Muriel went to Kitty in the kitchen where the sight of her brought back the niggle in her head that had been ousted by distraction. She dwelt on the image of Dawson and Delilah at the rectory - looping the loop in their rejection.
‘I’m feeling a bit guilty about Delilah,’ she said, knowing that Mambles would have upbraided her for speaking with familiarity to an underling.
‘Don’t you mind her. She’s ever so pushy. Mark you. She was different for a bit after they’d had their troubles. Ever so nice for a while, that is. Pity she didn’t keep it up.’
‘Troubles?’
‘Yes. Their youngest boy, Alastair. Dropped his trousers on public transport. It could have been hushed up, if his Dad hadn’t been rector, that is.’
‘What’s he like? The boy?’
‘He’s queer. Ever so moody. Well, he gives me the creeps. We won’t let him near our place, not with Gemma and Lara being the age they are.’
Muriel was more ashamed than ever that she had not found it in her to incorporate Dawson and Delilah into either of their visiting groups; what with their son dropping his trousers on public transport and being denied visits to local homes. From the start she had been a disappointment to them; even at the time of Delilah’s first telephone call and she had to accept that, lurking in her, lay an urge to shoot the messenger. Without Delilah’s intervention none of this might have happened.
It would, she knew, have been circumspect to have been on excellent terms with the rector and his wife.
Kitty and Muriel talked of supper. A card table had been erected in a corner of the dining room at which she and Mambles were to dine alone by candlelight.
When the telephone rang it was answered by Kitty. She called out for Phyllis, betraying that it was Roger (Mr Roger, she called him) who wished to speak with her. Phyllis, radiant after her trip with the tray, twirled past her, smug and buzzing. On no account was Muriel tempted to hear one syllable of her conversation with Roger. She left her to it and strode away, shuddering with rancour, to inspect preliminaries as set out for supper. Subservience to rank, as displayed by her underlings, was contagious for Muriel, not by nature a perfectionist, fingered forks and tweaked at flowers at the card table that awaited the tête-à-tête.
Farty came to announce that Her Royal Highness was much satisfied with her quarters and that she would be dressed and downstairs by seven-thirty. During this indefinite time Marco rang and his mother confessed to him without delay that Mambles was staying at Bradstow. The news titillated him.
‘Good on you Ma. That’ll rev your team up if anything can.’ Here he paused and, Muriel fancied, gulped.
‘By the way, sorry about Roger. He simply doesn’t know how to behave. Me and Flave gave him a wigging for flirting with that fright in nylon. Told him that it isn’t playing the game to interfere with people’s servants.’
Marco, too, was affected by his mother’s elevation to a state of feudal responsibility. He was reviewing boundaries. Muriel asked if they would like to return for the weekend, remembering the sympathetic squeeze he had given her on parting. He sounded vague and dithery and suggested that they play it by ear, as Muriel lost concentration and planned to invite Dawson and Delilah for a drink, a meal even, during the next influx.
Mambles, in full regalia, advanced upon her in the drawing room at seven-thirty on the dot. Muriel was alone with her, having forbidden Phyllis to attend upon them until she and Mavis served supper at the card table.
‘So,’ she began most majestically as she and Jubilee, who quivered in competition with the proprietorial house-owning presence of Monopoly, placed themselves in comfort on a sofa.
‘Congratulations, Muriel. This certainly is the real thing. Farty is in her element. Nothing left to chance. Did you inherit the maids as well? Who was the cranky old man who bowed to me outside?’
‘I think so. The man is called Dulcie.’
Again her eyes stretched as she allowed the matter to slip. ‘By the way. Mummy wants to know more about your uncle. There are some ghastly people called Atkins who live in Cunty’s village. They keep begging Cunty to get them through the doors of Clarence House. For some reason Mummy’s got it into her head that they are connected with your lot. Next time I come I’ll bring Mummy.’
The dart in her glance was duplicitous and Muriel knew herself to be on probation. How much hobnobbing, she was asking, could her friend handle?
‘Any interesting neighbours? When I bring Mummy you must make it a proper house party and ask the county. They love meeting us.’
