Muriel Pulls It Off

by Susanna Johnston

  ‘Of course, it has to be said, she is very much more closely related, or was I should say, to Jerome than you are, er, were. Her friend, a Mr Roger something-or-other (I forget his name for the moment), came along too with a bit of bumph about him relating to what we call “collateral claims”.’

  Muriel interposed. ‘Look. We’re very busy here. As you know I’ve never gone into any of it. In fact the whole thing has unsettled me.’ Inwardly she blamed her present unsettledness on her exhibition on the lawn. ‘I never fought or contrived for the place and I now rather resent being challenged over it. If the woman really believes she has a grievance, then she should come and talk it over with me before taking professional advice.’

  Muriel was wound up and believed herself capable of talking for several hours without interruption if need be. In fact she found it difficult to desist.

  ‘Before you go any further it might be worth your while to delve a little into the history of the ownership. It is likely and I believe it to be a fact, that the house was originally the property of Jerome’s wife, Alice.’ Here she remembered with a spring of optimism, Miss Atkins’s reference to her uncle’s ‘posh’ marriage. ‘She was related to me, albeit not closely, and had no blood tie whatsoever with this Miss Atkins.’

  She wished that she had, at any stage, ever listened to any word that her parents cared to utter and smiled as she hoped that, one day, Marco might suffer the same regrets. She was reasonably confident that she had learnt from her mother that the house had came through her family before finally devolving upon her Aunt Alice. The homosexual Alice Atkins.

  Arthur was still on the line.

  ‘Now, this woman and her friend are staying at The Bear at Shifford. I don’t know how long they plan to remain there and I, of course, can do nothing to assist them. I have told them that their best course of action, that is if they persist in their, er, quest, is to put a solicitor of their own in touch with me. That’s all they can do for the time being. Meanwhile, Mrs Cottle, I take your point about the original ownership.’ He distanced himself from her by the use of her surname.

  Muriel knew that she was unlikely to learn anything of account from Arthur, in view of his intelligence being limited and his values unsound. She decided to hand the entire problem over to Mambles who only had to put through a call to her own solicitor to hold his entire attention for as many hours as required.

  Flavia, terrifically dressy but wearing a hunted expression, (could it be, Muriel asked herself, that Flavia feared Roger to be in the neighbourhood still?) sidled to Muriel and called her ‘Chick.’ Muriel’s fundamental clemency flowed as she hugged her pregnant daughter-in-law with mighty strength.

  ‘Well done Flave. You look great.’

  Together they toured the house, enjoying details in bathrooms and on landings as well as in the more important rooms.

  In Muriel’s mind, however, remained the problem of the two men who looked alike and worried her in different ways. She forgave Peter utterly for the kiss she had given him which, she decided, was big of her. If only she had let things be. The moment of excitability that had motivated her was to be regretted but, all considered, she began to realise how fortunate she had been, through propinquity, to pick Peter and not Hugh as victim. It might have been Dawson or Dulcie if they had been inconveniently near to hand. Peter’s response, too, had been undemanding, not withstanding the fact that he had been delighted. It had, on reflection, been satisfactory and worthy of repetition.

  She cheered up as she checked the house with Flavia at her side and absorbed, with shock, that she had not, in person, commented to Flavia on the subject of her condition. Only to Marco. On the dark landing she brought the matter up; congratulated Flavia; offered any help that might be needed.

  Flavia said, ‘Thanks Chick’ and started to cry.

  They sat together on a long Queen Anne sofa that took up a large amount of space on the landing and was not particularly comfortable. Flavia laid her head on her mother-in-law’s knees and thanked her for kindness. Both women knew that the other was aware of possible complications but nothing was stated.

  Monopoly joined them and comforted both by sharing his favours amongst all four legs, brushing himself against them in turn but, all of a sudden, he stopped and growled, as Hugh, with sprightly step, lent his presence. Muriel entreated, ‘Oh Hugh. Can’t you go away? Can’t you see we’re sort of busy?’

  Monopoly snapped at one of Hugh’s legs and Muriel’s heart began to bleed for Hugh in his insensitivity.

