Poor Jerome with his yellow-brown body and ripping farts.
Delilah was the first to squeeze Muriel by the hand and then to follow up the gesture with a kiss, anxious in her wish to introduce the chief mourner to everyone in sight. Here her reputation as a walking address book belied facts as she scoured around for many minutes before she could collar anybody of her acquaintance. During these minutes, Hugh made his approach.
Muriel’s first impression was one of stupefaction for he was nothing if not over dressed. This was a new departure. In their earlier life together he had made a study of casual clothing; to the extent that his sartorial deficiencies were, occasionally, and justifiably, mocked. He used to be accused of attempting to ‘make a statement.’
A very different statement, if statement it were, was now made.
Hugh reddened hotly in a thick morning coat; traditional stiff collar, black tie and pearl pin. Only Arthur and two other elderly men wore similar outfits. Others wore black suits or, particularly the younger members, grey or pale cotton.
‘You look smart,’ she ventured.
‘Hired it. This morning. Just flown in from Johannesburg and thought I might be needed.’
He looked at her most attentively and Muriel sensed that not only Delilah but others, Dulcie in particular, watched and listened.
‘I hope you will be able to come back for lunch.’
Hugh, at this, was greatly startled.
‘Lunch Muriel? I’m back. Back for good. We’ll discuss it later. I’ve come to give you support. Don’t tell me you don’t need it - or have things been plain sailing?’
‘Plain sailing? I wouldn’t say so. Later Hugh. When the guests have gone. Later. I’ll explain.’ She had no idea what she was going to explain as she turned her back on him.
There was nothing at that juncture that she was prepared to say and, most surely, she had no wish to introduce him as her husband to baffled funeral guests. General rejoicing might ensue. Delilah and Dawson, in Christian joy, would jump to clamp the pair together; happy family at Bradstow Manor; that and royalty. It could not be.
Peter and Marco greeted brother and father. Peter with reticence and Marco with great good humour. ‘Hello Dad. Here to share the spoils? Don’t blame you. Ma’s done pretty well for herself.’ He forgot where he was but paused as the head teacher showed him a look of ugly reproof.
Muriel, after turning her back on her husband, found herself eyeball to eyeball with Roger who made, unsuccessfully, to kiss her on the cheek as she held him at bay during a muddled moment with neither one knowing how to handle the next phase of the encounter. The podgy woman who wore cosmetics and who Muriel had noticed as she passed the pew, was definitely Roger’s date for the day. She appeared to know nobody and held her body close to Roger’s as one who wished herself to be considered protected.
‘Aha. Yes. Aha. This is Judith. Judith Atkins as a matter of fact.’
Atkins. Atkins. They stood but inches from the dead and buried body of Jerome. Jerome Atkins.
Muriel refused to react to this heinous introduction but muttered, ‘Hot isn’t it?’
She dared not seek the company of Peter for he continued to talk to Hugh as the graveyard group disbanded down the church path, heading for the house. Delilah was her only hope. Together they walked, clear of the rest, through the village; Delilah jubilant to have carried off such a prize, Muriel praying for Jerome not to be waiting for her, somewhere very near, just around the corner.
After the occasional interruption, (a farmer here, a friendly neighbour there - one keen to earn points for broadmindedness) they arrived hotly at the front door of the house that stood, supposedly, threatened by Miss Judith Atkins.
The party, if such constituted Jerome’s wake, got off to a loud start. People arrived, one on top of the other, none having come but the short distance from the church. The house was, within a short space of time, jammed with darkly-dressed men and women who, in the heat, grabbed gratefully at glasses filled at Muriel’s bidding, and contrived to meet their hostess. Cold luncheon was served in the dining room where guests helped themselves and then wandered to sit with whom they pleased. Muriel left the duties of hospitality to Marco who gained pleasure from bestowing instant commitment with fluency and ease of manner.
She had a double task. It was imperative not to have truck with Hugh until the visitors had departed and it was equally imperative to have none, at any stage during the day, with Roger or Miss Judith Atkins. She knew the executions of these evasions to be unrealistic for, were they not there to confront? What purpose did Roger proffer in the production of this woman?