She shook her head and began, with good humour, to scrutinise all that lay before her. ‘Is that an ancestor of yours Muriel?’ pointing at a portrait showing a man with a double chin. Muriel replied that she had no idea but that she doubted it.
‘Shall we visit your uncle? Nurses get so silly when I go to hospitals. It can be rather fun.’
Never, ever, had Muriel known her in a mood like this; so skittish; so keen to put rank to advantage. She pictured her own popularity, other than with Dawson and Delilah, to be soaring in every direction. She sneezed. Too many flowers in the house.
‘Bless you twice.’ Mambles always said this whenever anybody sneezed. She creaked and drank and planned Muriel’s future.
‘Perfect for house parties. Perhaps we should summon that horrid Hugh back. Such a problem finding men. I know that pansies come in handy but it’s not the same. Can you ring for Farty? I want to change my shoes. They’re killing me.’
It wasn’t possible to ring for anybody since a china-handled bell mounted on a frieze of gold leaves was not attached to anything else. Muriel walked to the door and bellowed for Phyllis, Kitty or Mavis. She didn’t care which or how loudly her voice echoed.
Phyllis came at speed and Mambles made her request. It was the first time in Muriel’s hearing that Mambles had uttered the word Farty since her arrival.
Mambles was royal and after a flicker of astonishment Phyllis took to the soubriquet with calm but, all the same, Muriel was glad that Cunty hadn’t come too.
As soon as Farty had attended to her duties and when the women had each drunk a glass or two of neat vodka, they made for the dining room followed by both dogs who, for separate reasons, despised each other.
As they sat Muriel was attacked by a twinge of envy for the less formal group in the servant’s hall, presided over by a self-imposed Dulcie; Farty and Moggan creating a rare interest in those once deserted quarters.
Anxious though Princess Matilda was to promote Muriel’s interests at this turning point in her life, her friend could hardly help but be aware of a wistfulness attached to her advice.
Mambles’s voice tightened as she prattled. ‘If only Daddy hadn’t died when he did. I know that he and Mummy would have seen to it that both Princess Margaret and I were given something in the country.’ As on many occasions, she removed her earrings and placed them on a plate. ‘Killing me. When you think what the Queen has done for her lot. Places everywhere. Even Anne has one. After all, we too were daughters of a reigning monarch. All we have are grace and favour apartments.’ She sighed deeply and looked sternly at Muriel as glasses shimmered. ‘Now,’ she went on, ‘out of the blue, Muriel, you have all this.’
Reminding her in a whisper that ‘all this’ presented problems, Muriel signalled to Phyllis that Mambles’s glass was empty. She never touched wine. Muriel noticed that whisky from a bottle had been transferred to a glass decanter with a silver rim and wondered if this procedure was correct.
Just then, as if a cloud had descended, both diners felt the presence of Dulcie who had lumbered in as they talked and stood menacingly between them, tummy touching the table.
‘I’d like you two to sort out a point of argument. Your maid,’ she flashed a sunless eye at Mambles, ‘tells us that she is accustomed to being addressed by an unmentionable name. Unmentionable.’ No trace of the bowing and half holiday mood of a few hours back.
‘Farty?’ Mambles enquired.
> ‘That is the very one.’
Mambles replied, ‘What on earth is the matter with “Farty”?’ Her correct name is Miss Farthing but in my family we like to take friendly short cuts. Has that sorted out your argument?’
‘No it has not. In my day that word was absolutely forbidden. If strictly necessary, we referred to breaking wind. My mother was a district nurse and extremely strict. I’m glad of it. I was brought up to observe the best of manners and I have never regretted it. Not for one second.’
She turned to Muriel, ‘And if you think that just because you hobnob with Hanovers, you are able to suppress that letter written to your aunt by your uncle, you’re mistaken. More likely than not you know where it is and sooner or later it will come to light. Then we’ll see who’s in charge here.’
Both dogs, unnerved by atmosphere, began to bark. Jubilee, furious yelps escaping from his mouth, scampered to Mambles who lifted him onto her satin lap. Monopoly stood firm, outdoing Jubilee in volume of complaint but seeking no shelter. In Muriel’s view he was the braver of the two dogs.
