Muriel Pulls It Off

by Susanna Johnston

  Marco brightened and turned towards her, lines of weariness escaping from his white face. ‘Might you Ma? You must hang on to this place at all costs. I’ll tell Flave. It’ll cheer her up. I’ll try to get myself sorted out - work or whatnot.’

  Untroubled by suspicion.

  He smiled and said, ‘Good old Gran,’ and stretched himself as though to express a view that problems had been shelved.

  They returned to the house where Muriel’s attention was grasped by those who sought instruction.

  ‘It’s likely to be a large crowd.’ Phyllis used her hands indicating a mob. ‘Mr Atkins was well liked before he went funny. There’s the church group; school managers and the rest. They’re not going to want to miss out.’

  The funeral was planned for the following Thursday at midday. Then there was to be a buffet lunch hosted by Muriel for an indefinite number of guests.

  Interminable confabulation with Dawson ensued. ‘It’s come at a bad time - what with the fete. Now Delilah. She’s an expert on flower arrangement as you know. As a matter of fact, she’s known as the Constance Spry of the Midlands around here.’

  Peter undertook to sort out the order of service with the help of Kitty and her pencil. Joyce and Eric wheeled in pots and Muriel considered it unseemly that the very same blooms appeared and reappeared with little to show for their journeys but the explosion of the odd extra flower or the removal of the odd piece of fading foliage. It would have been more festive to have shown different displays for different types of occasion.

  Dulcie humped logs.

  ‘He liked a fire at all times as I have previously mentioned.’ Once again the weather was scorchingly hot.

  Phyllis came, breathing conscientious effort, to ask if Muriel cared for her to bundle up Jerome’s clothes in time for the fete.

  ‘Joyce would be pleased to have them. She runs the rummage.’

  Whilst assenting, Muriel inspected her image and accepted that there was every chance that criticism would arise. Jerome’s clothes flung from the house to be unravelled upon the village rummage stall within days of his departure from the world.

  Flavia kept to her room.

  The telephone began to ring in earnest although more often than not the calls were put through by Dawson or Delilah offering suggestions. Muriel realised how little she knew of Jerome and his earlier doings. Had he, for example, ever earned a decoration? OBE or something.

  Arthur came in person to the rescue, happy to be of service and exaggeratedly civil in his address to the lady of the house.

  On the morning of the day before Jerome’s funeral Muriel paid a visit to the Norman Church of which Dawson was the rector.

  Waterproof sheeting, spread to cover the width and half of the aisle, was heaped high with flowers and greenery where three elderly ladies chatted as they sifted and arranged under the directions of Delilah whose hair was gathered in a flimsy net and who called ‘Cooee! I’m in my element. Flowers!’ She pronounced the word ‘flahs’ and pressed her face into the prickle of a rose.

  She introduced Muriel to her companions. ‘My team,’ she termed them with pride.

  ‘Now team. This is Muriel. Muriel Cottle. You’ll find her a tremendous kindred spirit.’

  The three elderly women gazed at her in boundless curiosity for there were many reasons to excite their wonder. Not one amongst them was free of the knowledge of wines, chamber pots and royalty, and the affair of Hugh and Miss Ingrid Malone, too, had been doing the rounds. Whatever appeasement offered by Delilah in her assurances that it took all sorts and that Muriel was likely to be a tremendous kindred spirit, they had their doubts.

  ‘How kind. How very kind. Can I help? A vase or something?’ Muriel tried in the face of scandal.

  The women started and stared and one ran to a cupboard that stood in a dark corner behind the organ and beneath bells. Muriel, in the knowledge that she was held in disrespectful awe, was anxious not to make a hash of her flower arrangement. Delilah made almost as free with Muriel’s first name as had Chuck Cabbage with her second. The woman who had run to the cupboard returned with a large glass vase that she handed to Muriel, saying, ‘Let me know if you need any help. Oasis or wire.’

  Delilah took charge.

  ‘What about down there? Just below the pulpit. There. Gorgeous. Make sure that Dawson’s surplice won’t brush it when he passes on his way to deliver the address. Lovely one by the way. A bit above my head, I fear but you’ll appreciate it and, er, some of your London friends. Might any of them be coming?’

