Muriel's Reign

by Susanna Johnston

  ‘Lovely and warm. You know how I mind.’

  She sighed as Muriel wished that Hugh, Marco or Flavia might be useful instead of multiplying her complications – loathing her own vacillating ways when it came to any one of them.

  ‘So lovely to be here,’ said Lizzie. ‘My presents are in the bag. Rather modest I’m afraid. Shall I put them under the tree? I couldn’t think what to bring for the royals so I got them chocolates. Expensive ones, I might add. No lights!’

  No sooner had Lizzie noticed the lack of fairy lights than Delilah almost swam into the house.

  ‘Cooee! Just to check you are all right. There’s a tree down in the field and another across the road. No one knows when the power will be back or the telephone. I’ve left Dawson in the dark but, as you know, he’s an academic and is content to be alone with his thoughts – and a torch.’

  Muriel, after more than a year in the house, still uncertain as to who had produced the candles, lit the fires or generally administered, said, ‘We’re fine. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You must introduce me to your visitor and, er, have any of the others arrived yet? Dulcie let slip that royalty might be expected. Will any of them be attending the church service?’

  Lizzie, no longer reverent, was on the job.

  ‘No heating? I’m sorry. I’ll be ill. What a nuisance I am. When did it go out? You might have warned me. I’ll survive I suppose but what about the Queen Mother? She’s over ninety.’

  As if Muriel didn’t know. She willed Lizzie not to go on but said, ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie. It’s only just happened. Someone’s finding out. It’s sure to come on again before long.’

  Kitty joined the group. ‘I’ve got a Bunsen burner in the kitchen and bottled water.’

  ‘Can I fill a hot-water bottle?’ Lizzie’s voice began to get louder.

  Delilah departed without any information.

  Together, with a hot-water bottle filled to lukewarm from a cooling kettle, Muriel and Lizzie passed through candlelit passages to Lizzie’s room which was also bright with night lights, candles – even an old oil lantern as Muriel marvelled at the amazing competence of these emergency arrangements. The radiators, however, were already no more than tepid.

  Lizzie asked, twice, how long it was to be before the power came back.

  Promising to return, Muriel left Lizzie in her room and hoped that the groups from the outhouses managed independently. She dreaded Cleopatra clutching at candles or Hugh masquerading as invaluable during troubled times.

  Worse still – what if they elected to move in with her and her Tilley Lamps until problems were solved?

  When she sat down beside Peter he told her that Kitty had been to see him; to say that the house was swarming with her sisters and sisters-in-law and that Phyllis had bolted to the squash court with candles, provisions and a bottle of Chateâu d’Yquem.

  ‘Let’s leave it all to her. She’ll probably snuggle down with Hugh under the duvet on the futon. We’re fine here with Kitty’s outlying relations.’

  ‘Can I afford them?’

  ‘I daresay not but let’s take stock in the New Year when the snowdrops are out.’

  They muddled through the evening with many humble complaints from Lizzie: ‘It’s not for me. I’m worried about your grand guests.’

  ‘So am I. So am I. So am I,’ sang Muriel to herself as she and Peter interlocked in their comfortable bed.

  Chapter 9

  It was perishing when Muriel woke. Dark, too, and she lit a candle. She tiptoed from the room leaving Peter and Monopoly to sleep and lighted her way with a torch to the bathroom where barely a trickle of water came from either tap at the basin.

  The royal party was due to arrive in the afternoon and with no telephone she was overpowered by anxiety for the needs of these privileged people. Believing herself to hear Lizzie’s teeth chatter when passing her bedroom door, Muriel shuddered but there was no sound of vomiting.

  She lit her way down the stairs and, in the hall, spotted an envelope on the floor near to the front door. It shone white against the darkness around her and the grim blackness of the Christmas tree.

  Inside the envelope was a written message, written, she presumed, by some local service; police or post-office. It read:

  ‘Clarence House has been trying to contact you by telephone. A spokesman for Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, has been wishing to confirm to you that she and her entourage will be arriving at Bradstow Manor at approximately four p.m. today. They are all enjoying the prospect of their visit and Her Majesty wants it to be known that her only special request is that the house be warm and the party be seated by three p.m. on Christmas Day to watch her daughter, the Queen, give her annual broadcast to the nation.’

