I know that a visit to you would fill pages and pages in my diary. I’m tempted to cancel a prior engagement, which is the baptism in the Greek Orthodox Church of an infant girl for whom I’m to be godfather. And I must admit that, as much as I shall miss not being with you, the prospect of a full Greek baptism and reception with singing and dancing fills me with wonder. And have I told you that I have been asked to a Chinese wedding?’
Although Muriel read quickly, there were many more pages to be perused so she scrunched it into her pocket for later; sad that Jackson had to go to his Greek baptism.
The second letter that needed her attention was local, and came with no stamp. She tore it open, anxious to get on with matters.
’Dear Mrs Cottle,’ it read, ‘You are new to the neighbourhood and I write to introduce myself as your local councillor. I am aware of a very malicious letter you may have received containing misleading information about my work. A Mr Gregory Gregson has attempted to blacken my character and raise doubts as to my integrity since my opposition to the use of his drive-in for a prosthetic limb factory. If you wish to ask about this vindictive character please get in touch.’
She decided against getting in touch and returned to Mambles’s visit. The resentful expressions that had dominated and charged the whole room dissolved as she, with confidence, told them of her future guest. She warned of the dog, the maid and the detective; spoke of complexities and extra duties and, whilst fearing mutiny and reprisals, launched into the eccentricities of Mambles’s needs. Whisky in the bedroom for a start; ashtrays everywhere and ice buckets. She half-hesitated to mention that a chamber pot would have to be placed beside the bed. That was one of the many things that Mambles refused to do; travel on foot during the night.
As she spoke she became aware that her audience had swollen. Kitty was amongst them, introducing Mavis who had, hitherto, given Muriel the slip.
There they were; four Squirrel Nutkins changed from everyday beings into bright-eyed stagehands, agog for the first rising of the curtain upon a transformation scene. Dulcie was the first to speak. ‘No earthly need to search for a chamber pot. There’s one beside each bed. In the chamber cupboard, naturally.’
She added these last words with confident candour.
Questions were fired. Linen? Curling tongs? Extra protection for the windows? Security? Prying eyes? If it were true that Muriel expected a visit from a sister of the Queen - whatever else might occur under her authority? Never before had she entertained Mambles in style. She had, of course, provided her with the odd meal in Chelsea for which she had pulled out stops; solicited fellow guests and hired pairs of hands. Naturally she remembered accompanying her on visits to country houses (but not in recent years) and was always astonished by the petits soins deemed necessary for her comfort. Mambles never seemed to be aware of the lengths to which house owners stretched themselves, and Muriel used to laugh at them but now she joined their ranks. Flowers flew in through every door and window. The bustle was comprehensive and startling. Rooms left empty by Marco, Flavia and Roger were stripped and aired, broomed and reordered. Kitty, Mavis and Phyllis vied for tasks in animated awe as Dulcie stood, vast frame shaking, offering advice and reflecting, ‘In my day the entire school would have been given a half holiday.’
Phyllis betrayed no evidence that she rued the departure of Roger as she flourished in the spare bathroom. Muriel reacted positively to the frenzy that overtook the household. It was becoming manifest that Mambles was the very one to whom she would eventually owe gratitude for hoisting her onto a pinnacle in the centre of her entourage. The prospect of the visit had almost induced terror-crazed palpitations in her but now Mambles began to emerge as a heavenly spirit.
During these hours of mobilisation Delilah called in person.
‘Just to make sure all is well. Dulcie tells me that the young have already gone back to London.’ She paused but Muriel knew that something important lay lodged on her mind. She understood what was expected of her; that Dulcie would have alerted the rectory to forthcoming events and that Delilah must be beside herself in a ferment of hope and agitation. Mambles was tricky about introductions and feared boredom and social effort at all times, even when ‘on duty’.
‘Oh dear,’ she said as Delilah eyed tubs of fuchsias and tall daisies that decorated every crowded space. ‘One thing after another. The young ones have gone but now I’m expecting an old friend who needs a bit of looking after. I am sorry. I’ve been rushed since I arrived. Things will calm down. I’ll be in touch before the end of the week. We must talk about the fete.’