  She threw a conspiratorial look that radiated upon her fellow florists and sent their colours rising as Muriel filled her vase with a tangle of roses and honeysuckle, squashing them together and tousling them around until they presented a blob of untidy bravura.

  Standing back, she stared at them; much pleased to have produced such a delightful effect. Delilah was beside herself; full of praise.

  ‘I can see that you’re a natural with flahs. But, I’ll tell you what. A little tip.’ She squatted and started to tweak at the masterpiece. Using both hands she twitched at stems to the left and to the right of the vase. As she gave her concentration, the shape of the arrangement altered, becoming flattened and fanned.

  ‘There. That’s all it needed. It’s a little something I learnt. Women’s Institute as a matter of fact. Might you be persuaded to join? We had a gorgeous girl down. Constance Spry-trained. She passed on the knack.’

  Muriel guessed that she was unlikely to be collared as a member of the Church flower rota and offered thanks and wild appreciation as she left the ladies to fan to their hearts delight and walked back, the length of the village, to resume other duties.

  There were those who stared at her as she passed and to each, unseeing, she threw a dazed smile of warmth.

  At the house, goings-on had reached a peak. Marco, with unnatural ebullience, raced around with a silver cleaning cloth tucked into the belt of his trousers and Peter continued to make mental notes. There were those, he had been advised, who would expect to be placed in the church; Arthur, gorgeous matron, Delilah and so on. Muriel and Marco (Flavia, too, if she were to attend) must, of course, sit in the front pew, right beside the corpse.

  Chuck Cabbage crossed the carpet; unexpectedly, silently and clad in a light grey mac.

  ‘Last minute details Mrs Cottle. You, Mrs Cottle, as chief mourner, along with your son, Mrs Cottle, if you so wish, will be expected to enter the church behind the coffin. We, Mrs Cottle, that is to say myself and my lads, will bear the body Mrs Cottle. I’ll tip you the wink when we are about to leave. Just outside the porch that will be Mrs Cottle. There was a time, Mrs Cottle, when it would have been our job to carry the body up the church path, Mrs Cottle. The lads today, I’m sorry to say Mrs Cottle, aren’t what they were and, consequently Mrs Cottle, we draw the package as far as the porch, Mrs Cottle, on a truck.’

  Muriel registered that she was to be tipped the wink as soon as the coffin had been shunted from the truck and, with misgiving, accepted the part she was required to play.

  Phyllis passed on the way to an outhouse - carrying black bags stuffed with Jerome’s clothing as Marco called out to her, ‘Steady Phyllis. There might be some interesting things in those bags. Waistcoats and whatnot. Let’s have a dekko before you throw them out.’

  Muriel stood mortified. It was bad enough to be jettisoning Jerome’s effects. Worse still the proceeds were to be sidetracked from fete funds to increase the lining of Cottle pockets. Never before had she so disliked her name.

  Flavia came down to breakfast on the day of the funeral and, although her aspect was wan, she forced a smile and bid Muriel, ‘Good luck Chick.’ Marco showed her some attention as they gave the impression of a pair who had recently ridden a storm. Breakfast was cleared at top speed, for those in charge of the kitchen wished to deck themselves in black. Outside caterers had been hired to produce luncheon for an indefinite number and flowers accompanied by cards inscribed by unknown (t
o Muriel) authors, were delivered at an alarming rate.

  Muriel, as she changed into a grey frock that matched perfectly with Mr Cabbage’s mac, spoke aloud to Monopoly who lay on her bed.

  ‘I’ll be better, old boy, when this is over.’

  Monopoly replied with an uncertain and unsatisfactory movement of a paw.

  They gathered in the hallway; Phyllis, Kitty, Mavis and a sprinkling of Kitty’s sisters; soberly dressed and carrying black handbags, each looking as if it had been in store since winter.

  With the crash of a closing door, Dulcie, in a pinstripe suit of thick cloth and a navy peaked cap, lunged to the centre of those who gathered, ‘He’ll be bloody mouldy by now in this heat.’

  Near to the time for the great occasion, Muriel shooed them all, including Peter, from the house, explaining that they were to go ahead to take their places in pews.