  Muriel shook. No power for the Queen’s broadcast. She dreaded the sound of the click-click-click of Lizzie’s high-heeled shoes as she groped her way down the stairs, dripping candle grease and moaning about the cold.

  No one was about as she reread the ominous instructions from Clarence House by the light of her torch.

  This space of time, allowing her to be alone in the house, was heaven sent. She managed, with trials, to get a fire going in Peter’s study and flung his cigarette butts onto the flames. As she acted, she thought how tremendous and wondrous it was to have his backing.

  The house awoke.

  Kitty brimmed with information.

  She had collided with Phyllis in the yard and had learnt that Cleopatra’s cot had been moved from the barn to the squash court where she, Phyllis, was to look after both Hugh and the baby. ‘Although, I daresay, she intends to nip over here when royalty arrives. Good riddance if you ask me. You should see what she’s made away with from here for their comforts.’

  Phyllis out of the way; Hugh and Cleopatra looked after; Marco and Flavia free to cavort with Tommy Tiddler at The Bell. Things were working out. Muriel thanked Kitty.

  As both women rejoiced at the turn of events there was a moment of triumphant astonishment. The lights came on. Power restored. They had returned from the brink of disaster.

  Lizzie tripped into the room, pale with cold, at that very moment.

  ‘Will I be able to have a bath now? I’m frozen stiff.’

  She encapsulated a peculiar mixture – halfway between humble and assertive.

  ‘Yes, Lizzie, but probably not yet. Let’s go to the kitchen and stand near the cooker. I gather that’s warming up.’

  Lizzie able to watch ‘soaps’! The Queen Mother’s small refrigerator cooling gin and vodka. The Queen on television.

  The telephone rang in celebration. It was Delilah.

  ‘We’re so happy for you, Muriel. Dawson was blue with cold writing his sermon for tomorrow. Talking of which, I’ve had a call from the organist – as soon as the wire was mended as a matter of fact – and she wondered whether, er, it might be appropriate to play the National Anthem before the service begins?’

  Peter and Monopoly were in the study and enjoying themselves when Muriel told Peter of Delilah’s query.

  ‘Tell them to play “Thy Majesty How Bright”. We’ll have to get Mummy there on time.’

  The telephone rang again. It was someone from the local police station wishing to check on details for the royal visit. The officer was in a jovial mood and added, after fixing an appointment, ‘The Queen would have to pay a handsome ransom if either of these ladies got themselves kidnapped. I daresay she’d do as much for the bow-wows.’

  Muriel hadn’t catered for kidnap.

  Lizzie asked, ‘Sorry to be a bore but do I have to curtsey every time they come into the room or just morning and evening?’

  Peter replied, ‘Every time. Every time they sit down or get up.’

  All was in uproar for the next few hours. No sign, though, from the dependants in the outhouses although Phyllis was reported to be gallivanting to and fro with baskets full of delicacies and appearing well pleased with life.

  Delilah rang several times more and d
etectives, some of them girls wearing ponytails, came and went to check quarters.

  Lizzie wasn’t able to settle and packed and repacked chocolates for the visitors, lamenting that she had nothing for ‘Cunty’ or ‘Farty’. Muriel hadn’t warned her.

  ‘What a foul thing to call them.’ Peter reminded her that it was because King George VI had not been capable of pronouncing his ‘r’ s that ‘Cunty’s’ soubriquet had come about. She was actually called Miss Crunchard. By the same token Miss Farthing was known as ‘Farty’. The late King, it was said, had also often confused friends by referring to his ‘wank’.

  The guests arrived at the front door on the dot of four and the household waited to greet them on the steps. Muriel wondered how many relations Kitty had collected together.

  Dulcie stood, gruff and bowing from the waist as a frail and bent Queen Elizabeth climbed out of the Daimler with much help from Moggan and Cunty who, in Muriel’s view, had aged since her last visit. Phyllis was there too – curtseying and dressed to kill.

