Muriel Pulls It Off (12 page)

At this point the wind dropped from Sonia’s sails and self-interest struggled to gain over insanity. ‘Would that be HRH?’

‘Yes. Princess Matilda.’

‘Would her dog be a relative of those belonging to the Queen?’

‘Certainly. Close.’

At this she melted and loosened her clasp. Muriel thought it a miracle that she hadn’t strangled Pussy in her effort to protect her. She lowered her lips to the cat’s right ear and spoke into it. ‘There, Pussy. We must make friends with the new doggy tomorrow.’

Kingdoms combined. The harmony that Mambles’s visit was producing within the walls of the house was spreading ripples over troubles out of doors. Juxtapositions.

The house smelled of flowers, drowning mustiness, and Muriel was calm as she remembered that she had promised to ring Peter. He was entertained by accounts of happenings and more than delighted, in his reflective fashion, to hear of the effect that Mambles’s visit was producing. She didn’t tell him of Roger comparing his cock to heroin. Peter said that he missed her but allowed no note of clumsy reproach to mar their talk.

In the morning Muriel was woken by Phyllis and her active arms. She grimaced as she explained that the bathroom allocated to the honoured guest smelled of sewers. Marco and Flavia had been the last to occupy it and Muriel underwent a spasm of shame. What had they been up to? She’d have been pleased if it had been Roger’s bathroom. ‘Mice,’ she said,
‘mice or rats. They’ve eaten a cake of soap. Funny your son never noticed.’ She proposed alternative methods of exorcism. Sprays, open windows, electric fans, joss sticks, hyacinths. Muriel didn’t like to mention that Mambles had a weak sense of smell. Spirits and nicotine protected her in all atmospheres.

Soon after breakfast Delilah again tackled by telephone.

‘Dawson and I have been thinking about you with your friend staying. I know that it’s not easy to entertain around here. Would it be
comme il bien
if we were to pop in for a drink - say around sixish this evening? I know that not many want to socialise in this neighbourhood and Londoners do love to meet locals.’

Keeping notes of irascibility from her voice, Muriel suppressed Delilah and her plans, saying that she didn’t know what time her friend was scheduled to arrive. She would not be unaccompanied and might take time to settle; was certain to be tired, would not necessarily stir from her quarters until dinnertime. She concocted too many excuses and knew this as she spoke, knew, too, that Delilah was wounded and resented that she caused her pain.

Kitty, who had overheard Muriel’s part in the conversation with Delilah and who, in spite of her kind heart, was not free from human weakness, said, ‘You stand firm with that Delilah. Wants to be in on everything. She’s snobbish.’

Muriel realised that her occupation of Bradstow was becoming divisive. Hard though she tried to push thoughts of Delilah and her thwarted attempts to come face to face with Mambles to the back of her mind, they hovered above her.

As though to defeat them and in the hopes of being rewarded, she kept her promise to Delilah and walked with her through the village, turning left by the chestnut tree and passing rusty, distorted fencing that prevented, but only just, cows from descending to the road. Muriel hoped that the fence didn’t belong to her. The converted garage was ill equipped; stocked with sliced loaves, sweets and weary vegetables. ‘From your garden I believe.’ Delilah was conspiratorial. ‘I don’t like to say this but I’m not sure that Eric doesn’t make a little on the side.’ She rattled at the till and asked her assistant to rearrange tins of custard powder. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘here come your Kitty’s girls. Gemma and Lara. They’re lovely.’ Two plump eight or nine year olds in checked frocks bounced in, clasping coins. Gemma,
the older of the two, said, ‘Good afternoon Mrs Rector.’ Delilah made haste to explain that she was thus known in the village.

‘Mum’s making cakes for the freezer, ready for the fete.’

‘Baking powder? Flour? Butter?’ Delilah rushed to Gemma’s aid. Whilst instructing Muriel to pack the goods in a plastic bag, she introduced her. ‘Now. This is Mrs Cottle. New lady at the Manor where your Mummy works. Say “hello” nicely.’ Both girls said “hello” nicely and scarpered. After that there was a long wait before further customers appeared and Delilah took advantage of the time to advance intimacy.

‘Of course, Dulcie’s a bit of a mystery. I think your, er, Aunt Alice always made her believe that she might eventually come in to something. That, or so I’m told, is why she spends so much of her time prowling around the house. Looking for a letter so they say. A letter that your auntie left for your uncle, something to Dulcie’s advantage perhaps. But that’s only gossip.’

