‘The freshest you have - and coffee -freshly-ground too if you please.’
She heard the buzz of Phyllis’s petticoat as it rubbed against the nylon of her navy frock, held her breath and listened to the pair at play.
‘Wonderful woman. Wonderful woman.’ Worst fears confirmed. Roger was making a set at Phyllis.
‘Another thing. A fork. Is there a long-handled fork? There’s an itch. Down near the bottom of my plaster on the inside of my leg.’
Phyllis bustled off in search, perhaps, of an ancient toasting fork laid aside since the reign of Aunt Alice. A chair scraped and crutches squeaked against linoleum as Roger pulled himself towards the table and awaited the services of Phyllis. Muriel would have continued to eavesdrop but the telephone rang again.
It was Delilah. ‘It’s about the fete. I believe that I mentioned it to you briefly but the day draws nigh. We’re all very anxious to know whether you will be willing to hold it in your grounds. The village is on tenterhooks. We keep the trestles in your shed, the triple-bay, we call it. Teapots, cups and saucers are all in the cupboard below your back stairs but I’m sure you know all this. I’ve told Dawson that you are prepared to do the fortune telling and he thinks it’s a lovely idea.’
Partly because it was uncomfortable standing in the passage with the atmosphere of hideous flirtation wafting from the kitchen, and partly because she wanted to shut her up, Muriel interrupted. ‘Yes. I don’t see why not but I haven’t had the famous meeting with Arthur yet. Can I mention all this to him?’
‘No need. It’s up to you. Arthur has never meddled in these matters. Might you help with the teas? That is to say, between telling fortunes. I run the fete committee and it’s a terrible job filling slots. Dulcie sometimes lends a hand on the day; not that she’ll commit herself in advance which makes it awkward, and then there are those who don’t like to take their cup from her but, while we’re on the subject, Dawson would be most grateful if you could let him have a bottle of plonk or suchlike for the tombola.’
Muriel promised to ring her when the meeting with Arthur had been consummated. Delilah answered, ‘You do have a sense of humour,’ as Muriel put the telephone down.
Roger’s voice sounded out. ‘Wonderful woman! Now my back. Here. Here. Lower down. Lower down. No! Higher up. Perfect.’ Turning away, Muriel walked to the hall. Let her scratch him silly. She stood whiling away the time; aggrieved and in revolt against all responsible demands, wondering whether to order Arthur to revoke Jerome’s crazy will. As she wondered, Roger, preceded by Phyllis, crashed into view. He had abandoned his crutches and depended on her shoulders, which he clutched from behind. Upon her face was a manifestation of triumph mingled with pain. In this tandem they made for an armchair where, with hurly-burly, Roger was lowered into the seat.
‘Wonderful woman,’ he uttered in jerky notes as Phyllis drew up a chair behind his and, entranced, scrutinised the visible part of his forefinger as the rest of it worked its way into a nostril.
‘Phyllis,’ Muriel asked, hell-bent upon shattering the spectacle, ‘Where are we to hold the meeting?’
‘Normally it would take place in the dining room.’
‘Come with me then. We’ll set it up. Mr Stiller will be here at ten o’clock.’ She tried with deliberation to take her down a peg as she made to preen her way, via conquest of Roger, into a position of supremacy. Was it not her own aim, but via nobody, to arrive at that point?
‘Very well.’ Phyllis’s red lips pulled together and her body stiffened as she rose to follow her mistress.
‘How many will we be?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘Well. There’s me and Mr Stiller. You and Sonia, I presume. Not Dulcie.’ She was firm here. ‘But it would be very useful to have Kitty with us. That’ll do for this time round.’ She had not yet met Mavis, the cleaner.
‘What about your son? Shouldn’t he and his wife be in on this?’
‘They’ll be asleep.’
‘I could wake them. Roger, your gentleman guest, he’ll be wanting to inspect the cellar shortly. I’m willing to give him a hand but I can’t, can I, if I’m to be dragged into this business?’
Roger’s play upon the sensitivities of this unnerving woman was indefensible and made her long to kill him with an orange crutch. She told Phyllis to arrange chairs around the table, to put out biscuits or whatever, to see to a round of coffee.
