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?’
So that was it. Under pressure she had given Mambles the general particulars of her whereabouts. ‘Is there something fishy about it? Mummy keeps asking.’
Her voice soared and stretched as Monopoly lay quiet at Muriel’s feet with his paws wrapped around her bare ankles. His presence kept her steady as Mambles continued, ‘I’m having such a horrid time and you’re no help at all.’ She was officially angry. ‘That dreary old Cunty is coming to lunch today and I always count on you when she insists on barging in.’
Muriel winced, as she always did, when Mambles spoke of Cunty. Cunty had been Mambles’s governess. Her real name was Miss Crunthard and the royal family, much given to the dishing out of nicknames, had christened her Cunty early in her employment. The pet name had come about, in part, owing to the inability of King George VI to pronounce his r’s.
Nobody, not even Miss Crunthard herself, had ever dared to protest and, on the whole, friends of the family had swallowed the awkwardness without too many a snigger, and the old brigade queried it no more. Muriel, though, could never quite accustom herself to the indignity silently suffered by the ageing governess.
‘You know how tedious Cunty is, always going on about my first trip on the underground.’
Muriel, revelling in a hot lick from the curled-up dog, broke in. ‘I’m sorry about Cunty but it’s difficult here. I need a while to take it all in. As I told you, the old man isn’t even a relation and it has all fallen on me out of the blue. He’s not dead. Just off his trolley.’
As she said this she realised that something blocked the light and that she was in near darkness. Wheezing drowned Monopoly’s soft breathing and Muriel looked to her left. It was Dulcie who had cast the shadow and Dulcie who showed no respect for the fact that Muriel was engaged in conversation. She spoke loudly to gain ground. ‘For a start, I would not say that Mr Atkins was off his trolley, and when you have finished with that damned machine, I want to ring the health centre about that knife you stuck in my mouth last evening.’
Dulcie’s huge, hard stomach was hideously close and Muriel, with her free hand, pushed forcefully at it and said, ‘Go away. Can’t you see I’m talking?’
Dulcie spluttered. ‘There’s one thing I will not tolerate and that is physical violence.’ She let loose an expletive but, to Muriel’s astonishment, charged off in the direction of the kitchen.
Returning to Mambles, Muriel explained about the hiccup. Then, ‘Where was I? Yes. Off his trolley.’
Mambles whined for a while and held tight to her determination to harass her friend into issuing an invitation for, apart from her date with Cunty, she was at a loose end. Like Roger.
Muriel relented and told Mambles that she could come for one night. Wednesday night, with Jubilee, chauffeur, maid and God knew what. Dulcie must practise her curtsey.
Marco and Flavia had not resurfaced, as far as she knew, and she decided to tackle Lizzie before events overtook her. Lizzie was frightfully cross. She had not been dropped more than a hint by Muriel - a hint relayed by Peter with a wispy word about ‘property’. Her voice was staccato and Muriel could almost hear the tic-tic-tic of her high-heeled shoe as she tapped it against the marbleised linoleum in her hall.
‘I’m sorry.’ Lizzie nearly always started a sentence with ‘I’m sorry’. ‘I’m sorry but you’ve got to tell me what you’re up to.’
Muriel spoke softly as there was no knowing when Dulcie might steal up beside her. As well as she was able, she encapsulated her tale; it was not an easy one to synthesise.
‘So. Are you frightfully rich?’
Muriel chested her cards.
‘No, but, seriously, how much? Is it a proper estate? Will you be seriously rich like Lupin and Madge?’
‘God knows.’
‘Well. I’m selling the shop. It’s worth thousands, so when the deal goes through, I’ll have masses of lovely money too, like you.’ A little laugh. A little ‘aren’t-we-all-awful’ laugh.
Lizzie possessed a sharp, quick brightness and quantities of sex appeal. Age appeal too. Muriel’s father had thought the world of her. ‘So responsive,’ he would say as Lizzie left her scent behind her in the air. Jerome was certain to fall for her. Better not let Lizzie loose in the geriatric wing.
Muriel, not perfectly confident, cried, ‘Please Lizzie. Don’t. I’m distraught.’
‘I can’t say that I’m sorry for you. Still. Once I’ve sold the shop, I’ll be able to hold my own.’
‘Your tongue. Hold that,’ Muriel said to herself but, for Lizzie, she tried a burst of hollow laughter. ‘You will indeed.’
At least she was not to be faced with the complication of extricating herself from helping in the shop. But Lizzie with nothing to do! Another loose ender! Then came the words, ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to come and see. When would be best for you?’
Best? Marco, Flavia, Mambles, Roger and now Lizzie.
‘What about the weekend?’Muriel fervently hoped to have ousted the others by then.
As she broke off she heard noises in the hall. Marco and Flavia, dressed to the nines in summer wear, appeared agog; lively and eager.
‘Hi Ma. Have you chilled out? What about breakfast? Have you found a train for Roger yet?’
It was past ten o’clock and the matter was urgent if Roger were to lunch, however late, at Bradstow Manor.
‘Look Marco. Do it yourself. I’m frantic.’
Barbarism ate at her sensitivities. A roughness of revenge, long hidden, took charge of her every instinct. She was a mouse that had learnt how to bite.