Dulcie a pretender.

‘Another little slice of wisdom,’ Delilah went on, ‘Dawson suggested I put a word in your ear concerning the metal detector chappie. He has a history, I’m sorry to say. Uses the coins he digs up as a front for those he steals. He has been inside in his day, but you’re new here and it takes time to learn the local ways.’

Two boys, approximately ten years old, entered the shop with confidence. Delilah whispered, ‘Keep an eye on them. As you know I don’t like to say a word against any of God’s creatures but…. well. Keep an eye.’

Muriel kept an eye and satisfied herself that they had not pilfered. They didn’t buy anything but shuffled out, disgruntled.

Delilah hadn’t quite finished. ‘Phyllis. She’s a funny one. Nobody’s sure of where she came from. Answered an advertisement I believe. No family I hear. That must be a dreadful thing. Dulcie, of course, met up with your aunt at a cat show. They say she was, er, well, very attached to her and moved her and her van into the paddock. There were even hints - but, no. Here comes a customer.’

She served a packet of sugar to an old man who had swerved to the door on a bicycle, then reverted to the life that was led in Muriel’s house. ‘Of course, Phyllis, too, had some hopes. She did everything for Jerome and they say he made her some promise. Sonia overheard words one afternoon and mentioned to Dulcie that it sounded like a marriage offer.’

Phyllis also a pretender. Marco and Flavia counting their chickens. Hugh poised? Lizzie livid. Hidden letters. Head spinning, Muriel returned to her pulsating house.

It was teatime when Mambles arrived. Her detective, Moggan, doubled as driver. A room had been prepared for him amongst the kudus on the top floor, and Phyllis had ordained that he and Mambles’s maid eat with her and Kitty in a semi-abandoned servant’s hall tickled up in no time for unexpected use.

Muriel happened to know that Moggan was not the marrying kind or she would have feared for further assaults on Phyllis’s exposed nerves. She had not been given advance warning as to which of Mambles’s retainers she planned to travel with, and, from where she stood, was not able to see who sat beside her in the back of the car. Jubilee, who crouched on his mistress’s knee, scraped on the windowpane.

Dulcie was already on the driveway and charged forward to open the car door, pre-empting Moggan, doubling up and bowing from the hip to the alighting Princess. Muriel was only narrowly in earshot but could almost swear that she murmured the words ‘your worship’ in her greeting, then continued to murmur something about the school and a half holiday.

Mambles’s eyes were fully stretched as she stared, showing that she observed an unusual example of the human species. She was at her most Scandinavian, tall and yellow. A long yellow cardigan hid, for the most part, a white pleated skirt, and signals of humour issued from her hard eyes as, ignoring Dulcie’s obeisances, she creaked towards her old friend with open arms.

Partly because a group had gathered on the forecourt, and partly resulting from other diverse forces, Muriel felt more loath then ever to embark on a curtsey. Could it be that she now felt nearer to being her equal? Her superior even? She acceded to the necessary formalities; kissing and curtseying, then watched with pride as Kitty, Phyllis and the rest sank before her to the ground.

As the huge yellow sprig from the royal branch, followed by her retinue, surged into the hallway, Muriel saw, to her disquiet, that she was trailed by an elderly figure dressed district nurse-like in dark colours and carrying a briefcase. She recognised her as Miss Farthing, ex-ladies-maid to Queen Elizabeth and known, affectionately, by her employers as ‘Farty,’ and thanked God that Cunty, at least, was out of the way.

Mambles stood still and feasted with theatrical ostentation, her eyes upon the treasures, now to all intents Muriel’s own.

‘So. Muriel. You haven’t done half badly.’

All onlookers regarded her in high esteem. She knew from the faces that turned to hers that they awaited orders and appealed to Mambles who decreed that both she and Miss Farthing would like, before all else, to see to their rooms and ‘make themselves comfortable’.

How long was Muriel to live in suspense before Miss Farthing’s pet name was revealed?

All was flurry. Dulcie buttonholed Moggan and insisted upon a minute inspection of Mambles’s Daimler, watched by Eric and Joyce who had become thick as thieves, united in events.

On the staircase Phyllis whispered in conspiracy with Farty as she explained the intricacies of the master suite, the whereabouts of the chamber pot and reserve supplies of whisky, enough, even, to last Roger a month.