  ‘Don’t be daft Monopoly. Can’t you see it’s only Hugh? Your old master?’

  Monopoly eyed her inconsistency with suspicion as Muriel continued to address her husband.

  ‘Don’t worry Hugh. Dogs are always like that when they haven’t seen someone for a bit. He’ll come round. Only don’t try too hard. It won’t work.’

  She tried to reconcile the dog to its former owner. ‘It’ll all come right. You shouldn’t have come back so suddenly. Taken us all by surprise.’

  ‘That I certainly did.’ He referred by a look to the scene on the lawn. He did not, however, seem cross but grateful, humble and pathetic as he left them on the landing and went towards his small bedroom.

  Flavia said, ‘You’re kind Chick. I hope it all comes right.’

  Downstairs Peter was nowhere to be seen and Muriel imagined him to have taken an interminable walk. It could, of course, never be said that Peter had supplanted Hugh for Hugh had not been there to uproot.

  Marco worked at niceties as the friendly pot plants reappeared. Phyllis flapped and plans proceeded without hitches.

  In the meantime Delilah rang to congratulate Muriel on the smooth execution of Jerome’s funeral. ‘Your flahs looked gorgeous. We did wonder what your, er, husband thought of Dawson’s sermon. As you heard, along with all that scholarship, he does know how to make a little joke. Might your husband be back for good? We’d love to welcome him down here when you both have a moment.’

  ‘How very kind. By the way. I was going to ring you. I hear from Princess Matilda that the Queen Mother has been in touch with the Greeks and has heard that your Alastair is a huge success in Cap Ferrat.’

  ‘Bless you for that Muriel. We have been anxious but we didn’t care to ask. He didn’t leave an address and we would so like to write to him there. In fact we would like to drop a line to the Greek, er, Queen, is she? Dawson would actually write the letter and I would put my name next to his.’

  Muriel had to admit that she did not have the address of the Greeks upon her person but she promised to provide it when possible. Delilah said ‘bless you’ many times but offered no hint that she had heard of Mambles’s proposed return to Bradstow. Nor did she renew her invitation for Hugh to take plonk at the rectory. News from Cap Ferrat had given her plenty to feed on.

  Mambles’s arrival was thrilling. She came with Cunty in the Daimler, driven by Moggan, and reached the house in the early evening. This time she was dressed in navy blue with bright white accessories; a well-trained social worker. Muriel interpreted the outfit thus for, never before had her friend worn navy. Mambles had donned a makeshift uniform for the purpose of underlining her authority whilst sorting out the pickles at Bradstow.

  There was plenty of kissing and curtseying as she was ushered in.

  She stared at Hugh who showed great politeness. ‘So. You’ve decided to return. We’ll have to see about that.’

  To Peter, who ill disguised his dislike of her, ‘You’re looking smart. On top of the world if I may say so. What has happened to perk you up?’

  Peter was bashful and Muriel appalled.

  They walked, Jubilee tucked under Mambles’s arm, through the hall and to the drawing room and Muriel noticed that she did not turn her feet in, or drag them. She was lit up.

  ‘So Marco,’ she turned her attention to him as glossiness glittered in her eyes. ‘I’m sure that you’ve been a great help to your mother over all this.’ She waved a ringed hand about a
nd continued to be strict. ‘And a help to Flavia too. I hope that you’re taking all these new responsibilities very seriously.’ Then she demanded a cocktail and asked if she and Cunty were to occupy the same quarters that she had shared with Farty on her former visit. Muriel explained that Marco and Flavia had commandeered that room, and that Hugh slept, as had Farty, in the dressing room. Another set of chambers, however, which Muriel said she hoped ‘were perfectly OK’ had been made ready and Mambles, in no mood to quibble, took the news on the chin.

  ‘Can someone tell Phyllis and Cunty to see to my things?’

  Marco sped away, clashing with his father who attempted to perform the errand. Mambles rounded on Flavia.

  ‘So. When is it to be? I shall be godmother. That’ll keep things in order.’ She wore a firm but humorous look as one anticipating defiance.

  Flavia, scared, said, ‘Gosh! Why not?’

