‘Are you totally useless? What am I supposed to do with that? It’s a bucket I need. Just you go back to the kitchen and fill me a bucket.’
He returned, collar stiff, to the kitchen where Kitty filled a pail.
As he set off, back towards the drawing room slopping water and sweating badly, he was almost prostrated by his own and his wife’s futility.
He was tired, too, for he had travelled a long way during the past twenty-four hours and the spectacles that had greeted him were a far cry from those of his imagination. He had accepted that his duties might lie in a certain and not unpleasant direction; that of helping his wife deal with a bunch of hidebound old retainers. A kindly word here and there; a suggestion or two; the easing of an old favourite into retirement.
Carrying a pail of water through a gloomy house for an androgynous maniac to slosh over the face of an inebriated seducer in the presence of a la-di-da claimant to the property he had planned to control, did not encourage him.
Then there was his brother; his poor, blind, dithering brother. He had an eerie instinct that Peter was more intimate with Muriel than was appropriate. During their conversation in the bow window, Peter had given out an unprecedented atmosphere of confidence; acting as one who knew more than he was prepared to share. He thought these thoughts and spared one for the dog as he handed the pail to Dulcie.
Roger had not stirred and Miss Atkins sat blubbing, hatless, and claiming through heaves, ‘I cannot abide to witness physical cruelty. I have always been an insightful person. It’s my profession but it doesn’t pay. It is for that reason that I anticipate a slice.’
Here she broke down and threw the bulk of her body into the armchair.
Dulcie snatched the pail and, holding it in both hands above her head, allowed the cascade to crash over Roger’s face.
She stood back, well satisfied, as Roger opened his eyes, moved his hands and uttered ‘fuck’ several times.
‘I’ll give you fuck. Get up on those two legs of yours; that is to add, if you are capable.’
He was capable but only just. He clutched and grasped and stiffened before rising, swearing as he did so. Hugh held out a hand to him, pining for the duties he had dreamed of.
Dulcie propelled the empty pail towards Miss Atkins and said, ‘When you’ve stopped that idiotic snivelling take this bucket back to the kitchen. Whether or not you can drive a car I don’t know.’ This was put as a question and was answered in a dismal negative.
‘In that case, I’m phoning for a local taxi. You wouldn’t get far with ‘im at the wheel.’
Hugh filled no role.
‘Now.’ Dulcie manhandled Roger, twisting his arms to test flexibility and waving a big finger before his rheumy eyes. ‘Now. We want to get you as far as the front door and there you will have to wait. As far as your own car goes, and I gather it is no more than hired, you can get another taxi out here tomorrow to fetch it. If you have sufficiently sobered up by then.’
Roger commented on the heat but did not hide confusion as he waited, swaying and wet, for the return to the room of Miss Atkins.
The very fact that her swain was upright brought about a return of her previous liveliness and, addressing Hugh, she made a farewell speech.
‘Tomorrow I am to see Mr Stiller. Well. Phone him that is to say, in the hopes of a powwow. I have a right to improve the quality of my life and I have it on good authority that I might be entitled to a claim over and beyond your wife’s. I was never provided for and, as I said earlier, my work satisfaction doesn’t tally with the pay.’ She lifted the black hat from the chair and placed it on her head.
Single-handed but using both fists, Dulcie orchestrated the departure of Roger and Miss Atkins; filling the driver in with warnings of his passengers’ behavioural problems and pleasing herself with praise for her own capabilities.
It was not long after five o’clock and Hugh, alone, fell to reflection. He was still dressed as he had been for the morning ceremony and the heat was gruelling. Worse than South Africa. There was not, nor had there been since his arrival, any sign of Monopoly. Nobody had shown him to a bedroom. Peter was clearly ensconced in one, as were Marco and Flavia, but none amongst the bevy of helpers had offered any of their help to him - and Muriel had disappeared.
Dulcie blocked his way. ‘Now. If you have nothing better to do you might as well empty that mousetrap in the back passage. There’s a mouse in there. I heard it scratching. What you have to do is this.’ She gave long and complicated instructions. The entire mousetrap had to be taken to the garden and emptied. The mouse then had to be assassinated. Hugh queried the method, pointing out that if the mouse had to be murdered at some stage, wouldn’t it be more labour-saving and humane to use a conventional death trap?
