Muriel Pulls It Off (8 page)

Her expression was carefree and vacant. Muriel, faced with this untroubled creature, felt firm and blameless. For all she cared Monopoly could do as he pleased. He was nowhere to be seen. He was at liberty to chase cats, bother Dulcie, roam freely. Muriel intended to freeze out all interlopers with authority. Not a soul disturbed this period of time. Her will kept Dulcie at bay. She sat for a long while under the portrait to be disturbed only by the reassuring sight of Kitty who came to say, ‘It’s two o’clock Mrs Cottle. I see they’re not back yet but there’s no need to worry. Lunch will keep.’

Two o’clock. They were late but that was nothing new. Nonetheless, at any second, she must expect the presence of Roger, as championed by her son. They were likely, all three, to be alarmed by the change in her manner, by the power of her newly-formed presence. Recollections of the jauntiness of Roger’s gait and manner, of his seeming to be untouched by any sense of shame, swam before her as quickly as she strove to suppress them.

As her resolves multiplied, she heard the unruly roar of Marco’s car outside the front door. This she had kept wide open to let air into the house as she ruminated. Here she had erred for the hall was cool and the outside air was hot and humid. She would never make a proper country person.

She rose and walked to the spot where the car had pulled up, scattering gravel.

Roger, unmistakeable, sat in the front passenger seat, Flavia behind. At a glance Muriel could tell that they were all a trifle tipsy and deduced that they had stopped at a pub on the way back from the station, disregarding the lunch hour. Forewarned that lack of enthusiasm in her reception of Roger would place her in the dock, she muttered ‘kind but firm’ under her breath, as both Marco and Flavia raced to where Roger sat and made to help him out of the car. Plaster; crutches; smug infirmity. He was, unsteadily, on his feet and she saw that he wore a long white caftan and sported a pair of orange crutches with shiny metal tops. Recollections of her fling with Roger enraged her as she looked straight into his steely
grey eyes, and as he gave her the sidelong attention of an intimate enemy. Poised between comedy and tragedy, she planted a kiss upon his face and uttered a vague greeting. A longing for decency, for respectability, flooded her soul and she wished to heaven that she were young and a virgin.

‘Hi Ma. We stopped for cocktails. Roger needed one for his leg. He’s pretty impressed already.’

‘Certainly am, Madame.’ How he vexed her as he fumbled for his crutches.

Muriel said, ‘I’ll leave you to get yourselves into the house while I go and say that we can start lunch.’ Firm.

Marco had spoken out of turn when he reported that Roger had shown himself impressed. In fact Roger strained every muscle, in plaster or not, to appear to take calmly the twist in Muriel’s life. For him it was a maiming sadness that he had been born with ‘no background’ and now he strained with the effort to appear at ease and untitillated by Bradstow Manor. For, many were the manors where he knew the ropes, and many were the cellars where he had lubricated his expert lips.

With scuffles and grunts from the wounded visitor, the party congregated around the table where the three had dined the evening before. Unconfrontational supremacy. That was Muriel’s aim.

The hatch went up and Kitty cooed, ‘All vegetables fresh from the garden by the way.’

Flavia, too tiddly to talk, sat silent, a fragile china teacup filled to overflowing. Marco, tiddly too, jabbered ceaselessly. He wished for Roger to be aware that these were early days; that things would be looking up; that vulgar voices rising from a hatch were soon to be things of the past.

Muriel’s scheme was put to the test as she kept up lively conversation with Kitty, engaging in deliberate mateyness as example to her son. It was, in some ways, fortunate for her that the three had returned from the station the worse for wear so, rather than reprimand them, she increased the dosage, aware of her own rashness; there was every chance that she encouraged them to swig a fortune’s worth.

‘Try this Roger,’ she ordered. Holding a bottle of red Burgundy and reading from the label, she announced, ‘1959 Château Cheval Blanc. Could be good. You’ll be able to tell us.’

Roger, whose eyebrows had shot up, sipped and said, ‘Squisito’. He held up his hand, pressed forefinger to thumb, closed his eyes and
whispered, ‘Mmm. Soft and sweet.’ His face was wet and waxy but his eyes, when open, continued to swing in wariness, professional excitement and calculated opposition.

Flavia slipped away.

