Muriel Pulls It Off (11 page)

He lolled back against the padding of the sofa and, with a
self-congratulatory
guffaw, asked, ‘Haven’t you heard why they call me heroin?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no idea.’

He pointed to the patch where his horrible cock lay concealed. ‘They get hooked. Haw. Haw.’

She writhed to remember that she had ever had first hand knowledge of the loathsome organ. She didn’t consider herself to be exactly a feminist but she found his words entirely shocking. Had he said ‘fishing line’ the words would have been unacceptable enough. But heroin. Synonymous with suffering and death.

Muriel told him that, if his plaster was to be removed the following morning, it would be sensible for him to leave as soon as possible. She used, as lever, the unanswerable fact that Marco and Flavia would never make a start early enough to get him to hospital on time and that, anyway, she needed to be left on her own to see to various affairs.

Into this horrible colloquy darted a host of interruptions. Sonia’s little person appeared and reappeared, presenting a stream of querulous conundrums and posing feeble queries. The metal detector came to display a faded florin. Dulcie, who had been lying low, returned with
vigour to say that she had run out of razor blades and to ask what Muriel planned to do about it. Dawson rang. Delilah rang. ‘One more thing. Our shop. The Bradstow Venture Community Shop. That is to say that Dawson had a lovely idea. He thought to add the two extra letters. Now it’s known as The Bradstow Adventure Community shop. Just to make it scan. Are you a versifier by any chance? Dawson has the gift and he needed that little prefix when he wrote his lovely poem to celebrate the Venture opening.’ Until then Delilah didn’t pause for breath. Muriel had realised that there was no shop in Bradstow but nobody had told her of the community concern or that she might be expected to serve in it. Delilah went on. ‘It’s in a converted garage on the outskirts of the village. You did mention that you’d had shop experience and it would be a lovely way for you to meet the villagers. Just allow me to quote you some of Dawson’s poem.

‘You can buy anything from a pen to a mop,

At the Bradstow Adventure Community shop.

You can start at the bottom and rise to the top,

At the Bradstow Adventure Community shop.’

Tomorrow afternoon. That’s my shift. I’ll call for you and we can walk down there together. I’ll be able to show you the ropes before we fit you in to a permanent slot. I think you’ll enjoy it and I daresay you’ll feel rewarded.’

No sooner had Delilah hung up than the head teacher of the village school rang to introduce herself and to ask for Muriel’s views on sex education. Mambles rang to firm up on instructions for her visit. Muriel whispered for fear that her words might be heard by the departing trio and influence them, particularly Roger, against their decision to be gone. She hoped that one of the letters to which Phyllis had referred might be an acceptance of her invitation to Jackson, her American friend.

Eric and Joyce, from the garden, fought their battles as Phyllis huffed in and out, winking and simpering and sighing to herself and muttering that she planned to visit Jerome ‘poor old dear’.

Peter rang to ask if Muriel was all right and if he could help in any way. She said she would ring back when she was calm. Marco and Flavia half-heartedly resisted her request to move Roger without further ado as Muriel contrived and connived to be rid of them.

Throughout these scenes of botheration. Monopoly, sensing disquietude and guessing - she supposed, at her inner endurance, stayed beside her and ignored all interlopers or participants in the tense activities.

She was not certain as to how, precisely, the parting came to be arranged but, by four o’clock in the afternoon, Marco, Flavia and Roger were once more seated in the positions that they had occupied but two days earlier in Marco’s car and ready for departure to London.

His mother whispered to Marco as they embraced on the mat under the bird-splattered porch, ‘Do come again soon. I’ll ring you. You and Flavia. No friends, though, please. I’m sorry but I just can’t get to grips with things. Not with outsiders here.’

He had the look of one who understood and gave her a slightly sympathetic squeeze. Flavia was dazed. She had been drunk since before lunch when she and Roger had vied with each other in a wine-tasting wager; each had consumed a fortune’s worth. She barely bothered to say goodbye. Not a word to Monopoly.

Roger flourished under the guise of wounded sensitivity. ‘Not often one’s asked to leave a stately.’ She winced. ‘Sorry to have caused offence Muriel. You’ll get accustomed to your position before long. Meanwhile try not to take life too seriously. One more thing. Be decent to Phyllis. She deserves a break. I’ll do my best to keep in touch with her.’ With that he pressed his lips against her cheek. What a cheek.

