Muriel Pulls It Off

by Susanna Johnston

  As she peeled off her clothing she noticed that somebody had unpacked her things, and that Monopoly, curled up in his basket, cared not a whit for her bloody appearance. Were dogs the answer? Was it not an asset to share a room with one so infinitely more helpless, and idiotic even, than oneself?

  Monopoly’s head drooped over the wicker lip of his basket.

  The door opened and in came Dulcie. ‘Have you still got that knife I lent you?’

  Until a moment earlier Muriel had been clasping it. Only as she changed her clothes had she put it down on the table by her bed. She picked it up and showed it off; proving reliability.

  ‘Pierce it. It’s come up again.’ Her voice was steady, if muffled, and told that the need was immediate. She sat on a curving, carved stool and commanded, ‘Go on. Pierce it.’

  This time Muriel acted fast. The habit of piercing blood blisters in mouths had formed and caused her no further bother. In went the knife and out poured blood, re-sousing Muriel’s clothes and a hand-stitched rug with a pattern of roses on a grey-pink background.

  After the second piercing, Dulcie snatched a hand towel from a wooden horse standing in the corner of the bedroom alongside a painted wardrobe. She clapped it to her face and tripped, almost youthfully, from the room without making any signal to her new employer, if that, indeed, was Muriel’s role in her life.

  Was Dulcie a member of staff?

  One of Muriel’s myrmidons?

  For the second time the lady of the manor dressed for dinner and fussed about the rug. She fussed, too, about her stained garments. No washing basket in evidence.

  Leaving the bloody bundle behind a free-standing looking glass, she warned Monopoly not to nose, then found her way back to the drawing room.

  Marco and Flavia had cut short their exploratory trip from the need to refill their glasses, and Muriel told them of her piercing sessions. Flavia squealed, ‘What an absolute scream.’

  Up to a point, thought Muriel, pleased to entertain.

  The dining room, in Muriel’s eye, took the cake for sparkling wonder.

  Paintings of the early seventeenth century trapped in coarse wooden frames covered walls already half-hidden by discoloured Voiseyesque paper.

  Candles, branching from neglected silver, filtered light across the table as Marco suggested, ‘We can get one of your nutters to shine these up for your first major gala.’ His mother hid a heave. Galas. Shimmering silver, fine wines with faded dates upon the bottles. As ever, Marco was running before he could walk and, as ever, with the use of Muriel’s legs.

  Flavia said, ‘They’d give their eyes to photograph this for Interiors.’

  Marco, behind her, ‘Why not Ma? Rather fun. We could spill the beans to father that way. Airmail him a copy. Muriel Cottle, owner of Bradstow Manor. Bet it’s Grade 1 and all that.’

  Muriel wanted to enjoy herself, but in her queasy stomach, a knot formed.

  She wanted no help: no advice, no stamping, no pressures upon her. She wanted the waves of pleasure to spread over her one by one. She wished to be the sole owner of her stately home, to exercise the authority it demanded. She wanted to boss her son and his wife about; to tell them that breakfast was to be served at nine o’clock the following morning and that they were expected to partake, fully dressed, at that hour. She had no power to do this. She knew nothing of breakfast.

  An uncompromising hatch, possibly another of Aunt Alice’s innovations, connected the dining room with the kitchen. Kitty maintained jolly contact through the opening - despatching full and excellent dishes and scooping away empty ones as soon as fielded by Marco who, unsteadily, proclaimed, ‘We’ll have to block in that awful thingumajig and slap some of your slaves into uniform. I’d like to see that Dulcie creature in livery.’

  Flavia shone and giggled as Muriel’s energy dribbled away.

  ‘Kitty is the answer though. Nothing the matter with this fodder or, that’s to say, nothing that a bit of whipping into shape won’t remedy.’

  Muriel knew that her boy was drunk and that Flavia had entered a private heaven in anticipation of inheritance. She, who had not long before called her ‘Chick’ and offered her the use of an eyebrow pencil, thought to a future in which Muriel’s remains lay gnarled in a buried box.

  Kitty’s head appeared mid-hatch. ‘Coffee in the dining room or next door, Mrs Cottle?’ It was deliberate, Muriel knew, that Kitty addressed her and not her son.

  Marco replied, ‘Drawing room, Kitty, and what about liqueurs? I found a bottle of something celestial in the cellar. Vintage port - but are there any proper glasses?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know.’

  Muriel took to her feet and, staring sternly at Marco, said, ‘Enough for tonight. I’ll leave you two to drink your coffee and whatever else. Please, though, don’t make any more discoveries or issue any orders.’ Her voice was sharp and came as though from another corner of the room, from the clock or from the chandelier. ‘Tomorrow,’ she continued, ‘I will try to get to the bottom of things. You two are jumping the gun. I may not even be able to keep this place. For all I know it belongs to The National Trust, Heritage or something.’ She belted out each word at concert pitch. Marco, in his cups, whitened. ‘OK Ma. We’ll go quietly.’