Her voice was harsh and false and Delilah’s disappointment, which showed in every cranny of her eager face, shook her to the roots. She wished she had not mentioned the fete. Horses for courses. She had patronised her.
Nonetheless Muriel hurried Delilah out after assuring her that she could be counted on to help in the shop the following afternoon. She felt pained yet exhilarated by the power that spread from her and unsure as to whether she held it or whether it represented the power that had been thrust upon her.
As the house rushed towards readiness, Muriel experienced an intoxicating suffusion of impulsiveness within the framework of manic organisation. Everything was geared towards an occasion of unique magnitude and she, whatever else, was the catalyst.
A hostess. That is what she aspired to be. She was to become a hostess of renown. It would be bliss to live in a state of semi-permanent preparation.
‘But she mustn’t leave her panties in the hall, of the hostess with the mostes’ on the ball,’ she hummed one of Mambles’s favourite tunes as she cracked her knuckles and planned to take Monopoly for a walk in the warm evening air.
They were very happy in the garden as they roamed towards the water and nosed into new corners and parts of the whole. They found an ancient, gravel-floored potting shed beside a well-kept greenhouse, the entrance to which was blocked by two battered beehives. Property of Joyce. Avoiding the angry swarm, they took a winding course, through apple and pear trees loaded with unripe fruit, down to the stream.
Three fat mallards, two drakes and a duck, swam towards them in hopeful haste. They were tame and Muriel supposed that somebody was in the habit of feeding them. As they stood and as Monopoly braced himself in interest, she sighted a queer and almost hallucinatory spectacle a few yards from her feet. Sonia, wrapped in wool, was standing with her eyes to the sky and clasping a small tabby cat. She was singing in a clear euphonious voice; enunciating as one filling a concert hall. At her feet lay a picnic hamper beside a folded rug.
‘All I want is a room somewhere.’ She sang piteously, with the fervour of an outcast. ‘Far away from the cold night air.’ It was another of Mambles’s favourites.
It was not until Sonia had warbled the last moving words, ‘Wouldn’t it be luvverly,’ that she saw Muriel with her dog at her side.
She went into a type of trance, a numbness that brought her to a rigid standstill as she squeezed the cat between her hands. Monopoly took a few paces in her direction whereupon she opened her mouth to let out, in a whispered whimper, the words, ‘Spare Pussy. That is all I ask of you.’
Muriel told her not to be foolish. ‘Can’t you see, Sonia, that Monopoly is on a lead? Even if he weren’t he wouldn’t hurt your cat.’
Her eyes opened wider and wider until Muriel wondered whether they owned lids. Sonia’s madness exasperated her and she determined to force her to contain it.
‘I have a friend coming tomorrow and she’s bringing a dog with her too. I hope you will control yourself and keep calm. We will both look after our dogs and expect you to do the same with your cats.’
At this point the wind dropped from Sonia’s sails and self-interest struggled to gain over insanity. ‘Would that be HRH?’
‘Yes. Princess Matilda.’
‘Would her dog be a relative of those belonging to the Queen?’
‘Certainly. Close.’
At this she melted and loosened
her clasp. Muriel thought it a miracle that she hadn’t strangled Pussy in her effort to protect her. She lowered her lips to the cat’s right ear and spoke into it. ‘There, Pussy. We must make friends with the new doggy tomorrow.’
Kingdoms combined. The harmony that Mambles’s visit was producing within the walls of the house was spreading ripples over troubles out of doors. Juxtapositions.
The house smelled of flowers, drowning mustiness, and Muriel was calm as she remembered that she had promised to ring Peter. He was entertained by accounts of happenings and more than delighted, in his reflective fashion, to hear of the effect that Mambles’s visit was producing. She didn’t tell him of Roger comparing his cock to heroin. Peter said that he missed her but allowed no note of clumsy reproach to mar their talk.
In the morning Muriel was woken by Phyllis and her active arms. She grimaced as she explained that the bathroom allocated to the honoured guest smelled of sewers. Marco and Flavia had been the last to occupy it and Muriel underwent a spasm of shame. What had they been up to? She’d have been pleased if it had been Roger’s bathroom. ‘Mice,’ she said, ‘mice or rats. They’ve eaten a cake of soap. Funny your son never noticed.’ She proposed alternative methods of exorcism. Sprays, open windows, electric fans, joss sticks, hyacinths. Muriel didn’t like to mention that Mambles had a weak sense of smell. Spirits and nicotine protected her in all atmospheres.