Dulcie, put out that she should be thus silenced, stood her ground and remained otherwise content.
Suddenly Mambles shrieked. Jubilee, in fright, had forgotten himself and a warm yellow patch spread speedily over the cool satin of her frock. ‘Muriel. Have that creature removed. Send for Farty. Moggan too, if necessary.’
Phyllis ran to interrupt the alternative dinner party and came back with Farty who, accompanied by Moggan and followed by Kitty and Mavis, ran to the table.
‘Take her out of here,’ Mambles ordered.
She held herself away from Dulcie as Moggan seized the woman’s wrists, whipped her into a half-turn and, before anybody could advise, marched her from the room. Muriel wondered how Farty fared inwardly during these upheavals. She did not leave with the others but gathered Jubilee in her arms, whispered apologies to the affronted animal and withdrew, taking her soiled employer with her.
Muriel gave Phyllis hazy instructions and remembered that she had failed to ring Peter. When Mambles reappeared in alternative eveningwear and carrying the chastened Jubilee, she showed no signs of shock. Muriel detected victory in her bearing.
‘So Muriel, I begin to see what you mean when you complain of problems. The sooner you banish that freak to council housing the better. I’ll pull strings. I think I’m involved with something on those lines. Shelter or whatnot.’
Muriel thanked her kindly as they resumed their positions at the card table.
‘We can’t have her, or ‘it’ I should say, at house parties.’
Was Mambles planning to play a major role in the execution of Muriel’s inheritance? Was she, thanks to chance, going to make amends for omissions in the last will and testament of the late King? His Majesty George VI?
The rest of the evening fell flat. Mambles, although she had shown herself to be a sport, never recovered her earlier high spirits and began to repeat herself so often, banging on about sheltered housing and the efforts she so thanklessly put in to her few ‘functions’ that Muriel ended the ceremonies by lurching upstairs to rouse the slumbering Farty who lay, fully dressed, upon her bed - ready for immediate action.
Farty alone went in search of Princess Matilda. Muriel was not prepared to risk the stairs twice but, as she prepared for bed, she heard the pair passing her room as they headed for their own.
The following morning Muriel tottered down the dark stairs, her feet a million miles from her head, to behold the hideous aspect of departed excitement, for even the flowers, to her eyes, had faded overnight and glum spirits lurked behind every stick of furniture, hid under the piano and lay secreted in drum-table drawers.
Monopoly looked pensive and uninterested when they met Farty who had been consigned to deal with an unrepentant Jubilee’s morning needs and who was clearly shaken after the mishaps of the night before, and warned that Mambles intended sleeping late.
‘She likes a lie-in when in a strange bed,’ she augured as though to signify that an alien force engendered by Muriel tethered her mistress to the sheets. It was unfair since Mambles barely ever rose before noon, strange bed or not.
Kitty, normally so cheerful, was infected with a share of aggregate shame induced by Dulcie’s outburst.
‘She never should have done that. We couldn’t stop her Mrs Cottle. Not once she’d made her mind up. No sooner had poor Miss Farthing admitted to her pet name, (it was Mr Moggan called her by it) than Dulcie was up and away.’
There was an air of intrigue about Phyllis’s face that chilled but betrayed nothing. Dulcie kept herself to herself, smouldering in her caravan - not, Muriel was certain, through any sense of repentance but through belligerent desire to show disgust. Members of the outdoor team, unconscious of disgrace, tiptoed through rooms plying tubs with water from long-spouted cans with hopes of catching glimpses, as Muriel paced about and tried to build up her energy level.
Anarchy perpetrated beneath her roof the night before had, she feared, diminished any (imagined or otherwise) equalisation of her standing with Matilda for, via Farty, she was summoned shortly before eleven o’clock to take up her time-honoured position at the foot of her bed. She lay, propped by a heap of pillows, nightdress buttoned to the neck, alive to the visit and supernaturally jolly. The silver-framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth, Muriel saw, had travelled with her.