  Muriel had seen Mambles in this mood before. It sometimes came upon her when she had a role to play; when she inspected troops.

  At dinner they were evenly matched; three men and three women. Mambles sat between the two brothers; Muriel between her son and her husband; Flavia between her husband and her husband’s uncle as Mambles took charge.

  ‘I was delighted when they brought back general conversation after the war.’

  Flavia hissed, ‘Who’s he?’ at Marco who signalled that she keep silent.

  ‘For anything less than eight, I always insist on it.’ Mambles warmed to her theme.

  ‘So, Hugh. What made you turn up for the old boy’s funeral without warning anybody?’

  This question was left hanging in the air for, all of a sudden, there was an earthquake, an upheaval, a volcano, a thunderstorm, an orchestra on the loose. A pistol shot. A reverberating drum as Dulcie, gloating and glowering, entered the ring. In her hand she held a large square envelope that she waved triumphantly before Mambles’s face.

  ‘Before you go any further,’ her words charged with glee, ‘I would like you to know that I have located the missing document. His Lordship, no doubt, believed that he had it well and truly hidden but, thanks to Fourpence-Halfpenny’s asthma and his persistent scratching in the cabinet in ‘Sir’s’ bedroom, a front portion of the secret drawer came away from the framework.’ Here she stopped passing the envelope to and fro across Mambles’s motionless face and held it up for the rest of the party to see. ‘The enclosed might quite possibly make a considerable contribution to the matter presently under discussion.’

  ‘I suggest then,’ Mambles at her most royal, ‘that you hand the letter to me. I shall open it and read it aloud. After that I shall decide whether or not any action should be taken as a result.’

  Dulcie looked delighted.

  Mambles put on her reading glasses that had lain in a gem-incrusted case beside her at the table. Slowly and clearly she started to read.

  ‘“Dear Jerome, I leave this letter for you in the hope that you will take some note as to what I say. I knew that, were we to have discussed the matter verbally, we would have been certain to argue. I know that poor Dulcie has long been a thorn in your flesh.”’ Here Mambles stopped and stared at Dulcie who feigned not to listen. Continuing, she read, ‘“If I die before you do, she would be homeless. As you know she gave up her job as linesman at the tennis club (where she lived in her van) to come here to help me with the cats. All I ask is that you allow her to go on living in the paddock, to have some access to the house, (hot water, the occasional use of the telephone and somewhere to dry her clothes in poor weather. Some shed or other in which to store her bikes, too. Preferably the one she has always used.) I am sorry if this request is distasteful to you but I sincerely hope you will pay attention to my wishes. Other than that everything I own will be yours unconditionally.”’

  Mambles returned her reading glasses to their case.

  ‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘why Mr Atkins hid this unopened letter. Perhaps he feared worse than this simple request. So,’ turning to a dismayed Dulcie, ‘you need not have wasted quite so much of your time in tracking this document down. It seems to me that it makes no difference to your situation whatsoever. You still live as you did in the days of Mrs Atkins and I am certain that Mrs Cottle will do little to alter the position although she is within her rights to change the conditions somewhat if you take inconvenient advantage of her.’ Dulcie made a curious curtsey and bounded from the room.

  Mambles turned her attention back to Hugh who was by now deeply depressed by all he had confronted since his arrival, if mollified to a small extent by Muriel’s earlier gentleness on the landing.

  ‘I heard of all this,’ he said, fingering a silver spoon, ‘and I decided that Muriel might be in need of my help.’

  ‘Have you given her any?’

  Mambles was drinking whisky at a great rate.

  ‘Not so far, I suppose. I only got back yesterday and, well, we haven’t had time to talk things over.’ He thought of the mousetrap.

  ‘Let’s do it now.’ Her eyes danced as she lit a cigarette. Muriel, frozen by events and the recollection of her pass at Peter as witnessed by Hugh and Phyllis, pleaded, ‘Mambles. Must we? I’m not sure that I can face it.’

  ‘Nonsense Muriel. No time like the present.’

  Peter joined in.

