Muriel Pulls It Off

by Susanna Johnston

  The fire raged and Marco set off to re-raid the cellar, informing his mother that Flavia was under the weather and was lying down upon her tantalising bed.

  ‘So sorry.’ Muriel was distracted, and relieved to have Flavia and her pouts out of the way.

  Phyllis came forward wearing on her unhappy face a fixed grin and an air of desperate willingness as her hands flew and fumbled and as Peter, sensitive to the buzzing of a skirt, took hold of Muriel’s hand. Phyllis wanted to know in what way she could help. Were there any tasks? Was there anything to be washed? Ironed? Muriel experienced another round of compassion. She and Phyllis, after all, had an unhealthy point in common for had they not both, at different times but with resembling results, fallen victim to the spurious charms of Roger? The girl deserved another chance. If only she would stop that constant twitching.

  Peter took stock of Muriel’s change of heart for, although he could not see the forbearance in her eyes, he guessed at it. He held her hand as firmly as when he had first taken it upon the advance of Phyllis’s footsteps and whispered, ‘Don’t be too soft. Put her on probation.’ He recognised Muriel’s sympathy for Phyllis as being connected with Roger and repudiated any trap that linked her with the scoundrel.

  Muriel, abashed that Phyllis could thus see her and possibly use this notice to the detriment of all, stiffened and stated that a basket of clothes in need of washing lay in wait in her bathroom. She was shy of telling Peter that she feared for the outcome of this witness to their clasped hands. Roger and his columns. Hugh and his ambitions for squirearchy. Peter sensed much but feared little. ‘Once bitten twice shy. The mind bends to picture what she must have been through since yesterday. There won’t be any more trouble of that kind.’

  Still. They had held hands and Muriel was concerned when she assessed that, other than to guide or to help him in some practical way, she had not before allowed her hand to rest in his; not that the hand-holding had brought her anything but contentment. No flutter of agitation had accompanied the sensation of repose.

  When next the telephone rang it was Mambles, keen for a few words with her old friend.

  ‘You have caused a bit of a flurry. Storm in a teacup. Mummy says so. But, frankly, Muriel you must have nothing more to do with that ghastly journalist.’

  Mambles was always advising Muriel to do the one thing on which she was already resolved. It was an irritating habit but kindly intended.

  ‘Now listen to me. Are you ready for guests yet? Proper guests I mean. I’ve promised to entertain that horrid Greek cousin of ours; the one with the boring wife and dreary daughters. Mummy says that she will come, with an equerry or two if that would help in evening up the numbers.’ She began to count - dividing men from women and establishing that they would still need two extra men if they were to balance up the presence of the two dreary daughters of the horrid Greek Prince.

  Muriel explained that Jerome was on the blink and that it would be awkward at such a time to flood the house with foreign royalty - not to mention herself and Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother (not that she put it in those words).

  ‘Just for the day then. It only takes two hours in the Daimlers. We could be with you in time for lunch. Let’s make it tomorrow, then if the old codger stiffens in the night, we can hush it up until the evening. What a lovely treat. We can have early supper with you and still be home by midnight.’

  Tomorrow.

  There were insuperable obstacles. What if Lizzie were to find out in the wake of her own rebuff? Peter would satisfy as one of the missing men but who else could she find at such short notice? Flavia was sure to revive in time for such a festival and cancel Marco out. Other than à deux, Mambles could not bear a superfluity of women. Mummy must unearth an extra walker. She was cleverer in these ways than was her third daughter.

  Dawson and Delilah. They must be fitted in this time. It was imperative. Teatime?

  ‘Please Muriel,’ Mambles continued with her case. ‘I just can’t stand the thought of feeding them here and Mummy says her cook can’t cope with the numbers at this time of year. She’s usually in Scotland in July and Clarence House is half closed down. She’s only in London because of that stupid piece of chicken bone that got stuck in her oesophagus and she has to be watched. Please say yes. Can you keep that she-man locked away? Mummy would have a fit if he bowed to her.’

  As she wavered, Muriel felt Peter’s hand upon her shoulder. He advised her to agree, whispering that matters couldn’t get worse. That it might restore confidence with Kitty and co. That a happening was what was needed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Muriel. ‘How lovely. We’ll see you all at about twelve-thirty.’