She flew up the stairway, sledgehammers beating at her head, and hurled herself upon Monopoly who slumbered on her bed. How dare Hugh shock her in this way? She decided, then and there, to hide the dog and looked for cubbyholes. Her main desire was that Hugh and Monopoly should not come face to face. She planned, if necessary, to lie to Hugh and to explain that, in his absence, his pet had died a natural death. Pined.
The end of her world threatened if Monopoly were to change allegiance. Of Peter she was sure there was no likelihood that he would support his brother in favour of herself or encourage her to mend her marriage, but dogs were different and she had never been able to fathom their secrets - for Monopoly was the only dog ever to have held a place in her anti-canine heart.
Exhaustion subdued her spirit as she lay with her head buried in Monopoly’s fur but she knew it was imperative for her to preserve outward composure and to rejoin the wake.
Downstairs, she cold-shouldered Roger, as did Marco - which impressed his mother for, normally, he had no talent for such tactics. Flavia held herself aloof. Phyllis, red and runny, refused to travel in the direction of her seducer as Miss Atkins clung closer and Roger, glued to the female, strove for an interview with Arthur. He recognised the latter from his earlier visit to Bradstow when Arthur had passed him by as he picked his nose in the hall.
Guests ate and drank as Delilah, social predator, contrived to mix with all she met. As befitted her sense of responsibility, she spent a word or two on Phyllis and beamed upon Sonia who sobbed, but her true energy targeted meatier quarry.
Roger, on the point of accosting Arthur, took her attention for he wore the look of one who came from far afield.
She tackled him. ‘I always think it’s permissible to introduce oneself at a funeral don’t you? After all - we do have one thing in common. We are all here because of Jerome. Are you, by any chance, a relative?’
‘Ahem. Not personally, but allow me to present Miss Atkins. Miss Judith Atkins.’
His face was both blanched and livid as he reached for further refreshment from a tray carried by Phyllis, who had no wish to prevent the consequences of such a transaction.
‘Miss Atkins! You must be a relative! Don’t tell me you’re not. Where’s Muriel? She would hate to miss the opportunity of meeting a relative.’
Failing to find Muriel, she plumped for second choice and seized upon Arthur who munched nearby, scattering rice onto his morning suit.
As she performed the niceties, Delilah’s higher ambition was to identify the strange man talking to the blind and puzzling Mr Cottle, Muriel’s brother-in-law.
‘Miss Atkins? May I call you Judith? Christian names only, down here. Rule of the village. This is Mr Stiller. Arthur. He’s a sweetie. Jerome’s solicitor.’
Roger showed signs of becoming the worse for wear and looked hazily on as Jerome’s solicitor, now to all effects Muriel’s, came face to face with Roger’s nominee.
‘Pleased to meet you. Sorry. Can’t shake hands. Always a bit of a problem at these do’s you know. I can’t say that I ever heard Jerome mention any kin; other than Mrs Cottle, that is to say.’
For the first time Miss Judith Atkins spoke. She signalled to Roger for support but without result for he had become bleary.
‘I was not aware that Mrs Cottle was his kin.’
‘Not his own, perhaps, but his wi
fe’s.’
‘Mr Stiller. I plan to spend the night at The Bear at Shifford. I have reason to believe that a meeting between you and I might be beneficial to us both. I am free at any time during the day tomorrow and will presume to ring you at your office in the morning.’
The length and content of her sentence weakened Miss Atkins and she turned to Delilah for reassurance. Delilah, both flabbergasted and uneasy at witnessing such divisive insinuation, commenced, uncharacteristically, to panic. The woman who confronted Arthur was neither young nor old. She was unclassifiable in that respect but, under Delilah’s scrutiny, passed as something near to fifty.
Muriel, having braved her re-entry and expecting Jerome to be lurking just around the corner, came into view and Delilah hailed her, confident that with her royal connections, she was certain to triumph.
Before Delilah could capture her, a vast female face, property of an ageing widow, swam as from an aquarium, to meet Muriel’s own.