Soon after breakfast Delilah again tackled by telephone.
‘Dawson and I have been thinking about you with your friend staying. I know that it’s not easy to entertain around here. Would it be comme il bien if we were to pop in for a drink - say around sixish this evening? I know that not many want to socialise in this neighbourhood and Londoners do love to meet locals.’
Keeping notes of irascibility from her voice, Muriel suppressed Delilah and her plans, saying that she didn’t know what time her friend was scheduled to arrive. She would not be unaccompanied and might take time to settle; was certain to be tired, would not necessarily stir from her quarters until dinnertime. She concocted too many excuses and knew this as she spoke, knew, too, that Delilah was wounded and resented that she caused her pain.
Kitty, who had overheard Muriel’s part in the conversation with Delilah and who, in spite of her kind heart, was not free from human weakness, said, ‘You stand firm with that Delilah. Wants to be in on everything. She’s snobbish.’
Muriel realised that her occupation of Bradstow was becoming divisive. Hard though she tried to push thoughts of Delilah and her thwarted attempts to come face to face with Mambles to the back of her mind, they hovered above her.
As though to defeat them and in the hopes of being rewarded, she kept her promise to Delilah and walked with her through the village, turning left by the chestnut tree and passing rusty, distorted fencing that prevented, but only just, cows from descending to the road. Muriel hoped that the fence didn’t belong to her. The converted garage was ill equipped; stocked with sliced loaves, sweets and weary vegetables. ‘From your garden I believe.’ Delilah was conspiratorial. ‘I don’t like to say this but I’m not sure that Eric doesn’t make a little on the side.’ She rattled at the till and asked her assistant to rearrange tins of custard powder. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘here come your Kitty’s girls. Gemma and Lara. They’re lovely.’ Two plump eight or nine year olds in checked frocks bounced in, clasping coins. Gemma, the older of the two, said, ‘Good afternoon Mrs Rector.’ Delilah made haste to explain that she was thus known in the village.
‘Mum’s making cakes for the freezer, ready for the fete.’
‘Baking powder? Flour? Butter?’ Delilah rushed to Gemma’s aid. Whilst instructing Muriel to pack the goods in a plastic bag, she introduced her. ‘Now. This is Mrs Cottle. New lady at the Manor where your Mummy works. Say “hello” nicely.’ Both girls said “hello” nicely and scarpered. After that there was a long wait before further customers appeared and Delilah took advantage of the time to advance intimacy.
‘Of course, Dulcie’s a bit of a mystery. I think your, er, Aunt Alice always made her believe that she might eventually come in to something. That, or so I’m told, is why she spends so much of her time prowling around the house. Looking for a letter so they say. A letter that your auntie left for your uncle, something to Dulcie’s advantage perhaps. But that’s only gossip.’
Dulcie a pretender.
‘Another little slice of wisdom,’ Delilah went on, ‘Dawson suggested I put a word in your ear concerning the metal detector chappie. He has a history, I’m sorry to say. Uses the coins he digs up as a front for those he steals. He has been inside in his day, but you’re new here and it takes time to learn the local ways.’
Two boys, approximately ten years old, entered the shop with confidence. Delilah whispered, ‘Keep an eye on them. As you know I don’t like to say a word against any of God’s creatures but…. well. Keep an eye.’
Muriel kept an eye and satisfied herself that they had not pilfered. They didn’t buy anything but shuffled out, disgruntled.
Delilah hadn’t quite finished. ‘Phyllis. She’s a funny one. Nobody’s sure of where she came from. Answered an advertisement I believe. No family I hear. That must be a dreadful thing. Dulcie, of course, met up with your aunt at a cat show. They say she was, er, well, very attached to her and moved her and her van into the paddock. There were even hints - but, no. Here comes a customer.’
She served a packet of sugar to an old man who had swerved to the door on a bicycle, then reverted to the life that was led in Muriel’s house. ‘Of course, Phyllis, too, had some hopes. She did everything for Jerome and they say he made her some promise. Sonia overheard words one afternoon and mentioned to Dulcie that it sounded like a marriage offer.’