  Tomorrow.

  She wheeled on Peter. ‘What about Lizzie? Phyllis? Dulcie? Oh God alive Peter. What about food? Peter. You’ll have to think of something. Can you turn into two men?’

  ‘Possibly. Now remember that you are in a strong position with Phyllis fawning. Work her to the bone. Dulcie must be banned. I shall ring the rectory and ask if they have a spare son at home; with luck the one who removes his trousers on public transport. I will tell Delilah that you need him to make up the numbers and, what’s more, you want them both to join you here for lunch in the presence of…..’

  ‘What if he removes them at lunch?’

  ‘So much the better.’

  Vigour returned to the house. Kitty subpoenaed a sister or two and Phyllis’s desire to please knew no bounds, although no chamber pots were needed since the royal group did not intend to spend the night on this occasion. Pot plants were trundled back by Joyce and Eric.

  Peter reported on his conversation with a delighted Delilah. Alistair was, by chance, their only son to be at home. Delilah urged that Muriel must not believe any silly bits of gossip that might have circulated in the village concerning Alistair.

  ‘Tongues will wag,’ she told him, ‘and, well, aren’t we all God’s creatures? Another thing. I think it would be appropriate for Dawson to say grace. Royalty expect it I believe. I’ll make sure he wears his dog collar and I’ll get Alistair into a blazer.’ She didn’t mention trousers. ‘Nobody’s going to look at me. I’m only the rector’s wife. And one more thing. I’ve just had a lovely idea. Do suggest to Muriel that she serves us coronation chicken. It would be a gorgeous gesture.’

  Marco dealt with Dulcie, offering her a fiver and ordering her to visit her neighbours at the cat sanctuary. She took the money and said, ‘All right. I know when I’m not wanted.’ Which wasn’t strictly true.

  What was left of the day passed once again in restless preparation. Flavia did not put in an appearance at supper (which was light and slight, all reserves being stationed for the morrow), but Marco, more than efficient in his zeal for the house to be seen at its best, laid bare cupboards where for years precious glass, silver and china services, had been set aside and lost to use.

  Before taking herself and her dog to bed, Muriel answered the telephone to matron. ‘I don’t think the old gentleman will last many more hours,’ she reported and sighed as though to mark her belief that Muriel was likely to be unaffected by the bulletin. Gasping that she would appreciate it if matron could ring, during the night if necessary, to keep her abreast of events, she fell across her bed and weakened into a fresh burst of furious sobs.

  It was hot again on Sunday morning and Muriel woke to the conclusion that she must again give Dawson’s erudite sermon a miss. This repeated lapse in her behaviour, however, was to be more than made up for by granting him permission to say grace before lunch, and she feared that he might cook up an extra orthodox one when confronted by the Greeks.

  Marco worked wonders with supreme wines and accoutrements for the table, setting Kitty’s sisters to work with cloths, brushes and extra leaves that enlarged a table upon which sixteen places were set out.

  Flavia showed up - dressed to kill but pale, grumpy and unwilling to lend a hand in spite of the enormity of events to come. Phyllis lent wandering ones wherever needed but,
never for a second, allowing the leer to lapse on her lips. Kitty cooked and Peter made mental notes on the complex matter of places à table.

  Muriel rang the hospital to learn that Jerome was ‘clinging on’ but not, apparently, to his handrails since he had been bundled into bed and was expected to remain in it until his demise.

  Word of the royal visit had got round and figures ensconced themselves under the ilexes and between laurels in the shrubbery; garden boys and others inclined to share the glory with people from the press.

  By twelve o’clock all duties had been accomplished. At twelve-fifteen news came that Jerome was dead. Peter intercepted this blow. He told matron that Muriel had been called away and was unlikely to return until late that evening; said it would be best for all if Mr Atkins rested in peace until the following day when Mrs Cottle would put in an appearance at the hospital at an early hour.

  Matron suggested that it was ‘a shame’ that his relative had not been there to see him out. ‘But then, of course, she’s been occupied with her entertaining.’ She agreed, since no alternative arose, to Peter’s proposal.