Mambles dismissed Muriel. ‘See you later alligator,’ she cried, as Farty shut the door upon her; leaving no time for the lady of the house, as custom demanded, to reply, ‘in a while crocodile’.

The two passed an interminable amount of time in their rooms which adjoined each other, leaving a desolate emptiness in the house. The build-up before the arrival had been nothing short of hair-raising; the arrival itself and moments surrounding it, ecstatic. Now all was tranquil and, apart from the fortunate Phyllis who had been handpicked by Farty for the honour of carrying a tea tray to the illustrious guest, they were left at loose ends. Dulcie monopolised Moggan and bore him off to examine her caravan.

Muriel was puzzled. Mambles behaved out of character. Never before, when under the same roof, had she been allowed a single second to herself. Normally she was made to sit on the end of the bed; admire her clothes as they emerged at the hands of Farty or whoever else, from an ancient leather suitcase. She always had to entertain Mambles; chatter, read snippets from newspapers as long as they weren’t ‘horrid’ about Mummy, to suggest and to cajole. Why, now, was she dismissed? Particularly after the days of separation about which she had complained. It must surely be the changes in her life that held significance.

Muriel went to Kitty in the kitchen where the sight of her brought back the niggle in her head that had been ousted by distraction. She dwelt
on the image of Dawson and Delilah at the rectory - looping the loop in their rejection.

‘I’m feeling a bit guilty about Delilah,’ she said, knowing that Mambles would have upbraided her for speaking with familiarity to an underling.

‘Don’t you mind her. She’s ever so pushy. Mark you. She was different for a bit after they’d had their troubles. Ever so nice for a while, that is. Pity she didn’t keep it up.’

‘Troubles?’

‘Yes. Their youngest boy, Alastair. Dropped his trousers on public transport. It could have been hushed up, if his Dad hadn’t been rector, that is.’

‘What’s he like? The boy?’

‘He’s queer. Ever so moody. Well, he gives me the creeps. We won’t let him near our place, not with Gemma and Lara being the age they are.’

Muriel was more ashamed than ever that she had not found it in her to incorporate Dawson and Delilah into either of their visiting groups; what with their son dropping his trousers on public transport and being denied visits to local homes. From the start she had been a disappointment to them; even at the time of Delilah’s first telephone call and she had to accept that, lurking in her, lay an urge to shoot the messenger. Without Delilah’s intervention none of this might have happened.

It would, she knew, have been circumspect to have been on excellent terms with the rector and his wife.

Kitty and Muriel talked of supper. A card table had been erected in a corner of the dining room at which she and Mambles were to dine alone by candlelight.

When the telephone rang it was answered by Kitty. She called out for Phyllis, betraying that it was Roger (Mr Roger, she called him) who wished to speak with her. Phyllis, radiant after her trip with the tray, twirled past her, smug and buzzing. On no account was Muriel tempted to hear one syllable of her conversation with Roger. She left her to it and strode away, shuddering with rancour, to inspect preliminaries as set out for supper. Subservience to rank, as displayed by her underlings, was contagious for Muriel, not by nature a perfectionist, fingered forks and tweaked at flowers at the card table that awaited the tête-à-tête.

Farty came to announce that Her Royal Highness was much satisfied with her quarters and that she would be dressed and downstairs by
seven-thirty
. During this indefinite time Marco rang and his mother confessed
to him without delay that Mambles was staying at Bradstow. The news titillated him.

‘Good on you Ma. That’ll rev your team up if anything can.’ Here he paused and, Muriel fancied, gulped.

‘By the way, sorry about Roger. He simply doesn’t know how to behave. Me and Flave gave him a wigging for flirting with that fright in nylon. Told him that it isn’t playing the game to interfere with people’s servants.’

Marco, too, was affected by his mother’s elevation to a state of feudal responsibility. He was reviewing boundaries. Muriel asked if they would like to return for the weekend, remembering the sympathetic squeeze he had given her on parting. He sounded vague and dithery and suggested that they play it by ear, as Muriel lost concentration and planned to invite Dawson and Delilah for a drink, a meal even, during the next influx.

Mambles, in full regalia, advanced upon her in the drawing room at seven-thirty on the dot. Muriel was alone with her, having forbidden Phyllis to attend upon them until she and Mavis served supper at the card table.