‘Go to the kitchen and ask Kitty for a cup of coffee. Breakfast is off.’
Dulcie stood indefatigably amongst them. ‘Coffee’s off too. Cooker’s gone out and as for trains….’ She knew the timetables by heart; back to front. Not that she had ever travelled. Sundays, holidays, changes in the clock. She spouted as she looked at the ceiling. Marco jumped at one of the trains that she mentioned; one that could transport Roger to the local station by one-thirty. That would fit, given leeway with a late luncheon. ‘I’ll ring him now,’ said Marco, pleased to be acting with efficiency.
Flavia faced her mother-in-law. ‘So, Chick. What got into you this morning?’ She gave Muriel a hug as one bestowing forgiveness. ‘Cheer up. You don’t mind about Roger any more. You told me so yourself. After all, you introduced us to the guy in the first place. We could hardly help it if we became friends.’ Muriel was being blamed and it was most unjust.
Flavia was twisting things; laying everything at the door of Muriel’s misery, when the feckless Roger of her shame had been so warmly taken up by her son. Tears formed in her eyes as she turned away. They would never cease to torture her. Dulcie had followed Marco to the telephone lest he needed prompting when it came to train times, and Muriel explained to Flavia that she and Monopoly were going out for an hour or two. They were to visit Mr Atkins. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ She sighed and hoped that her words would show Flavia that there were strings attached. Flavia merely replied, ‘Righto. I’m going to do some mega exploring. Wheee.’
She pirouetted in her pretty frock.
Back at the bin, Muriel left Monopoly in the car; thinking to open a window. She walked into the hall to find it unmanned and wondered whether, on a Sunday, they were short-staffed. She passed the deserted reception desk and went on down towards a wide passage where kidney bowls and dressings lined the walls, but no nurse, most certainly nobody gorgeous, came to greet her. She had learned from Arthur that there were both wards and private rooms in this hospital and that Jerome occupied one of the private ones at great expense. (Great expense? So quick to be totting up her outgoings.)
Dawdling down the passage she looked to the left and then to the right in the hope of spotting her benefactor through the glass. Half way along, through an open door and in a cubicle, she saw him. He wore a dressing gown and slippers and sat in the clanking chair in which he had been wheeled away the week before. His head was slumped forward to rest on his chest. His hands, both chalky white, clasped at the rails. A motionless tableau.
Muriel tiptoed towards him and touched a hand. He blinked and jerked his head up to face her. She felt sick. Slowly he loosened his grip on the arm of the chair and held out one hand to her. This she took whilst bending down to put herself at his level. She looked into his face and said, ‘I’ve come to visit you.’ No answer. As she continued to look at him she noticed that his teeth were larger than she remembered and that the top row stuck out over his lower lip so that his mouth was not exactly open as she had first believed. His hair had been smarmed down and his head appeared smaller than it had on the day of their one and only meeting.
As she held his hand she began to wonder if she had entered the right cubicle. Most certainly she would not, under any other circumstances, have recognised him.
‘Is there anything you need?’ she asked, as the pressure of his hand increased but remained feeble. Muriel was convinced that he was smaller than the man she knew by sight; that he came from a different mould. She was not inclined to waste a morning chatting up someone else’s uncle - not that he was hers. It would be a complete was
te of time. If, on the other hand, he was Jerome, it would be appropriate to stick it out a bit longer.
She unwound her hand and left him alone while she searched for somebody in authority. Again the passages were empty, but when she reached the hall she met a big, bustling woman wearing a cotton coat and skirt. In spite of her dress she turned out to be the matron in weekend mufti. Muriel, not keen to expose her doubts, feigned to have not yet visited the patient. ‘Can you kindly tell me where to find Mr. Atkins?’ she asked. Matron beamed and led her straight back to the same silent figure with white hands. ‘Here you are dear. A lovely young lady to see you.’ Perhaps matron was rather gorgeous.
Muriel reinstated herself level with his knees, re-clasped one of the hands and thus remained in silence for three quarters of an hour, during which time she did not look at him but readily fancied how he looked. That was that. When she came to rise she was racked with pins and needles.
Monopoly, patient since his character change, marked time in the scorching car. As they drove away from the nursing home, past the bright flower beds and the grey grass, they turned to each other for company. Monopoly had shifted himself, scattering hair onto the passenger seat.
How strange, she meditated, that I could have failed to love this dog; any dog.
She put it down to Hugh and to his rascally excluding methods of conducting himself. His soppy handling of the dog had enraged her, particularly the foolish expression he adopted when tending him. There was something about Hugh, the combination of Hugh and Monopoly, that gave her the creeps. It was almost as though, at pinnacles of infidelity and falsehood, he considered that his unswerving love for this dumb creature exonerated him from other deeds.
Monopoly, of course, had irritated her too; had seemed to have no sense of her suffering but existed to promote Hugh’s profligacy. Then there had been his interminable search for Hugh; even scouring the lavatory. She had found that disgusting. Now all was forgiven. Monopoly had changed sides. What, though, if Hugh were to return? Her brain, again, was buzzing with bothersome images as she drove home.
Muriel Pulls It Off Page 8