Knowing that she looked scrawny and unappealing, Muriel returned to Roger. ‘For God’s sake Roger, leave Phyllis alone. Can’t you see what a foul position I’m in without your little tricks?’
‘Lady of the Manor. Haw. Haw. Nothing the matter with your position. Take your cellar for a start. I rather like her. Sorry for her, you know. All these changes. Can’t be easy. Calm down.’
It was hot again and her wits were trapped; darting as silver fish behind a pane of glass.
‘Listen Roger. Just sit here. Don’t move or wake anybody or invade the cellar or make up to Phyllis or pick your nose.’ She had said it and he was startled.
‘Sorry if I’m not wanted - but worry not! My plaster comes off on Wednesday and I have to be in London for that mid-morning. Marco and Flavia can drive me. I’m not taking the train again in this heat - or this condition.’ Reprieve. They would all be out of the way before Mambles’s arrival.
‘Meanwhile I shall have to get down to work on that cellar of yours. Marco can help me when he stirs his stumps and, er, Phyllis, when you’ve finished with her.’
Nothing in particular was accomplished at the meeting even though Muriel had believed everything to hinge upon it. It was decided that Phyllis was to stay on as housekeeper, Sonia as secretary, Kitty as cook, Mavis as cleaner and Dulcie as watchdog for a three-month trial run. Their duties were defined by Arthur and Muriel, and it was determined that a similar meeting take place the following week to sort out problems connected with those who worked out of doors.
No doubts were expressed by Arthur as to the validity of Muriel’s ownership. No questions were asked - other than by Sonia who sat muffled, her face barely topping the table. ‘About the dog? How long is he going to be amongst us? It can’t go on indefinitely.’
Arthur, who Muriel, too, had begun to consider a bit of a sweetie, replied, ‘Sorry, Sonia. Mrs Cottle is within her rights to say that the cats can’t stay indefinitely. If she wishes to keep her dog with her then, I’m afraid, you will have to make your own arrangements. Simple as that.’
So. She held the reins.
For the most part Muriel failed to concentrate during the meeting and allowed Arthur to burble on. The overall management of the house, repairs, locks, keys, roofing and so on, seemed to rest as before, in the hands of Sonia and himself.
When the meeting wound up and when Arthur had taken his leave, she walked with Monopoly in the garden. She wondered whether, in her awkwardness, she came across as haughty. Arrogant? Why did the healing of internal scars hinge, in her awareness, upon her changed position of power? Anti-democratic perceptions struggled with democratic ones, for had she not been trained to subservience? Images of both her draconian father and her weary, snobbish mother scoffed at her from the sky, and memories of Hugh and his disgrace came back to bother her. She was not, would not be, subservient. On the other hand was she comfortable with hierarchy? Mambles?
She was truly unhappy as she indulged in fantasies of revenge. Roger, the destabilising menace of recent years, must be banished. But might not any victory over him prove to be a pyrrhic one? Might Phyllis, during Mambles’s visit, spy upon her and hasten to provide Roger with gossip for columns? And what of Marco? Beloved but confusing. Peter was on hold.
Muriel’s situation had devolved upon her but she feared that this power might have already become more important to her than any relationship - or did it merely relate to relationships? The house. The garden. The peculiar pickle. Houses depended on people inhabiting them. Why was this happening?
Marco, Flavia, Phyllis and
Roger spent most of the second half of the day in the cellar; Phyllis pounding to and fro with trays, glasses, bottle openers and cushions for comfort. As some of Muriel’s inner conflicts gathered force it became clear to her, even in her semi-ignorance, that the cellar was of unique standing. She had heard of wine being sold off as death duty payment. Roger must not consume the nest egg.
From time to time she caught catches of laughter and complaint, of appreciation and contentment gushing and oozing from the depths of the building as her loneliness intensified and her hand lowered to touch the head of her dog.
In bed that night she thought back to Roger’s bare sitting room in North London. There had been no photographs, no sign of normal life. He had lived, and probably still did, in a well of anonymity. There had been a packet of Alka Seltzer and a book about hangovers. Little else. He would need both after the spree in the cellar. If only Marco and Flavia had let Roger be. She willed them not to speak of her. Willed that their conversation be of nothing but gossip columns, horse racing, food fads, drink and hangovers. She knew, full well, that Roger, however little power he had over himself, had the power to make others warped and unaccountable.