‘You won’t know me. Well, how could you? My name is Angela Swann. My late husband, Godfrey, and myself used to enjoy good times here in the old days and we’re all anxious to know if you’re going to make any alterations. A little bird has hinted that you’re planning to call down a London decorator.’ In claustrophobic anxiety, Muriel inched away, creating some space into which a reply might be fitted between their two mouths, but such a reply was not to be allowed for. Another face wedged itself in there and opened its mouth.
‘I can’t help wondering if you received my letter. I’m your local councillor. I wrote several days back, as a matter of fact, concerning a vindictive element in the neighbourhood.’
‘I’m hopeless, I’m afraid. Disappointing everybody. It’s early days. Nothing’s certain.’ As she backed and backed - she backed, as it happened, onto a patch of carpet near to where Roger, slowly and noiselessly, sagged and crumpled to the ground. He had passed out. Delilah sidestepped the body and clove to Muriel who had only guessed at Judith Atkins’s intentions; guessed, too, that Roger would not have selected the gauchely-attired creature for this inappropriate outing other than with nefarious motive.
Half the party ate in the dining room; some in the hall and the remainder, not more than twenty at the most, sat or stood supporting glasses and plates in the drawing room. Among this number sat Hugh and Peter whose heads touched in the bow window. Their conversation, to Muriel as she scanned, gave the impression of earnest compatibility.
Delilah came very close.
‘Muriel I must ask you something. That man talking to your brother-in-law. There’s a resemblance. Can you throw any light on his identity?’
‘Him? Hugh. He’s my husband.’
It had to be told.
Arthur, scattering rice, mulled over the words of the half-veiled stranger at whose feet Roger groaned, and agonised as to which side his bread was likely to be buttered.
Delilah, ignited by Muriel’s tidings, wondered who to inform as guests began to leave. Those who had not already collared her sought Muriel with the desire to shake her by the hand and to invest in the future life at Bradstow Manor; royalty and all. She allowed for politeness and willed them with sincerity upon their ways. Then, as though their presence had been but imaginings, they were gone.
Roger lay, secretion oozing from a corner of his mouth, prostrate across the carpet as Judith Atkins looked daggers in his way; her supporter rendered useless by champagne. She had, in fairness, gained permission to put through a call to Arthur in the morning but, at present, failed in further audacity without a hand from her champion.
Arthur left, and those present in the drawing room dwindled to the following figures; Hugh, Peter and Marco in confabulation, the inert Roger, Judith Atkins, Phyllis and Kitty, a brace of Kitty’s sisters clearing plates and glasses, and Dawson and Delilah. Alastair had beaten an early retreat in order to see to his packing for he planned to leave for Cap Ferrat the next day.
Muriel pre-empted Delilah; thanking both her and Dawson for the gorgeousness of the service, the flowers and for their general assistance and saying that, before long, she would arrange a get-together.
With curiosity and reluctance they took their leave and, as they did so, Muriel’s heart failed her. The die was cast and at any second she and Hugh would be tackling immediate plans. Longer ones must be shelved.
Chapter 12
The confrontation that she had held in trepidation, longed for, dreaded, imagined and rejected was on the point of taking place. Hugh was at her side, smiling and aiming to touch her, absurdly narcissistic in morning suit and with a glass or two of champagne inside him. Marco and Peter remained by the bow window.
‘Muriel, sit down. You must be tired.’ He enraged her. The cheek of it. Feigning to worry on the instant as to whether or not she was tired after months of desertion. She might, during those months, have dropped dead on a million occasions without his footling concern.
He made to avoid the motionless body of Roger that hindered his gallant attempts but the manoeuvre forced him to stumble and trip; to lurch and grasp with one hand at the arm of the sofa and with the other to clutch at the wrist of Miss Judith Atkins. She was not displeased. The reverse, and stated archly as she complained, that she found sequences hard to follow.
‘I’m not thick, though I say so myself. In fact I tend to be an insightful person.’ She smiled contentedly as she helped Hugh to gain his balance and then to sit.
‘I mean - who is who amongst you all?’