  Soon they were all in the hall. Queen Elizabeth well wrapped in furs and dark feathers, smiling wanly as the household fell to its knees. Princess Matilda, towering above them all, smiled too through thin, cracked, red lips. Her straight yellowish hair sprouted from under a fur beret – like Ken Dodd’s – as she walked with a wanton gloom of deep-set melancholy that stretched through her shoes to wherever she stepped.

  Dulcie muttered – intentionally inaudible, but suffering from deeply buried anxiety, ‘Lot of bloody nonsense. Snobs. That’s what they are. High and mighty and it is my belief that the elderly lady passed wind as I bowed to her. As for those two with disgusting names. Absolutely disgusting.’

  They all stood like this for a short time as Cunty asked about the luggage. One case was full of presents ‘mostly for each other’ she said with reverence, and must be delivered to Princess Matilda’s bedroom. Dulcie charged off with it muttering, ‘They’re a bloody mean lot. It’s a well-known fact.’

  Lizzie stood to attention too and wondered if they had brought anything for her; whether they would appreciate her expensive chocolates.

  Peace and quiet spooked the house as the ladies and their helpers inspected their rooms.

  Lizzie sat very close to the television in Peter’s study gazing at an Australian comedy serial as Peter smoked and smiled.

  Muriel checked on the drawing room where they were to assemble for ‘cocktails’, as Mambles always called an evening drink, at seven o’clock. She made sure that a silver-framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth, taken to mark her ninetieth birthday, was suitably displayed upon a lacquer chest. She had been presented with it on a former visit and had been made to understand that it had constituted a special privilege. Mambles had lowered her eyes, ‘Mummy doesn’t normally give a photograph unless she stays the night.’

  On that occasion, however, she had, between lunch and dinner, spent several hours on a spare-room bed having not long since undergone a small operation to remove a piece of chicken bone from her oesophagus.

  The frame of the photograph shone and Muriel was pleased.

  When Matilda spoke of her mother she always mouthed the one word ‘Mummy’ although she never failed to refer to her sisters as ‘the Queen and Princess Margaret’.

  At exactly seven o’clock they came into the drawing room. ‘Mummy’ walking slowly with a stick and wearing diamonds. Mambles, also wearing diamonds, looked – in contrast to her mother – gigantic and walked lackadaisically; feet turned inwards.

  In her free hand Her Majesty carried a flat parcel wrapped in tissue paper. She handed it to Muriel who tried to curtsey and thank at the same time. From the feel of the thing she suspected it of being another of the signed photographs dished out at the time of the ninetieth birthday and, before opening it and holding it in one hand, made for the lacquer chest where, deftly, she shoved the one she already possessed behind a poinsettia in a china cachepot. One of them would make a good placatory present for Delilah if the visitors failed to attend church service.

  Mambles spoke clearly, ‘By the way, Muriel, I forgot to tell you that Mummy’s on a special diet. She can’t eat chocolate.’

  Lizzie gave out a squeal as her knees cracked under a curtsey. ‘I’d bought you some, Ma’am. For Christmas. They were very expensive.’

  Mummy smiled a radiant smile ‘They’ll do for Cunty and Farty.’

  Both Cunty and Farty appeared; each leading a small dog. Sir Walter Raleigh, property of the Queen Mother, and Jubilee, property of Princess Matilda. Each lady handed each dog, both on leads, to their owner.

  Mummy asked of no one in particular: ‘Did you know that the real Sir Walter Raleigh was hanged? Something about a treaty with Spain. I’ve always taken an interest in the doings of the late King’s forebears.’

  Monopoly eyed both dogs with scorn, turned to show an unfriendly bottom and stayed close to Peter who was excused from bowing since he could see neither of the royal ladies.

  A table for five was laid for dinner in the dining room. It was to be enlarged the next day for lunch when they were to be joined by Hugh, Marco, Flavia and Cleopatra.

  Peter, the only man, sat between Mambles and her mother. Lizzie, decked in clasps and shawls, was seated between Muriel and Mambles.

  Mambles asked Lizzie if she still ran a junk shop. Lizzie replied ‘antiques’ and that she had sold it at a profit and was terribly worried about the chocolates. ‘Muriel ought to have warned me.’