They were gone. She had twenty-four hours on her own to fool around. Twenty-four hours before Princess Matilda, Jubilee and their entourage were due to pick their way to Bradstow Manor. These hours were not to be restful ones. Had other things been equal, which they weren’t, she would by then have been frantic in preparation for her royal visitor.

As she tuned back to the house after watching her son’s car disappear down the drive, Muriel underwent an aesthetic stirring of the blood; a sensation of overflowing unlike any other existing in her memory. With this came the lifting of a burden and the consequent spiralling of spirits as she ran to the kitchen where she announced, ‘Well. That’s over. Now. On to the next visit.’ Before enlarging on this overture, she opened Jackson’s letter and read it with both amusement and disappointment.

‘Just the other day I heard from a friend that finger bowls are quite proper except if you have royalty to dinner. Someone might make the terrible error of proposing his toast and passing his glass over the finger bowl, which would remind the royals of the indignity of Bonnie Prince Charlie having to cross the water to escape Britain, a terrible insult to the crown. Please do have finger bowls when you’re having the Princess to stay. I would hope that someone - the vicar? - would
 
propose a toast and I would be quick to put my hand over the bowl lest I offend royalty, if the Princess was even unaware that I was saving the crown from being insulted.

I know that a visit to you would fill pages and pages in my diary. I’m tempted to cancel a prior engagement, which is the baptism in the Greek Orthodox Church of an infant girl for whom I’m to be godfather. And I must admit that, as much as I shall miss not being with you, the prospect of a full Greek baptism and reception with singing and dancing fills me with wonder. And have I told you that I have been asked to a Chinese wedding?’

Although Muriel read quickly, there were many more pages to be perused so she scrunched it into her pocket for later; sad that Jackson had to go to his Greek baptism.

The second letter that needed her attention was local, and came with no stamp. She tore it open, anxious to get on with matters.

’Dear Mrs
Cottle,
’ it read, ‘
You are new to the neighbourhood and I write to introduce myself as your local councillor. I am aware of a very malicious letter you may have received containing misleading information about my work. A Mr Gregory Gregson has attempted to blacken my character and raise doubts as to my integrity since my opposition to the use of his drive-in for a prosthetic limb factory. If you wish to ask about this vindictive character please get in touch.’

She decided against getting in touch and returned to Mambles’s visit. The resentful expressions that had dominated and charged the whole room dissolved as she, with confidence, told them of her future guest. She warned of the dog, the maid and the detective; spoke of complexities and extra duties and, whilst fearing mutiny and reprisals, launched into the eccentricities of Mambles’s needs. Whisky in the bedroom for a start; ashtrays everywhere and ice buckets. She half-hesitated to mention that a chamber pot would have to be placed beside the bed. That was one of the many things that Mambles refused to do; travel on foot during the night.

As she spoke she became aware that her audience had swollen. Kitty was amongst them, introducing Mavis who had, hitherto, given Muriel the slip.

There they were; four Squirrel Nutkins changed from everyday beings into bright-eyed stagehands, agog for the first rising of the curtain upon a transformation scene. Dulcie was the first to speak. ‘No earthly need to search for a chamber pot. There’s one beside each bed. In the chamber cupboard, naturally.’

She added these last words with confident candour.

Questions were fired. Linen? Curling tongs? Extra protection for the windows? Security? Prying eyes? If it were true that Muriel expected a visit from a sister of the Queen - whatever else might occur under her authority? Never before had she entertained Mambles in style. She had, of course, provided her with the odd meal in Chelsea for which she had pulled out stops; solicited fellow guests and hired pairs of hands. Naturally she remembered accompanying her on visits to country houses (but not in recent years) and was always astonished by the
petits soins
deemed necessary for her comfort. Mambles never seemed to be aware of the lengths to which house owners stretched themselves, and Muriel used to laugh at them but now she joined their ranks. Flowers flew in through every door and window. The bustle was comprehensive and startling. Rooms left empty by Marco, Flavia and Roger were stripped and aired, broomed and reordered. Kitty, Mavis and Phyllis vied for tasks in animated awe as Dulcie stood, vast frame shaking, offering advice and reflecting, ‘In my day the entire school would have been given a half holiday.’