Phyllis also a pretender. Marco and Flavia counting their chickens. Hugh poised? Lizzie livid. Hidden letters. Head spinning, Muriel returned to her pulsating house.
It was teatime when Mambles arrived. Her detective, Moggan, doubled as driver. A room had been prepared for him amongst the kudus on the top floor, and Phyllis had ordained that he and Mambles’s maid eat with her and Kitty in a semi-abandoned servant’s hall tickled up in no time for unexpected use.
Muriel happened to know that Moggan was not the marrying kind or she would have feared for further assaults on Phyllis’s exposed nerves. She had not been given advance warning as to which of Mambles’s retainers she planned to travel with, and, from where she stood, was not able to see who sat beside her in the back of the car. Jubilee, who crouched on his mistress’s knee, scraped on the windowpane.
Dulcie was already on the driveway and charged forward to open the car door, pre-empting Moggan, doubling up and bowing from the hip to the alighting Princess. Muriel was only narrowly in earshot but could almost swear that she murmured the words ‘your worship’ in her greeting, then continued to murmur something about the school and a half holiday.
Mambles’s eyes were fully stretched as she stared, showing that she observed an unusual example of the human species. She was at her most Scandinavian, tall and yellow. A long yellow cardigan hid, for the most part, a white pleated skirt, and signals of humour issued from her hard eyes as, ignoring Dulcie’s obeisances, she creaked towards her old friend with open arms.
Partly because a group had gathered on the forecourt, and partly resulting from other diverse forces, Muriel felt more loath then ever to embark on a curtsey. Could it be that she now felt nearer to being her equal? Her superior even? She acceded to the necessary formalities; kissing and curtseying, then watched with pride as Kitty, Phyllis and the rest sank before her to the ground.
As the huge yellow sprig from the royal branch, followed by her retinue, surged into the hallway, Muriel saw, to her disquiet, that she was trailed by an elderly figure dressed district nurse-like in dark colours and carrying a briefcase. She recognised her as Miss Farthing, ex-ladies-maid to Queen Elizabeth and known, affectionately, by her employers as ‘Farty,’ and thanked God that Cunty, at least, was
out of the way.
Mambles stood still and feasted with theatrical ostentation, her eyes upon the treasures, now to all intents Muriel’s own.
‘So. Muriel. You haven’t done half badly.’
All onlookers regarded her in high esteem. She knew from the faces that turned to hers that they awaited orders and appealed to Mambles who decreed that both she and Miss Farthing would like, before all else, to see to their rooms and ‘make themselves comfortable’.
How long was Muriel to live in suspense before Miss Farthing’s pet name was revealed?
All was flurry. Dulcie buttonholed Moggan and insisted upon a minute inspection of Mambles’s Daimler, watched by Eric and Joyce who had become thick as thieves, united in events.
On the staircase Phyllis whispered in conspiracy with Farty as she explained the intricacies of the master suite, the whereabouts of the chamber pot and reserve supplies of whisky, enough, even, to last Roger a month.
Mambles dismissed Muriel. ‘See you later alligator,’ she cried, as Farty shut the door upon her; leaving no time for the lady of the house, as custom demanded, to reply, ‘in a while crocodile’.
The two passed an interminable amount of time in their rooms which adjoined each other, leaving a desolate emptiness in the house. The build-up before the arrival had been nothing short of hair-raising; the arrival itself and moments surrounding it, ecstatic. Now all was tranquil and, apart from the fortunate Phyllis who had been handpicked by Farty for the honour of carrying a tea tray to the illustrious guest, they were left at loose ends. Dulcie monopolised Moggan and bore him off to examine her caravan.
Muriel was puzzled. Mambles behaved out of character. Never before, when under the same roof, had she been allowed a single second to herself. Normally she was made to sit on the end of the bed; admire her clothes as they emerged at the hands of Farty or whoever else, from an ancient leather suitcase. She always had to entertain Mambles; chatter, read snippets from newspapers as long as they weren’t ‘horrid’ about Mummy, to suggest and to cajole. Why, now, was she dismissed? Particularly after the days of separation about which she had complained. It must surely be the changes in her life that held significance.
Muriel Pulls It Off Page 12