  ‘Why not after all? We need a master of ceremonies Muriel. You change your mind about everyone the moment you feel sorry for them. Why not let Princess Matilda draw a straight line for you?’ He was coming round to Mambles.

  She bestowed a grave nod upon him.

  ‘Well spoken Peter. I gather that creep, Roger-something-or-other, is in the neighbourhood and has produced a pretender to Muriel’s kingdom. My family knows all about these things, has done through the centuries. None better. I suggest that you turn these impostors over to me.’

  She looked comical; clown-like almost as she drew on her cigarette.

  Muriel could not, for the life of her, guess how Mambles had picked up this piece of information.

  ‘Servants,’ she said to herself. She knew now what Mambles and her family had to contend with. Phyllis, in all likelihood, was in daily confabulation with Farty or whoever on the telephone. All the guards outside Buckingham Palace in possession of the facts of Muriel’s pass at Peter.

  Mambles must know of it. That was why she and Peter were in cahoots. Anything was possible.

  ‘Muriel,’ she enquired, ‘do you have cottages? You know what I mean. Dower houses or whatever?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘Bound to. I think that, for the time being anyhow, you must put Hugh into a cottage. There’s sure to be a barn or a stable block. After all, he’s come all this way and given up whatever - or whoever - ,’ here she stopped and stared at Hugh, ‘he did in South Africa. We’d better fit him in somewhere.’

  Hugh looked tragically grateful. He had, as Mambles pointed out, blown it as far as Johannesburg was concerned and if Muriel was not prepared to make him her consort, he was pleased to settle for accommodation. That, at least, would solve the problem of Monopoly, for once the dog saw sense he could trot daily between establishments. It would solve the problem of Marco and the grandchild too. He was ready to compromise. Muriel unnerved him and he disliked the way she cracked her knuckles and smoked. Peter was welcome to her.

  ‘Now,’ Mambles turned to Peter as Muriel’s stomach lurched. Since the morning’s episode she had lost sight, through shame, of her true desires and she dwelled in dejection upon the inconvenience engendered by that mad hormonal rush.

  ‘Now Peter. How do you wish to be handled?’

  ‘Me?’ He was calm and exceedingly at ease. ‘Me? I’d like to live here with Muriel. She is sure, as soon as we can liquidate Miss Atkins, to be able to provide some little study for me. I do a certain amount of recording you see. There are rooms galore here and I think I can give her the support she may need. Then, another thing, I dote on her.’

  Mambles, well pleased, fixed her
gaze on Marco.

  ‘There. That’s those two dealt with. Now. Marco and Flavia. When is this baby due to be born?’

  Marco gabbled, ‘January, Not till January.’

  ‘I think you had both better decide to be delighted. Far too many unwanted children in the world. I ought to know. I’m always trailing round those care centres. Just look at the slums. Both of you must be delighted and I’m sure that Muriel will be able to fix you up with an outhouse or something. London is not the place for a baby. This can be a commune. That’s how families ought to live. Look at me after all. Kensington Palace is a grace and favour.’

  Phyllis swirled into the room and headed for Muriel. Bending over she whispered, ‘That Roger and the woman are in the hall. I tried to send them away but Miss Atkins insisted that you told Mr Stiller that she was to speak to you in person before “taking action”.’ Her petticoat buzzed.

  ‘Tell them we’re at dinner. Tell them to wait in the hall and, Phyllis, you’d better give them each a drink; strong ones.’

  Phyllis, although loath to pander to Roger in any way, departed to do her duty, carrying the satisfaction that, before the evening was out, he and his lady friend were sure to be defeated.

  Muriel, to the table, announced this bit of news; news that caused Mambles to clap her hands.

  ‘Shall we have them brought in?’ she proposed in exultation. ‘No.’ She changed her mind. ‘Let’s keep them waiting for hours and hours.’

  Muriel was thankful that she did not sit next to Peter for her head revolved as she thought with joy of the future as mapped out for them all by Mambles. Had she been beside him she would have felt the need to comment privately and she knew full well that all but general conversation was forbidden.

  ‘Everybody happy?’ asked an excited Mambles as she scanned the faces before her.

  ‘Now we must turn our attention to the next project.’