‘You’ll find it gyrating beyond the telephone. It must be a gigantic mouse to get the whole trap bouncing up and down like that. Gigantic.’
Gravely Hugh performed his task, granting that it was imperative for him to act with correctitude. Task over, he asked Kitty to take him to a room where he could change his clothes and eventually sleep. Kitty had wondered whether Mr Cottle planned to snuggle up with his wife and worried that Muriel seemed to be attached to the four-poster bed; suitable for one occupant.
She showed him to a small room that, in old days, had served as dressing room to the more stately one occupied by Marco and Flavia and one that, he accepted, would have to do for the present.
Muriel, in her room, confronted a crisis in the shape of Monopoly. She knew that she had no right to imprison him indefinitely but rebelled against the risk she courted in allowing him to brush with Hugh. It struck her as ridiculous that it mattered nothing to her that Marco should greet his father in friendly fashion. She had smuggled up provisions but there were other problems. Late that night she and her dog would sneak out together, and hope not to find Sonia weaving spells with her cat by the stream.
Before supper, in the drawing room, Muriel, Hugh, Peter, Marco and Flavia foregathered. In semi-silence they sipped from glasses. In semi-silence they ate the first course of supper. In semi-silence they waded through the main course (left over from the funeral lunch) but, during pudding, (also left over from the funeral lunch), Marco burst out, ‘So. Dad. What’s your game? Have you come back for good?’
Hugh, casually dressed with studied precision, gave an artless reply.
‘Well spoken Marco. I wondered when someone was going to break the ice. Your mother, I appreciate, has had plenty on her plate today.’
He looked tenderly at Muriel but the overture was met with no response, whereupon he decided to put his cards on the table for the benefit of the ears of the four who sat around it.
‘When I heard of - all this, I decided to pack in Johannesburg. Mum,’ he spoke through Marco, ‘didn’t want to join me and, well, I missed you all. By the way, Muriel, how and where is Monopoly?’
Whatever the planning that went before, she had never been able to hold facts back.
‘In my bedroom.’
‘Good God. You mean to say that my dog is in this very house and that, as yet, I have seen neither hound nor hair.’ He liked his words and braced himself for action.
‘If I may, I will run upstairs and find him. Muriel - er - where is your bedroom?’
Muriel, provided by nature with tenderness, was not always discriminating in her methods of bestowing it. If the strings of her heart were touched it was in her to extend support in likely directions so, when her time came to be ill used, she had no machinery with which to withhold it. She fought her own causes as fiercely as she fought those of others. It was during one of her bouts of tumbling into this trap that Marco and Flavia had labelled her a ‘whinger’.
She stood tall in her grey cotton dress, unchanged since the funeral, hair bouncing as she raged against her husband across the table.
‘What do you mean by calling Monopoly your dog?’ Her voice was tinny. ‘You left him in the lurch. You knew that I didn’t like him, o
r any dog. You knew that he could do nothing but complicate my life. I jolly nearly had him put down.’ Here she offended herself and hesitated; it sounded too awful.
Hugh, stunned in his bright blue shirt, interrupted, held up a hand and appealed to his brother.
‘I said she’d had a tiring day but I don’t understand. Has she come round to Monopoly? I hoped she might. Company for her. Perhaps, Peter, you can persuade her to go to bed?’
Muriel still standing but shaking and drawing hungrily on a cigarette, resumed her attack. ‘Why the bloody hell do you treat me as an imbecile? If you wish to talk to me, do so, but don’t carry on as if I were a photograph. Stop addressing me through Peter and Marco.’
Flavia, shirty, left the room and Marco, master of ceremonies once more, hushed his mother and ordered his father to lay off.
‘No point in telling the old girl to go to bed. Never is when she’s in a state. What’s got into you Ma? Father only asked if he could see Monopoly.’
Muriel sat down, having stubbed out her cigarette. ‘He’s mine. I’ll make him a ward of court.’
‘Who’s talking about wards of courts Muriel? I’m back. We’ll share him. I’ve told you. I plan to stay here and help you in every way.’