The following day the house was thick with action before Muriel and Monopoly made their morning descent. Roger sat in the hall at a low, velvet-covered table on top of which rested a computer-like contraption and at which he pounded with several fingers as his eyes rotated to a heap of notes by his side. He had unshuttered two of the windows, the ones necessary to illuminate the patch where he sat. It would not, Muriel thought huffily, have crossed his mind to have lent a hand in any area other than one that served himself. In steely motion she completed tasks as Roger held up a defensive hand.
‘Sorry. Can’t talk. Dates. Vintages. Treasure trove it must be said.’
Phyllis, still tarty but this time in pink, sneaked in upon the scene bearing a tray supporting a boiled egg hidden under a pale flannel cosy and a pot of coffee that smelt of Volterra in spring. She told Muriel, icily, that two letters lay for her upon the kitchen table but her attention remained with Roger.
‘There. Down there.’ He pointed to a small octagonal table and dismissed her with a few words triggering the familiar buzz of her clothing as she waltzed away on tight shoes.
‘Roger. How dare you order Phyllis about?’
‘I’m a houseguest aren’t I? I think you’ll find that in most statelys houseguests are expected to express their wishes to the staff. Brace up Muriel. I’ve already told you - I like her and she likes me. Anything wrong?’
Houseguests, staff, statelys. How grotesque he was. Between each one of Roger’s teeth a narrow gap showed. Muriel stared in anguish at the susceptible side of her own being. Roger and his bit-of-the-old-one-two, his sidelong, meaningful, cheeky looks. His innate cleverness, his rich, expressive voice. Tight trousers. Masculine mystery. What a weird tangle of aberration had entrapped her.
Monopoly’s tail flickered over the pile containing notes on the contents of her cellar.
‘Fucking brute!’ Roger let out a hissing, sucking noise and sat back as if defeated. He wore a no-peace-for-the-righteous look on his face.
‘When does the hapless Phyllis get a day off?’
‘Roger. Please.’ She supplicated as had done Sonia on the day of Jerome’s incarceration; notwithstanding the knowledge that no one would ever get the better of Roger.
‘Please don’t disrupt my household. Please don’t publish anything to further complicate my position here. Please leave Phyllis alone.’
‘What are you accusing me of? What the hell do you think I’ve been able to get up to?’ He pointed to his damaged limb. ‘That’s not to say,’ he continued with relish, ‘that I mightn’t have a crack at her some other time.’
He lolled back against the padding of the sofa and, with a self-congratulatory guffaw, asked, ‘Haven’t you heard why they call me heroin?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no idea.’
He pointed to the patch where his horrible cock lay concealed. ‘They get hooked. Haw. Haw.’
She writhed to remember that she had ever had first hand knowledge of the loathsome organ. She didn’t consider herself to be exactly a feminist but she found his words entirely shocking. Had he said ‘fishing line’ the words would have been unacceptable enough. But heroin. Synonymous with suffering and death.
Muriel told him that, if his plaster was to be removed the following morning, it would be sensible for him to leave as soon as possible. She used, as lever, the unanswerable fact that Marco and Flavia would never make a start early enough to get him to hospital on time and that, anyway, she needed to be left on her own to see to various affairs.
Into this horrible colloquy darted a host of interruptions. Sonia’s little person appeared and reappeared, presenting a stream of querulous conundrums and posing feeble queries. The metal detector came to display a faded florin. Dulcie, who had been lying low, returned with vigour to say that she had run out of razor blades and to ask what Muriel planned to do about it. Dawson rang. Delilah rang. ‘One more thing. Our shop. The Bradstow Venture Community Shop. That is to say that Dawson had a lovely idea. He thought to add the two extra letters. Now it’s known as The Bradstow Adventure Community shop. Just to make it scan. Are you a versifier by any chance? Dawson has the gift and he needed that little prefix when he wrote his lovely poem to celebrate the Venture opening.’ Until then Delilah didn’t pause for breath. Muriel had realised that there was no shop in Bradstow but nobody had told her of the community concern or that she might be expected to serve in it. Delilah went on. ‘It’s in a converted garage on the outskirts of the village. You did mention that you’d had shop experience and it would be a lovely way for you to meet the villagers. Just allow me to quote you some of Dawson’s poem.
