappealing; grey and white and smelling fridgey. The floor was covered in ice-cold linoleum and the surfaces with chipped Formica.

  Aunt Alice, she supposed, had done it over when the war ended and servants came flooding back.

  She resolved not to involve herself with the history of the house or the habits of its previous owners or to fall into traps. She did not wish to transform into a dyke in grateful memory of Aunt Alice. Anything was possible.

  In the kitchen Kitty rolled a pin upon the table, extolling the delights of having someone to cook for once again. Mr Atkins had done no more than pick.

  Muriel, with her stomach in a shaky state, did not attend to the details of the meal that Kitty was about to cook. She explained to the women present that she hoped they would all be able to muddle through until Monday, and wished to heaven that Phyllis would disappear. When she did no such thing, Muriel gave her the slip and went to her bedroom. On the bed she lay, aching in the middle, wishing that Monopoly didn’t occupy a corner of the room and that Marco and Flavia were not on their way and hoping that they had not alerted Hugh. In the morning she must ring Mambles and Lizzie, if ever she could retrace her steps to the telephone.

  She decided to tell them how foul it was; antiquated, de-alcoholised, haunted…..

  Mind indistinct and mingled, she fell asleep, her head on a square pillow.

  Chapter 6

  Marco in merry mood, stood at the foot of the four-poster bed. ‘Wake up. Flave’s in the bath. What a bath. Animal feet and all. Everything’s in control. I found an old hermaphrodite who showed me to the cellar. Full of it. Amazing stuff. This place really is the answer. Flave’s speechless. I’ve arranged drinks with the help of the hermaphrodite. I think she’s quite enjoying herself - says nobody’s been down there for at least fifteen years.’

  ‘Marco!’

  Muriel sprang up and slipped on skirt and shoes and more besides. Then and there she decided not to admonish her boy, for was he not just what she needed? It would have taken another fifteen years to summon the courage to order Dulcie.

  Marco was beside himself; wild in appreciation of the wonders of Bradstow. Wondering, his mother surmised, when she planned to expire. To drop off her perch. Whatever else, he had taste, style or whatnot. And panache too; wit, charm and mastery. She must carry him along with her.

  Jerome, at least, lay in ignorance of the upheavals that were taking place under his vacated Elizabethan eaves.

  ‘Hi Monopoly. How does this suit you? Not bad eh? Ma. I’m going for a bath after Flave. Downstairs in half an hour for treats from the cellar.’

  Muriel, too, intended to take a bath. What about hot water? Her passion. Was it in superabundance?

  They met in the drawing room. Flavia cooed, ‘Hi Chick. What a place.’

  Marco stood, a lively conductor, behind a tray of drinks and glasses, picking up bottle after bottle and reading from foxed labels. Holding one up, he whistled, ‘Look at this. Château Laville Haut-Brion. Phew!’

  He rolled his eyes and danced upon his feet. ‘I’m saving the champagne until tomorrow. Veuve Clicquot. Ancient, flat and brown. Any Yanks in the neighbourhood? We could make a real scene with it. Dulcie has stacked some in the fridge. Time you got a new one by the way.’

  Flavia battled with a French window as Muriel accepted a glass of red Bordeaux from her son who went for whisky; contents of a bottle he had brought with him from London. Just in case.

  Glass in hand he followed Flavia through the French window, calling back
that they planned to explore. Muriel was alone with her distinctly sweet and fruity wine, hoping that, in its antiquity, it would not disturb her stomach further. At least she knew where to find a lavatory.

  As she sat the door flew open and Dulcie, an abomination, advanced holding a Stanley knife; a short, blunt, squat object that she shoved into Muriel’s hand. With that she sat beside her on the sofa and wheezed, ‘I’ve got a blood blister in my mouth. Pierce it,’ and opened her mouth inordinately wide.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Stupid woman. Go on. Pierce it.’

  ‘I might cut an artery.’ She looked into the darkness of Dulcie’s mouth and saw a huge red lump, larger than a ping-pong ball, encased in papery skin. It took up all available space and Dulcie’s voice dwindled as she ordered, for the third time, ‘Pierce it.’

  Having set her glass down on a table, Muriel stabbed at the balloon. Blood spattered out upon her, covering hands and arms, shirt, skirt and shoes. It also flew in blobs onto the sofa in its priceless casing as Muriel seized upon a crewelwork cushion and clamped it over the source of the flood, obscuring Dulcie’s face and knocking askew her bifocals.

  Manslaughter? Hangdog, she presented herself in the dock. ‘Do you mean to say, Mrs Cottle, that you, totally inexperienced in medical matters, plunged this knife into the mouth of one of your domestic staff?’

  Inexperienced? She had taken a first-aid course.

  But Dulcie was alive, holding the crewelwork cushion to her mouth and blundering out of the room. Muriel held the damp knife and looked down upon the dripping redness of her clothing. Up she went to change. God knew what the gyrating Phyllis was to suspect. First diarrhoea. Now haemorrhage.