She shuddered and her eyes evoked Peter who did not see. Marco, not wanting to be defeated for this was a seminar and he intended to arbitrate, scolded both.
‘Look here Dad. It’s your first day back after a year and all you two can do is fight. Hadn’t you and Ma better mull things over tomorrow? Fancy squabbling about a dog after all these months - and, as for that Dad, Ma has a point.’
Anger diffused by this shred of support from her son, Muriel wept more helplessly.
‘Go and get him,’ she wailed. ‘Marco. Take your father to my room. I hope Monopoly bites him.’
Hugh, sensing that there was danger there, for dogs, in his experience, did not always take kindly to returning heroes, rejected the suggestion.
‘No. No. Not tonight. But I hear what you say Marco.’ Again Muriel shuddered. Hugh used awful expressions. As bad as Roger and Miss Atkins. Peter pulled himself into the fray.
‘Most certainly it has been a tiring day for us all. Hugh has come from Johannesburg and the rest of us - well - it hasn’t been easy. Poor Flavia in her condition.’
‘Condition?’ Hugh was startled anew. He had not confronted or anticipated a role as grandparent and did not like to hear of such tidings from his brother.
‘Well done Marco old boy. On that happy note, let’s get cracking. I, for one, am ready to hit the hay.’
Hugh and Marco walked together to the door, waved a vague goodnight, and left Peter to pet Muriel.
He elected to take Monopoly, who seemed not to have sniffed his erstwhile master’s presence in the atmosphere, for his evening stroll. After half an hour in the garden he returned him to Muriel, pushing the dog very quietly through her bedroom door but nothing woke her.
Muriel’s first task on the day after Jerome’s funeral was to see to Monopoly’s airing. His mood had not altered in any noticeable way and his affection for her showed strongly as they set off for the shrubbery. She no longer tethered him; her fear of Dulcie having initially waned and subsequently disintegrated.
He roamed off and left her to look back upon the house as thoughts raced through her brain. Hugh was asleep behind one of the windows, tired, no doubt, after his journey.
Roger and Miss Atkins, she remembered, hovered in a nearby hotel, planning their attack.
Marco and Flavia were, doubtless, intertwined in bed; Marco in all likelihood, lacking the drive to think to the future or to ponder on the paternity of Flavia’s foetus.
Then came an unquiet thought. Peter was somewhere in the house; cleaning his teeth or battling with his clothes.
She wished with every fibre in her that he would appear; that he would beat the others to the day and stroll with her in the garden before the complications of breakfast arose; not that Phyllis made complaints any more. She, like Monopoly, had come to heel.
In wishing it seemed that she had also willed for, coming towards her across the grass, Peter walked faster than usual. As he neared, her flesh crept for it was not Peter but Hugh. Their brotherly resemblance was a curse.
Hugh stood a foot or two away. ‘Muriel,’ he held out both hands in supplication. ‘I’m sorry. I was insensitive.’ His eyes were watery; drenched by sincerity. ‘You must have been done in and I was pretty knackered myself. Today we will have plenty of opportunity to talk things over. I must say, Muriel, before I go any further, this really is a glorious place.’
Her thoughts were flying for, at any moment, she expected Monopoly to bound back with news of discoveries.
‘Hugh.’ She hated the sight of him. ‘Monopoly is running somewhere near.’
She planned to rant but the thread was broken by a thwacking sound and a rustle in the leaves but a short distance away, and in an instant Monopoly was at her heel, rubbing his nose into her calf and letting loose faint twitches. Hugh, a foolish leer crossing his face, made for the area of the calf with outstretched hand. Monopoly’s twitches erupted into shakes and Muriel bent to console him whilst, in governessy warning, let Hugh know that he would be wise to make himself scarce.
As Hugh stepped back, speaking to the dog with soppy softness, Peter emerged from the house. He listened before being drawn to the group by a combination of the sound of Monopoly’s yelps and Hugh’s drooling. The dog gave way to calm as Peter came near and ambled towards him, offering to lick his hand.