‘You can buy anything from a pen to a mop,
At the Bradstow Adventure Community shop.
You can start at the bottom and rise to the top,
At the Bradstow Adventure Community shop.’
Tomorrow afternoon. That’s my shift. I’ll call for you and we can walk down there together. I’ll be able to show you the ropes before we fit you in to a permanent slot. I think you’ll enjoy it and I daresay you’ll feel rewarded.’
No sooner had Delilah hung up than the head teacher of the village school rang to introduce herself and to ask for Muriel’s views on sex education. Mambles rang to firm up on instructions for her visit. Muriel whispered for fear that her words might be heard by the departing trio and influence them, particularly Roger, against their decision to be gone. She hoped that one of the letters to which Phyllis had referred might be an acceptance of her invitation to Jackson, her American friend.
Eric and Joyce, from the garden, fought their battles as Phyllis huffed in and out, winking and simpering and sighing to herself and muttering that she planned to visit Jerome ‘poor old dear’.
Peter rang to ask if Muriel was all right and if he could help in any way. She said she would ring back when she was calm. Marco and Flavia half-heartedly resisted her request to move Roger without further ado as Muriel contrived and connived to be rid of them.
Throughout these scenes of botheration. Monopoly, sensing disquietude and guessing - she supposed, at her inner endurance, stayed beside her and ignored all interlopers or participants in the tense activities.
She was not certain as to how, precisely, the parting came to be arranged but, by four o’clock in the afternoon, Marco, Flavia and Roger were once more seated in the positions that they had occupied but two days earlier in Marco’s car and ready for departure to London.
His mother whispered to Marco as they embraced on the mat under the bird-splattered porch, ‘Do come again soon. I’ll ring you. You and Flavia. No friends, though, please. I’m sorry but I just can’t get to grips with things. Not with outsiders here.’
He had the look of one who understood and gave her a slightly sympathetic squeeze. Flavia was dazed. She had been drunk since b
efore lunch when she and Roger had vied with each other in a wine-tasting wager; each had consumed a fortune’s worth. She barely bothered to say goodbye. Not a word to Monopoly.
Roger flourished under the guise of wounded sensitivity. ‘Not often one’s asked to leave a stately.’ She winced. ‘Sorry to have caused offence Muriel. You’ll get accustomed to your position before long. Meanwhile try not to take life too seriously. One more thing. Be decent to Phyllis. She deserves a break. I’ll do my best to keep in touch with her.’ With that he pressed his lips against her cheek. What a cheek.
They were gone. She had twenty-four hours on her own to fool around. Twenty-four hours before Princess Matilda, Jubilee and their entourage were due to pick their way to Bradstow Manor. These hours were not to be restful ones. Had other things been equal, which they weren’t, she would by then have been frantic in preparation for her royal visitor.
As she tuned back to the house after watching her son’s car disappear down the drive, Muriel underwent an aesthetic stirring of the blood; a sensation of overflowing unlike any other existing in her memory. With this came the lifting of a burden and the consequent spiralling of spirits as she ran to the kitchen where she announced, ‘Well. That’s over. Now. On to the next visit.’ Before enlarging on this overture, she opened Jackson’s letter and read it with both amusement and disappointment.
‘Just the other day I heard from a friend that finger bowls are quite proper except if you have royalty to dinner. Someone might make the terrible error of proposing his toast and passing his glass over the finger bowl, which would remind the royals of the indignity of Bonnie Prince Charlie having to cross the water to escape Britain, a terrible insult to the crown. Please do have finger bowls when you’re having the Princess to stay. I would hope that someone - the vicar? - would propose a toast and I would be quick to put my hand over the bowl lest I offend royalty, if the Princess was even unaware that I was saving the crown from being insulted.
Muriel Pulls It Off Page 11