‘Any sign of that transvestite maniac today?’ It was clear that she enjoyed herself and wished to emerge from the happenings of the last evening with flying colours.
‘No, thank God. Not a grunt. Perhaps she expired in the night.’
‘Farty is mixing me a Bloody Mary with the help of that anaemic Phyllis of yours. I’ve ordered one for you as well. Then, when I’m dressed, shall we go and spook her in the caravan?’
‘Please not Mambles. Please.’
Farty and Phyllis came into the room, each carrying a filled glass. Farty looked harassed but Phyllis appeared sinister and secret. Muriel drank her drink fast and her head started to rush as Mambles decreed that a repeat order waited for them in the drawing room. She was dismissed and, at Phyllis’s side, swayed along the passage and down the stairs.
She smoked as she waited for Mambles to dress.
The rest of the events of the morning were obliterated in her mind by the onrush of later happenings.
It was during lunch, where Mambles and Muriel sat face to face, that she was summoned by a white and wobbly Phyllis to the telephone. Muriel told her to relay a message; said that she was not to be disturbed. This Phyllis went to do but, when again beside her, told Muriel that she was to ring a Mr Cottle, and that it was urgent. For a second Muriel quivered - imagining it to be Hugh. Phyllis had jumped to the same conclusion and her hands fluttered double fast. It was clear that she feared for something. When lunch was over and Mambles, Jubilee and Farty went to pack, Muriel - deciding that it was Peter who had called - scampered to the telephone.
Peter sounded anxious. ‘Something rather tiresome has cropped up. He explained that Lizzie had rung him, had read to him an article fresh from the Evening Standard; that he had sent a visiting friend out for a copy and that the friend was ready, if she could bear it, to read the piece down the wire - then and there.
Muriel agreed and heard the voice of Peter’s friend; a certain Matthew. He cleared his voice and proceeded.
‘Fine wines and chamber pots provided for royalty in little known stately of dubious ownership.’ There was no doubt as to the identity of the author.
As Matthew, with the odd hiccup, rambled through the words of the piece Muriel lowered her body onto a stool that stood half-hidden under the table and reached for Monopoly who wrapped himself around her legs. It could not possibly be. As she had suspected, but only to herself and in semi-jest, Roger had collaborated with Phyllis. It was all there.
‘It is not explained how the mysterious occupant, Muriel Cottle, (estranged from her husband, Hugh, the disgraced Member of Parliament, whose aff
air with a model caused his resignation)… She has, it seems, already put up the backs of local residents - most importantly the rector and his wife… HRH Princess Matilda’s visit timed to take place within days of the erstwhile owner being shut away… Much attention paid to the needs of the visitor - including a floral chamber pot to answer royal calls of nature during the night…’
The faceless Matthew went on.
‘What is more a row of a scatological nature is said to have broken out between HRH and a member of Mrs Cottle’s staff.’
After adding a sympathetic comment, Matthew handed Muriel back to Peter.
‘I’m dreadfully sorry my dear. I decided that you had to know as soon as possible. There must be a spy in your midst. I don’t think we’re pushed to identify the writer of the piece. Shall I join you? If I can be of any help that is.’ He had already looked up a train and told her where to meet it.
She dashed to the back of the house where she searched in maniacal rage for Phyllis, only to find Kitty who told her that she was upstairs with Farty seeing to Mambles’s preparations for departure. Foul, double-dealing harpy. She decided to call Arthur; to get out of the hellhole before they ousted her.
From that moment the telephone didn’t cease to ring. Local newspapers; weeklies, supplements. Architectural magazines; even a Television channel. Reporters about to appear in the flesh waiting to capture moments of Mambles’s departure. Muriel said ‘no comment’ more than a dozen times before leaving the receiver on the table and deciding to hasten events; to have a word with Mambles in private. She lay, formally clad, on her bed as Farty pressed garments between sheets of tissue paper and Phyllis dawdled beside a long mirror holding one of Mambles’s unsoiled frocks close against her body and preening to her reflection.
Muriel Pulls It Off Page 13