Peter had not intended to vaunt his superior position or to be seen to supersede his brother. He wanted to retreat but Muriel took his arm in hers and half laid her head on his shoulder. Could it be that she was drunk? The symptoms were identical. Left-over alcohol from the evening before maybe? It was not impossible. Monopoly watched this display with wisdom in his eyes. Finding himself to be a piece in a picture that he had dreamed of for an age Peter tugged her closer to him. She kissed him hotly. Hugh turned back and stared at them. Phyllis stood at the front door and stared at them. Peter thoroughly enjoyed himself but, nonetheless, thought fit to steady her.
‘Later Muriel. Later. Not now.’
As she sobered she became, in a twinkling, miserably depressed; repentant, tired, hollow and confused. The energy trickled from her and all she knew was mortification. She hated both brothers; all Cottles and that went for Marco too.
Phyllis said, ‘Phone call for you Mrs Cottle; that is to say if you are at liberty to take it. Mr Stiller. He says it’s urgent.’
She followed Phyllis’s summons and spoke on the telephone to Arthur. He began by explaining that he knew it was early but he felt she ought to know that he had already been telephoned by Miss Atkins who had hurried him into making an early appointment at his office.
‘We didn’t go into the why’s and wherefore’s,’ he explained, ‘but the bare gist of it seems to be that she feels that she is, at any rate, entitled to an - er - slice of your inheritance. I do not know at present whether or not she has her eye on the whole.’
‘Do you believe her to have a genuine claim?’ Muriel spoke haughtily, out of tune with her earlier feebleness. Arthur said that it was too early to predict.
‘Thank you. Please let me know of the outcome. Please ring me as soon as the meeting is over.’ Arthur said that he would do so.
As she replaced the telephone it sounded off again splitting her ears. It was Mambles.
‘I thought I’d give you time to get over the funeral. Now you must be having a lovely time. Really in charge. Mummy asked me to thank you for introducing those poor girls to that nice young man. Apparently he’s arrived at Cap Ferrat and everybody is delighted with him.’
‘So glad. Actually Mambles; things are a bit tricky.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Hugh turned up, out of the blue, in time for the funeral.’
‘How simply maddening. Shall I come down? I can come tonight if that would be of any help. The
only trouble is that I don’t think I can ask Farty to come. Shall I try for Cunty? She’s passed her stone. She’s an awful bore, but better the devil you know and Jubilee is used to her.’
‘Why not? Yes. Do come. I’d love it.’
Mambles said that she would be with her friend in time for supper that evening.
‘Things are looking up,’ Muriel sang as she wondered where to turn.
The household was to spin again and Mambles’s arrival would divert Phyllis from the spectacle she had witnessed on the lawn. Hugh, alive to rank, was likely to take notice of Mambles’s interference and Peter would have no time to remind her of her indiscretion on the lawn.
Marco’s energy would come into play with wines, and Kitty and her sisters would delight in entertaining Moggan once again. Moggan and Cunty.
Mambles, if necessary, was more than capable of dealing with Roger and Miss Atkins. Send them to the tower. Indisputably she was a godsend. Before long both Peter and Hugh hovered in the hall and, instead of facing facts with either, Muriel was able to say, ‘Right boys, Mambles on the warpath. We’ve got our work cut out.’
Awkward as she felt with Peter and much as she wished to avoid an opportunity to repeat the kissing into which she had ensnared him, Muriel did not, as the morning wore on, entirely abominate him but wished that she had not been the one to have perpetrated the passion.
She had no desire, moreover, to find herself alone with Hugh in his country squire’s outfit. Could he but find the tact, she thought, to depart without farewell, she would be relieved. Were Peter to do the same she would, she realised, be aggrieved.
Mere hazy thoughts on these matters did not control her as she ran from room to room and demanded that the time-honoured pot plants be positioned by Eric and Joyce.
As the bustle increased and as the brothers, each feeling very differently to the other, walked silently in the garden, Monopoly stayed close to his mistress, shunning independence.
When the telephone rang again it was Arthur who presented himself to say that the meeting with Miss Atkins had taken place. He was not capable of enlightening Muriel with views on any outcome for he admitted himself baffled. He burbled and padded and owned himself confused.
Muriel Pulls It Off Page 19