  She, Marco and Flavia remained; intent upon timing.

  The three spoke together in agitated nervousness, Marco observing, ‘It all looks pretty smashing Ma,’ and Flavia echoing, ‘Yes. Well done Chick. I wonder if the rector’s son will be there - or has he left for Cap Ferrat?’

  Marco put his arm round his wife’s waist and said, ‘Hope he doesn’t do anything funny in church, Flave. You’re not to look. Not in your condition.’

  Muriel, cracking at her knuckles before placing a finger to her lips, implored, ‘No jokes kids. Not ’til later,’ and, in harmony they headed for the church.

  Bells clanged as they made their way, entangling with other mourners who had left their cars in a field on the opposite side of the road to the house. Ladies tested the ground for firmness under their high-heeled shoes and darkly dressed gentlemen saw to the locking of their vehicles. The three chief mourners dawdled, allowing for strangers to pass them by in the hope of being unwatched when tipped the wink by Mr Cabbage. There were stragglers who stared at the coffin; flower-laden and resting behind the glass of a glistening hearse.

  Mr Cabbage and his lads wore grey macs of identical cut and Muriel regretted not having donned black.

  There was an indefinable flaw in the atmosphere that made Muriel afraid for she was not certain where it came from. The colour of a car? A half-recognition? Monopoly’s discreetly doubting response to her suggestion that the worst was nearly over?

  She found Mr Cabbage’s sepulchral confidence reassuring. He wore the mask of one who had buried a million stiffs a minute, year in year out, including bank holidays.

  ‘Now Mrs Cottle. You wait here by the hearse while we get the coffin onto the truck Mrs Cottle.’ He advised her, then, to walk a few paces ahead of the truck and to halt beside it as they decamped the cadaver by the porch. All this took an age and further latecomers passed them in haste as they accompanied the truck, but paused to peer at Muriel.

  Organ music, selected by Peter, wheezed out into the open and attendants, one of which was a fully and sombrely clad Alastair, handed out service sheets. Dawson stood, pleased and surpliced, in the porch as he fiddled with his hearing aid.

  ‘Pretty good turn out,’ he addressed Muriel. ‘Many unknown to me, though I daresay Delilah will be able to identify most of them for you. She’s a walking address book.’

  The walking address book already sat upon a privileged pew.

  Headed by Dawson, the procession moved slowly through the body of the church. He raised his face to heaven and without stumbling and in a resounding voice, half sang the words, ‘We brought nothing into this world and it is certain that we can carry nothing out.’ Muriel knew that all eyes were upon her. Everybody in the church had heard of her good fortune in inheriting the something that failed to accompany Jerome. Head half-down and wrapped in morbid thought she, with Marco and Flavia, followed Dawson’s lead. On a reflex she allowed her eyes to swivel towards her vase, the flowers in which stood fanned and to which sprigs of feathery fern had been added.

  When Mr Cabbage and his team had deposited Jerome upon a wooden frame that had been set up for the purpose, he signalled to Muriel that she and her two companions take their places in the front pew on the right-hand side of the aisle. This had been left empty for them and she saw, as she turned to obey orders, that a partified Delilah in mauve stood immediately behind it and that beside her, in dumb fury, huffed Dulcie. No more faces could she distinguish for she faced the front, and Dawson announced the first hymn. ‘Fight the Good Fight.’ Muriel remembered Jerome as he walloped the ambulance men.

  As the congregation sang the first verse Muriel entertained, for an unbelieving second, the instinct that her fears were being confirmed.

  A male voice, a strong but wavery alto paying much attention to vowel sounds, overreached those of fellow singers and burst from a pew not far behind her. During the following verse she strained more earnestly to listen and the weak fears that had first aroused her belief made way for an indisputable truth - that the voice belonged to Hugh. She clasped at the wooden arm beside her and mustered force to remain upright as Delilah reached out from behind, laid a jewelled hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Are you overcome? There. It speaks well for you Muriel. Try and cling on until Dawson’s address. Then you’ll be able to sit and, though I say it, you’ll find it stimulating.’