  As she prepared for the night she knew that, whatever else, the morning was hers to play with. The young ones were certain to sit late over port, with or without the appropriate glasses, and were sure to sleep until midday at the earliest. She would be up betimes to keep ahead of them; to plot for their departure, to convince them that the hurdles ahead were insurmountable. As she fell into sleep she believed she heard distant voices and the ping of a telephone bell and suspected Marco of ringing Hugh. Or friends perhaps; fellow idlers invited to celebrate.

  Dulcie must turn on them wielding a Stanley knife. She would plant Sonia on the carpet before Marco and order her to beseech him to spare her mistress. Phyllis would put them in their places.

  It was seven o’clock and another stupefying day promised through mist. ‘Come along Josephine. She bent to rouse Monopoly who slept in his basket and who had, up to the present, behaved in exemplary fashion given the unexpectedness of events.

  Wearing the Queen’s dressing gown, Monopoly’s flexible lead in her pocket, Muriel encouraged the dog to follow her onto the murky landing. Down the stairs they trod, enemies at heart but accomplices now since Monopoly had conducted himself far more conveniently than had her son. He had not disgraced her nor, in these new surroundings, had he hunted for Hugh.

  Hugh. That ping she had heard in the night.

  In the hall Muriel was nonplussed. It was dark and shuttered and she had no knowledge as to where she might find a light switch. The dog was beside her and, to her amazement, she heard herself addressing him tenderly. ‘Oh Monopoly. What shall we do? I know you want to go out.’

  It was not completely dark and the form of a window appeared before her eyes. She pulled aside a curtain and prised open a shutter, and then, in a state of euphoria, went on to draw back more curtains and unlatch more shutters in all of the windows.

  But how were they going to get out? The solid door was locked and no key showed itself. Nothing stirred in the house and Muriel, pained to accept herself imprisoned with Marco, Flavia and God knew who else besides, bent to touch Monopoly; plucking at the flesh on his neck before pinching it into a hard, furry, tube-like band which she fondled between her fingers. She suggested to him that they search for a back door.

  It was nearly seven-thirty when they found Phyllis waiting for them on the chill of the linoleum. Her eyes were hard and Muriel was close to fainting as she read the woman’s mind. ‘Phyllis. I must go out. Monopoly needs a run.’

  Phyllis’s face was taut and merciless, her expression pained. ‘I daresay he does. It’s normally me, by the way, who opens the shutters.’ She led them to a door beyond the kitchen which ran out onto a flight of stairs that descended to a utility room. A clothes rack supporting damp towels and
the odd thick sock, property of Jerome Atkins, was wound high to touch the ceiling and a barrow piled with logs stood alongside an antiquated refrigerator.

  Muriel and her dog paused before pushing open yet another door that led into a barn-like space, cobwebbed and dark, sheltering a wondrous supply of fire wood; kindling, branches, trunks and twigs. House martins nested on beams and dropped their waste any old where.

  Phyllis had left them to fend for themselves knowing full well that the room was unlit and the outer door hard to reach.

  Muriel pulled Monopoly to her and clipped on his lead. It would not do to risk a solecism in the cat kingdom and complicate a day that already promised badly. She was not to know that Dulcie and her cats were slugabeds, and at that early hour Monopoly’s whims would pass unnoticed.

  As the sun rose and the mist cleared, Muriel, slippers dampening in the dew, led the dog past the maimed walnut tree. From there she walked northwards in line with a high hedge that preluded a dip beyond, approachable by a flight of stone steps. Down these steps her slippers flapped, Monopoly tugging as he nosed not far ahead. She found herself in an enclosure of flower beds. It had not occurred to her that she might, at the age of fifty-four, inherit a flower garden.

  Red, pink and white roses, some as chunky as cabbages, grew amongst phlox, tall hollyhocks, tobacco plants and snapdragons. Climbers in silvery suits tussled in apple trees, intertwining themselves with small fruits showing bright in yellow, green and red.

  Muriel returned to the steps and sat down, deciding to explore no further for the present but to ponder, among the roses, and try to decide how the hell to conduct herself in her new milieu. Monopoly lolloped to the end of his allowance of lead. Perhaps, she mused, to skin a cat. Can’t be helped. Then, with a ghastly jerk of her brain, she recognised that Mambles was on her mind. They had agreed to a meeting but Muriel had forgotten when or where it was supposed to take place. She was eligible for a rocket and knew that wisdom lay in telephoning Kensington Palace. Not that she wanted to. Far from it.

  She must curb Marco and Flavia. Nose in a rose, she moaned, ‘How do I play it with Hugh? Do I or do I not wish for his return? Again she remembered the late-night ping. What was more, she knew that she must visit Jerome. It would not look good were she to neglect him now that her son had dipped into his cellar. She asked herself, as she shook her head, why it had to be populated with people. Surely they would disperse, these people on her mind, in the midst of beauty but no sooner did she rid herself of one than another forced its way in to gain supremacy.

  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.’