  Dawson and Delilah, accompanied by Alastair who wore blazer and trousers, were the first to arrive.

  Muriel, Marco, Flavia and Peter received them in the drawing room. Delilah was colourfully dressed and her hair, that looked to have been screwed into curlers since first she learnt of her luck, was jammed in tight rolls to the side of her face. She pushed Alistair to the fore. ‘He has a lovely job now, haven’t you dear? Well. Dawson got it for him. Pulled strings. He’s selling at the Bible shop at Shifford.’ Muriel’s eyes went to Alistair’s flies for she wished to establish that the zip was fastened.

  Dawson asked her if she had thought any more about the school’s overspend and whether or not the fete was to be held in her grounds.

  Delilah interposed. ‘Poor Jerome. How is he? We thought we might pop in and see him this afternoon. Dawson, as I said before, is lovely with the dying.’

  Peter was beside them in an instant.

  ‘Tomorrow might be better. He was tired out yesterday.’

  Muriel frowned. It would have been an ideal way of getting rid of Dawson and Delilah, Alistair too, in the afternoon. She was frantic enough as to how to entertain her guests between lunch and supper without Dawson and Delilah hovering about, unable to tear themselves away. Was Peter becoming bossy? Interfering in this way.

  Time ran out and there was no further opportunity for the unravelling of this mix-up, for Phyllis warned that a slow cortège of glistening Daimlers approached and that the first one had already pulled up outside the front door.

  Mambles and her mother sat in the back, Moggan at the wheel and a tidily dressed equerry-cum-courtier beside him. The second car contained a brace of equerries-cum-courtiers, one of which sat in the back with the Greek Prince - or King. Muriel couldn’t remember which.

  The boring wife and deadly daughters, as portrayed by Mambles, came in the third car but no one attempted to climb from their place until Queen Elizabeth had been photographed and safely escorted to the porch where she was awaited by her hostess and her son. A group of plain-clothes detectives followed at discreet distance. It had been decided in advance that Peter and Flavia stay in the drawing room with Dawson, Delilah and their silent descendant.

  A reception committee formed in the hall; Kitty and her sisters, Mavis and Phyllis - all wishing to be seen to advantage. Muriel had not instructed them to line up in this way and wondered how they had concocted such a concept.

  Queen Elizabeth, in organdie, truly floated to the porch and Muriel tried not to cry for it was all a bit much. Mambles followed and soon, in a terrible rush, the entire party crowded dark corners.

  Prince Alexis of Greece was a short man, dark and undistinguished but with manners of syrup. He kissed Muriel’s hand and said ‘charming’ several times before introducing his womenfolk. Princess Roxana was also short, and old before her years. The two girls were undersized and Mambles towered above them, smiling at each, eager to promote how well her friend had done in inheriting such a place.

  But Mambles’s thoughts were mainly for ‘Mummy’ who wished to be taken to the bathroom, as Mambles called the lavatory.

  At first the equerries-cum-courtiers were indistinguishable from each other in their tidy clothes and uniform politeness. They gave themselves no airs and admired everything with exemplary correctitude. Marco took it upon himself to chat-up the two undersized Greek Princesses, both of whom suffered from self-consciousness.

  They giggled as he led them to the room where the earlier group awaited them and giggled as he introduced them to Alastair who giggled back but made no attempt to disgrace himself.

  When all were assembled; when all had been introduced; when Delilah had become half-dazed from curtseying; when Dawson had buttonholed the Queen Mother to recount to her a rambling story concerning the behaviour of a certain Archbishop of Canterbury at some royal ceremony at which Her Majesty had been present; when drinks had been dispensed - only then did Muriel begin to believe that the game was absolutely up, that she was unfit to entertain in this fashion. Her head throbbed and she could answer in nothing but syllables as equerries, in turn, posed questions as to the precise date of the house. The whole became hazy.

  Queen Elizabeth sipped thirstily at a dry martini and smiled gloriously as Delilah told her of the honour she bestowed, and mentioned that one of her most precious possessions was a coronation mug depicting Her Royal Highness and the late King in all their finery.