‘Touch of ’flu.’ Marco beamed as he pushed at his plate and held his own glass out to Roger who was lurching and had allowed his orange crutches to fall to the floor. The men, with sacrilegious haste, polished off two bottles, declined to eat sugared currants and, with maximum kerfuffle over the sorting of Roger’s crutches, left the room. They had sat at the table for less than twenty minutes. Marco called, ‘We’re both going to lie down. Don’t, for God’s sake, let that transvestite disturb us.’

Muriel ate as much as she could and called to Kitty that the others were unwell, not that the cover-up was necessary for Kitty had observed enough through the hatch. She replied, ‘That’ll give you some time to yourself. You haven’t even seen round the whole house as yet. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and then, if you want to that is, I’ll take you on a guided tour.’

That, thought Muriel, is perfectly true. Jerome’s bedroom for a start. Had he ever shared one with Aunt Alice?

To her surprise Dulcie stood stock still in Jerome’s room, a cat curling round the khaki of her calves. She did not move but watched them both as though allowing for an audience. Jerome’s room was dark. Curtains were drawn across the casement windows and the air in there, as had been his suit, was distressingly rank. Kitty drew back the curtains, closed since his departure, and Muriel’s eyes made for the bed which prompted her to think that, apart from the smell of decay and various accoutrements of decrepitude, the room might have belonged to a boy. The iron-ended bed was narrow and mean, unmade and provided with but one pillow. The sheets were grey; Phyllis’s laxity exposed. Bowls, basins and rubber cushions rested on a commode in an arbitrary corner of the room, and on a table beside the bed, half- hidden under a torn lampshade, bottles filled with pills congregated; a small army of aperients. It contrasted with the luxury elsewhere on that landing.

‘My Aunt?’ Muriel turned to Kitty. ‘Where did she sleep?’

‘She was before my time. I did live in the village then but I’ve only been coming in for two years. I believe she kept her own quarters; the ones your son and his wife are resting in.’

Dulcie remained still and silent but the cat continued to curl. At the window they looked out through small panes and spied Muriel’s new friend, the man with the metal detector, wearing an unseasonable cap and scouring the field. As they watched they spotted a huge woman striding over the grass to join him and, for a while, the pair appeared locked in argument.

‘That’s Joyce.’ Kitty defined. ‘Don’t mind her. She thinks she owns the place; has done ever since Mr Atkins allowed her to keep her sheep in the field. It’ll be good for her to find that you’re in charge. Outdoors as well as in.’

In charge.

They left Dulcie in Jerome’s room. ‘Searching for some letter,’ Kitty explained. Bypassing occupied rooms, the women toured the house, Muriel’s euphoria mounting. On a long wall over the stairs on the top floor, was a handsomely mounted array of antlers. Their owners had been shot decades earlier. The heads of warthogs, kudus and dwarf buffaloes looked glassily down at her. The rooms up there were dirty and smelled of cat. ‘Dulcie has reared a few litters up here,’ said Kitty. ‘Hyacinths. They say that hyacinths do the trick. It’s only by putting them in a room that you can get rid of the smell.’

As they stood on the top landing a loud ‘Cooee’ reached their ears. Muriel started and Kitty said, ‘We’ll have to see the rest some other time.’

‘Cooee. It’s me. Delilah. We were sorry not to see you in church. Dawson’s outside. We were taking a walk. We usually do on a Sunday afternoon and Jerome has always allowed us to roam around his grounds. Gorgeous place. I just popped in to ask if we are able to carry on as usual.’

Had the young ones not been drunk they would have been awoken by this interruption, so clear were Delilah’s tones. Curls and teeth came close. ‘We heard that your son and daughter-in-law were here. What did I tell you? You never lose them, do you? And a friend, Dulcie tells me. Lovely when they bring their friends home. My boy, one of my boys I should say, Geoffrey, is down for the night. Could you bring them all round for a drink this evening?’

‘Where is Dulcie? She was upstairs a little while ago.’

‘Dulcie? Oh she usually goes out on her motorbike at weekends. In the week too, come to that. You should see it. Huge great thing. Actually she has several. Keeps them in beautiful condition. She has friends over at the cat sanctuary in Winspey. They are very good to her.’

Through the open door Muriel saw Dawson drawing on his pipe.

‘Oh dear. Not tonight. There’s so much to do, what with the meeting with Arthur tomorrow morning. So many things to see to. By the way,’ she wished to be seen to have done her duty, ‘I called in at the home this morning.’

Delilah was agape. ‘What a kindly act! How did you find him?’