  Mambles said, ‘She didn’t know,’ and lost whatever interest she had held.

  Both royal ladies refused the first-rate wine, bequeathed, with everything else that he owned, to Muriel by the late Jerome Atkins. They preferred whisky – even at meals. The old lady asked about watching the Queen’s speech. Had it been arranged? Muriel panicked for fear that Christmas lunch might not be finished in time. Marco and Flavia were certain to be late and hold things up. Then there were always complications about feeding Cleopatra. Mambles detested children although she had insisted on becoming the baby’s godmother. She was certain to ask about a Christening and nothing had been mentioned by Marco about one although Delilah frequently brought the subject up.

  Mummy turned to Peter and confided that she shared with her daughter, the Queen, a passion for the turf. ‘Although,’ she continued to smile, ‘donkeys were my first love. When I became engaged to the Duke of York, there was a photograph, that hit every headline, of me as a small child riding on a donkey at my home in Angus.’

  ‘There are two in the paddock here. Neddy and Ryan.’

  ‘If it’s fine I should like to be introduced to them tomorrow.’

  Considering the enormity of events, the evening was low-key. Guests were tired after the journey and Muriel was tired after preparing for them. Peter never altered and Lizzie stayed brightly excited; geared into an emotional condition by the failure of having bought unacceptable and expensive chocolates. Nobody went to bed late but there was a disembodied energy in the air; each one of those present in personal anticipation as to what they might give or receive the following day.

  Chapter 10

  Soon after midday, Mummy, Mambles, Cunty, Farty and Peter (not one of whom had managed to grace the morning service) gathered round the tree under which were stacked shiny packets. Mummy had been provided with a straight-backed chair, throne-like, and sat upon it beaming in regal triumph. On her knee she held two small parcels – looking as if they’d been wrapped in a shop.

  ‘One for Cunty and one for Farty.’ She enunciated very clearly – particularly for a person of over ninety.

  Muriel and Lizzie, fresh from church where a disappointed congregation had scanned front pews, joined the group as Cunty and Farty upon hearing their names called out darted forward, both in a curious way, seeming to walk backwards as had been the custom in days gone by whenever in the presence of any HRH. In fact it was forward that they walked before curtseying.

  Mummy handed them identical packets and said
soothing words to each. Something relating to loyalty. As they opened their presents in calm respect, they didn’t move any of their four feet and kept their four eyes on the form of their seated employer. Each woman found from within the wrapping identical bottle-openers with ivory handles. Being abstemious, neither woman had use for such objects and Mummy and Mambles only drank spirits. Nonetheless they were deeply grateful and each assured Her Majesty that her own particular bottle-opener was to be treasured as they signalled to each other to preserve the wrapping.

  Mambles, tall and cross, said, ‘My turn next,’ and handed a packet to Muriel. It was floppy and told of fabric. When Muriel opened it she found, to marginal disappointment, that it contained a Japanese dressing gown. Mambles had been allowed to raid the Queen’s hidden store of presents from foreigners. ‘Those awful Nips keep giving them to the Queen and I was allowed to take my pick for once.’ The pick she had been allowed must have been from a crate and some years back. Muriel already had four of them – given to her on birthdays and other special occasions. At least, now, she had room for storage.

  Lizzie, too, was given a Japanese dressing gown and was genuinely delighted. Planning, as she unwrapped it, to let it be known that she wore a kimono that, albeit briefly and untouched by her, had belonged to the Queen.

  Hugh arrived dressed, as he had been in church, very much for the occasion in an old tweed suit and waistcoat – rather tight. He had (or maybe it was Phyllis) been hard at work polishing his shoes and wore an over-bright tie to add a trendy touch. He bowed at the waist before the royal ladies and handed each a small parcel. They put them immediately to one side – accustomed as they were to gifts being opened at a later time by interested servants.

  Mummy was gratified by the gravity of Hugh’s deferential bow and told him of a programme she had heard on the wireless – just after prayers – that morning. ‘It was on the topic of something called premature ejaculation. Has that anything to do with early rising? It seemed the wife objected. I was always pleased when King George VI rose earlier than I did. He had so many functions to perform. It was aggravating when Cunty came in and switched the programme off.’