  Dawson’s grace was long and in Latin. Muriel was near to fainting as she seated herself between Prince Alexis and Dawson in his dog collar. Looking the length of the table, she accepted, despite her irritation with him, that Peter had done well with the seating arrangements. Alastair sat between the Princesses. At one point he looked to his knees and Muriel fancied that he prepared a repeat of his exposure on public transport. Delilah, happily protected by two equerries, kept a close eye on her boy and Flavia, between an equerry and Peter, continued to sulk and contribute little.

  Marco, flanked by the Queen Mother and Mambles, paid no attention to his wife’s sullen behaviour but pulled out stop after stop, charming, amusing and delighting the royal ladies so his mother could not but be content. Marco was, it had to be admitted, a wondrous social asset. Peter betrayed nothing but amusement.

  Prince Alexis, stupefied by the quality of the white Burgundy, asked Muriel if Bradstow Manor had been her home since childhood for, clearly, Mambles had not briefed him.

  ‘No. Only a week - if that. I’d never heard of it a fortnight ago.’

  He was puzzled, judged her insane and told her childish jokes; one about an old King who thrust his bottom out of a railway carriage.

  He admired a Chinese lacquered clock that ticked in an alcove. It reminded him, he said, of his own childhood and his English governess who had taught him and his brothers a song entitled ‘My Grandfather’s Clock’. It was accompanied by a merry air and he and his siblings had amused themselves by removing the letter ‘l’ from the lines. He puffed his chest and rendered in a low and tuneful tone:

  My Grandfather’s cock was too big for the shelf

  So it stood ninety years on the floor.

  It was larger by half than the old man himself

  Though it weighed not a penny weight more.’

  Both Muriel and Delilah glanced at Alistair who giggled with the shy Princesses, all three near to losing inhibitions. Princess Roxana sighed and frowned. Dawson, on the deaf side, clapped, for he did not hear the finer points and approved of song. Queen Elizabeth and Mambles rose high above earthly matters and, apart from Flavia in her filthy mood, all went well.

  Phyllis, Kitty and Kitty’s sisters tripped and trotted with extreme neatness in spite of resentment rankling in Kitty that the rectory crowd should be included on such a day and that Phyllis was still present in their midst.

  Princess Roxana of Greece, not entirely unmoved by her husband
’s lapse in taste, swallowed her pride and sat enthralled as Dawson described his own method of brewing beer and commented kindly as he propounded the problem of the overspend on the school budget and, in lower voice, told of the head lice alert. A case had been reported in lower primary earlier in the week.

  Kitty had done wonders with several chickens (not precisely cooked in coronation style but near enough to earn a beam of satisfaction from Delilah), a floating pudding and, thanks to Marco and treasures from the cellar, the enjoyment of the royal party knew no bounds.

  Dawson stood to say grace. The meal was over. A hurdle scaled. Now what? What the hell was Muriel to do with them now?

  Mambles suggested that Mummy lie down for an hour and volunteered to care for her if Phyllis would show them to a bedroom.

  ‘I wanted to bring Farty but she looked so alarmed at the prospect of returning here that I let her off the hook. Poor Farty. Mummy thought of getting Cunty for the day but, sadly, she’s got a gallstone.’

  Alastair offered to take the Greek girls for a ramble, to which suggestion their mother agreed, believing it fitting that her girls should stroll with the son of a rector who had said grace at luncheon.

  The three spare men, too, decided to take advantage of their summer day in the country and walked away, each keeping pace with the other, in the direction of the stream.

  Mambles tended to the needs of Queen Elizabeth as she reposed in Muriel’s guest bedroom and Flavia slipped to her own. Marco ignored her escape and proposed to Prince Alexis and Princess Roxana that a tour of the house, inside and out, might interest them.

  Muriel was left with Peter, Dawson and Delilah.

  ‘Muriel, how can we ever thank you? I shall get Dawson to write a prayer of thanksgiving. What an honour to say grace in the presence of royalty. By the way, was that wine from Jerome’s cellar? How gorgeous that you’ve taken the plunge. He wouldn’t have a bottle touched you know. Sacrosanct. Not that we minded. Plonk is quite good enough for us as you know.’