  By the time Delilah stopped talking they were all well into the third verse.

  ‘Cast care aside…’ How could she? Hugh’s vowels came across powerfully and with punch. Marco stirred and laid a hand upon one of his mother’s. They faced each other and he mouthed the one word ‘father’ with astonishment and amused interest. He passed the word to Flavia who turned right around and, visually bypassing Delilah and Dulcie, set her eyes upon the singing face of Hugh, then turned back to inform Marco that his mother’s suppositions were corroborated.

  ‘That’s all we need. That, That, That’s all we need,’ sang Muriel to music as the fourth verse commenced. The singing of that first hymn completed, the congregation sat and waited for Arthur, in morning coat, to take to the lectern for he was to perform the first reading. It was obvious that he had rehearsed this solo several times, and in front of a long looking glass.

  He cleared his throat most traditionally, looked from the front to the back of the church and began.

  ‘Call me by my old familiar name. Speak to me in the old easy way which we always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.’ He ended with the sinister words, ‘I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner.’

  Muriel continued to tremble as the second hymn, providing even greater scope for Hugh and his vocal feats, struck up. She attended to no voice but his and the knowledge of his nearness brought her close to passing out as it dawned on her that he was certain to expect to be invited to spend the night at the manor. He was, in fairness, her husband and it was unlikely that he would even consider an invitation necessary. She thought about Monopoly and resolved to send the dog to the devil were he to resume his loyalty to Hugh.

  And what on earth was Delilah going to make of this unheralded and unexplained arrival? Introductions all round. Hitherto, the companions of her new life, whatever their suspicions, had been tactful in their reticence concerning Hugh - and Hugh was likely to take it amiss when he discovered his brother to have become, practically, a piece of his wife’s precious furniture.

  These disturbances flew about her as she allowed the darkness of the service to rush past, although, during Psalm 147, she shuddered as Hugh’s voice soared to the words (in reference to the Lord) ‘Neither delighted he in any man’s legs.’ She was glad that the Lord delighted not in Roger’s recently-plastered leg. Jerome’s were safely in the box liberated from rank trousers. Whether erudite or not, Dawson’s address was tedious. It related largely to the school and its predicted overspend. He did produce an anecdote or two about Jerome but threads were hard to follow. One of them concerned an incident at a school manager’s meeting upon which Dawson and the deceased mistook each other’s hearing ai
ds for their own. It was a feeble example of wit and Muriel wondered why the aids had not been firmly plugged into the appropriate ears.

  After the service, Dawson announced that Mrs Cottle had invited the whole congregation to take lunch with her and, he added, ‘I think this is an appropriate moment to welcome the new owner of Bradstow Manor into our midst.’

  There were no noticeable noises of assent but necks craned and Muriel thought of nothing but how this public recognition of her new role might be affecting Hugh; his own name and connection unmentioned as he rested his voice.

  The mackintosh men entered and lifted the coffin from the wooden frame and hoisted it upon their shoulders. Walking with the procession, Muriel at last looked about her but did not turn to the spot from which Hugh’s voice had soared. Their meeting was inevitable and sure to take place within a short space of time. She turned to the opposite side of the aisle and spotted Roger. His grey eyes stood out in startling contrast to the black suit he wore. Each failed, deliberately, to catch the other’s glance but Muriel, as she passed, took stock of a female at his side. The fleeting impression portrayed a small, plump and heavily decorated woman who wore a black hat with a veil which covered half her face.

  Muriel was truly dumfounded. Roger had never clapped eyes on Jerome and had been as good as asked to leave his house. He had betrayed every person connected with the place, including the housekeeper, to the extent that even the omnivorous Marco had called him to account.

  Dawson led the troupe through the church and out into the open where the sun shone and where many began to suffer from the heat in their funeral outfits. They followed him to a corner of the churchyard where sections of artificial lawn surrounded a deeply-dug hole and contrasted with the brown dryness of summer grass.

  Standing by the orifice, eyes turned once more to heaven, Dawson crumbled between his fingers a handful of earth. He scattered grains over the coffin which had been speedily lowered and, speaking for the people, let loose a last farewell, ‘…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ who shall change our vile body….’