Muriel told her, acknowledging as she did so that she had barely registered the dramatic decline that had affected him in so short a space of time.

‘He’ll pass away, then, before long. Lost his spirit. I’ll get Dawson to pop over. He’s lovely with the dying but then, as I mentioned, he’s an academic. Now, what about tonight? It would do you good to take a break. I’ve never been one to recognise the age gap. You’re as old as you feel, don’t you agree? I’m sure you do. All the same it is lovely for young people to get together sometimes. Does your son have any hobbies? Our Geoffrey was thrilled when he heard you had young down here.’

Muriel’s mind wheeled to the three who slumbered through the afternoon of superb sunlight.

‘Unfortunately their friend has had an accident. His leg is in plaster so he can’t get around.’ She added, ‘Other than with difficulty,’ to cater for Roger’s arrival by train of which Delilah was certain to have heard. How was the woman to be kept at bay? ‘I think, if you don’t mind, we’ll lie low for a day or two. I’ll ring you up as soon as I can see the wood from the trees.’

‘What a lovely expression.’ Shaking her curls and rattling her teeth, Delilah followed her husband to the edge of the lawn. She was bitterly disappointed not to have lured the new occupants of the big house before anyone else grabbed them, but Dawson replied when she told him the sad news, ‘It takes all sorts.’

Muriel was trapped. She could not explore the garden for fear of bumping into Dawson and Delilah, or the field for fear of confrontation with the metal detector or the woman who kept sheep. It came to her that she had no right to allow the metal detector to detect in the field. She was, after all, only heir to the place. She was not yet the owner. It would have been appropriate to have waited until after the meeting with the sweetie before dishing out permissions.

After eating so much lunch she was near to vomiting and resentful of having had to swallow dishes disdained by the drunkards; anxious, too,
about the potentially startling contents of the cellar. Just then there was a noise of juddering feet at the door and the frame was filled by a man of fearsome build. She tuned to a nearby looking glass and took a peep at herself as she advanced upon the visitor. It was a relief that her legs remained long and her hair still bouncy. Had she not, at that moment, seen her reflection in the glass, she would have been hard put to believe that her general appearance had survived.

The man, who was dishevelled and smelled of cowpat, wore soiled dungarees zipped up in front and he carried a can.

‘Put it this way. I would have come along before, but my wife said to give you time to settle.’

‘I haven’t.’

Her snappy reply alarmed him and he twitched and moved his feet upon the mat.

‘It’s like this. I thought I’d give you time to settle before coming along. As you know, I’m head gardener here. Have been all along - back in the days when they both took an interest.’

Muriel brightened. Perhaps he was to be illuminating.

‘She told me to have a word with you. My wife did. She heard from Dulcie that you’d taken charge.’ He treated her to a sad expression as she offered excuses. ‘If you’re not in charge then who is? That’s what I need to know. That Joyce, thinks she owns the place - ever since he said she could keep her bees down by the greenhouse. They block the entrance. Can’t get in or out. Not without danger to myself. That and the sheep.’

Muriel mentioned the meeting with Arthur and told the man, whose name was Eric, that he would be advised as soon as somebody knew what to say.

‘Is there somewhere that Mr Atkins, er, saw people? An office or something?’ It was unimaginable that Eric should enter the house caked in cowpat.

‘Never saw no one. Not in recent years, that is. Not unless he got buttonholed.’

She closed the door on him and made for the chair where she had known peace but, before she sat, Kitty called that she was wanted on the telephone. A woman. Without a shadow of doubt the woman on the other end of the line was hysterical.

‘I’m his wife and I’ll stand by him,’ she bellowed through thunderous sobs. ‘I do. I’ve always stood by him. Wouldn’t you stand by your husband?’ Muriel, wondering whether she had been rumbled already, said nothing. ‘It’s me what told him to come and see you. Has he been along?’

‘He’s just left. Eric you mean?’

‘Eric. That’s him. He’s not appreciated. It’s her - that Joyce. Tells him he isn’t doing his job.’ The sobs became harsher and more unruly, no longer allowing for words. Muriel embarked on her spiel concerning her uncertain position.

Kitty wished to know about supper; if it would be in order to leave something for Muriel to heat up or whether they would be content with a cold meal. She didn’t normally stay late on Sunday evenings. Mr Atkins usually took high tea then watched television until bedtime; no matter what was showing.