‘And who,’ asked Muriel, ‘are you?’
‘I am Judith Atkins. Niece of the deceased. My father, Archie Atkins, was his brother. Two years younger. That is to say, they fell out. The dynamics went wrong in the nursery and they never made it up. My uncle made a posh marriage and believed himself too good for us.’
‘So. You are here as Jerome’s niece. How come you brought Roger along?’
They all looked at the figure on the floor.
‘That is to say he brought me. Had it not been for Roger, who is a new acquaintance,’ here she smirked, ‘I would not have been informed of my uncle’s demise.’
Muriel, wondering where Miss Atkins had picked up the use of such queer language, pressed on, pleased to postpone a set-to with Hugh.
‘Why did Roger think fit to bring you to your own uncle’s funeral? He and Jerome never met.’
Miss Atkins showed signs of anxiety. ‘Well. That is to say, I assumed he knew my uncle. He told me he was well in with you Cottles.’
Hugh jumped at the word ‘Cottle.’ After all, he was one. His hour had come. Clearing his throat as he had done in church when exercising his vocal chords, he decided to take charge.
‘Am I to assume that neither you or, er, Roger have ever met Mr Atkins?’
‘Correct. Have you?’
‘As a matter of fact - no. I didn’t meet him but I am married to Muriel; Muriel Cottle. Mr Atkins’s, well, sort of niece.’
‘Not as much of a niece as I am, I have been led to believe.’
‘Possibly not but, well, now the funeral is over, will you be returning to London? Did you come from London this morning?’ He was muddled, and floundered as he adjusted his position on the sofa.
‘The Bear at Shifford. That is to say that I would have stayed at The Bear at Shifford with Roger.’ Roger showed no sign of life.
‘But, well, perhaps a bed here would be forthcoming? If I could ask for assistance in getting Roger up the stairs, we would not expect a meal.’
Big of you, thought Muriel as she organised their departure in her mind.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That won’t work. We’ll have to revive him. I’ll send for Dulcie.’
She still entertained the whisper of a wonder that Roger had fathered her forthcoming grandchild. Were that so, he had, at some point, held a carnal position in the lives of most of the women in the house.
After leaving the room, she walked to the kitchen where she asked a gloating Phyllis to fetch Dulcie and to tell her that help w
as needed for the task of resuscitating the inebriated Roger. Phyllis rallied with twitching zeal. Roger unconscious. Roger about to be banned from the house; Roger’s new lady friend about to be banished alongside him.
Dulcie had removed her suit and tie and made it clear that the summons was welcome.
‘What did I tell you? They are nothing but a bunch of alcoholics.’ She ignored the presence of Muriel. ‘That son of theirs is not much better and, I have been informed, that gentleman in fancy dress is the long-lost husband. Ten to one he’s another alcoholic.’
With relish, she marched into the drawing room, sent Miss Atkins spinning with the slap of a hand and kicked Roger in the buttock. Hugh, who had not yet met Dulcie, sat back in uncertain terror and watched and wondered whether he did, in reality, wish to become a feature of the household.
Muriel watched too, but from the doorway. Peter and Marco had disappeared and Miss Atkins, veil askew since Dulcie’s rap, was the only other observer.
Dulcie bent stiffly and, with a filthy finger, lifted one of Roger’s eyelids. Then, with her sleeve, she wiped away some of the saliva that continued to trickle from his mouth.
‘Water. One of you.? Fetch me some water. Perfectly useless, the lot of you. Totally useless.’
Hugh, in his tails, rose and ran from the room. Miss Atkins cried, ‘You’ll kill him if you’re not careful.’
Dulcie had straightened up and was kicking again.
‘You’ll kill him.’
‘Yes and I’ll kill you too if you don’t stop that snivelling. And what is more I’d like you to remove that silly hat.’
When Hugh returned, gingerly carrying a glass of water, he found that Muriel had deserted her post by the door.
He took the glass to Dulcie and, during a moment when she desisted from administering kicks with her boot, handed it to her before she rounded on him.
Muriel Pulls It Off Page 18