Muriel Pulls It Off (19 page)

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.

‘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.