Phyllis betrayed no evidence that she rued the departure of Roger as she flourished in the spare bathroom. Muriel reacted positively to the frenzy that overtook the household. It was becoming manifest that Mambles was the very one to whom she would eventually owe gratitude for hoisting her onto a pinnacle in the centre of her entourage. The prospect of the visit had almost induced terror-crazed palpitations in her but now Mambles began to emerge as a heavenly spirit.

During these hours of mobilisation Delilah called in person.

‘Just to make sure all is well. Dulcie tells me that the young have already gone back to London.’ She paused but Muriel knew that something important lay lodged on her mind. She understood what was expected of her; that Dulcie would have alerted the rectory to forthcoming events and that Delilah must be beside herself in a ferment of hope and agitation. Mambles was tricky about introductions and feared boredom and social effort at all times, even when ‘on duty’.

‘Oh dear,’ she said as Delilah eyed tubs of fuchsias and tall daisies that decorated every crowded space. ‘One thing after another. The young ones have gone but now I’m expecting an old friend who needs a bit of looking after. I am sorry. I’ve been rushed since I arrived. Things will calm down. I’ll be in touch before the end of the week. We must talk about the fete.’

Her voice was harsh and false and Delilah’s disappointment, which showed in every cranny of her eager face, shook her to the roots. She wished she had not mentioned the fete. Horses for courses. She had patronised her.

Nonetheless Muriel hurried Delilah out after assuring her that she could be counted on to help in the shop the following afternoon. She felt pained yet exhilarated by the power that spread from her and unsure as to whether she held it or whether it represented the power that had been thrust upon her.

As the house rushed towards readiness, Muriel experienced an intoxicating suffusion of impulsiveness within the framework of manic organisation. Everything was geared towards an occasion of unique magnitude and she, whatever else, was the catalyst.

A hostess. That is what she aspired to be. She was to become a hostess of renown. It would be bliss to live in a state of semi-permanent preparation.

‘But she mustn’t leave her panties in the hall, of the hostess with the mostes’ on the ball,’ she hummed one of Mambles’s favourite tunes as she cracked her knuckles and planned to take Monopoly for a walk in the warm evening air.

They were very happy in the garden as they roamed towards the water and nosed into new corners and parts of the whole. They found an ancient, gravel-floored potting shed beside a well-kept greenhouse, the entrance to which was blocked by two battered beehives. Property of Joyce. Avoiding the angry swarm, they took a winding course, through apple and pear trees loaded with unripe fruit, down to the stream.

Three fat mallards, two drakes and a duck, swam towards them in hopeful haste. They were tame and Muriel supposed that somebody was in the habit of feeding them. As they stood and as Monopoly braced himself in interest, she sighted a queer and almost hallucinatory spectacle a few yards from her feet. Sonia, wrapped in wool, was standing with her eyes to the sky and clasping a small tabby cat. She was singing in a clear euphonious voice; enunciating as one filling a concert hall. At her feet lay a picnic hamper beside a folded rug.

‘All I want is a room somewhere.’ She sang piteously, with the fervour of an outcast. ‘Far away from the cold night air.’ It was another of Mambles’s favourites.

It was not until Sonia had warbled the last moving words, ‘Wouldn’t it be luvverly,’ that she saw Muriel with her dog at her side.

She went into a type of trance, a numbness that brought her to a rigid standstill as she squeezed the cat between her hands. Monopoly took a few paces in her direction whereupon she opened her mouth to let out, in a whispered whimper, the words, ‘Spare Pussy. That is all I ask of you.’

Muriel told her not to be foolish. ‘Can’t you see, Sonia, that Monopoly is on a lead? Even if he weren’t he wouldn’t hurt your cat.’

Her eyes opened wider and wider until Muriel wondered whether they owned lids. Sonia’s madness exasperated her and she determined to force her to contain it.

‘I have a friend coming tomorrow and she’s bringing a dog with her too. I hope you will control yourself and keep calm. We will both look after our dogs and expect you to do the same with your cats.’