Muriel Pulls It Off (10 page)

M
uriel lay in bed after her mouldy night following a mouldy day. Screech owls had kept her awake for a while even after the nightmares had dissolved. Monopoly slept throughout.

She and her dog started early in the morning. It was a shambles downstairs but she hit on a method of making light of the work. Every time she retrieved a champagne cork or cigar butt, she stared at the empty space and pretended that it had been spirited away by unseen hands. She did this rhythmically in time to noiseless music, suspecting that she looked pathetic.

When the ground floor was tickety-boo, when she had unshuttered all windows and taken Monopoly for an airing, she stood tall and marked time, pending a battering. With a cup of coffee in her left hand, she sat at the kitchen table and wrote lists, mainly of queries for Arthur.

Phyllis came in looking tarty in a shiny navy frock, high-heeled shoes, mouth wet with lipstick. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. As her arms wheeled, buttons on the navy frock came near to popping and Muriel sat, tense, hoping once again to avoid the subject of breakfast. Heaven alone knew when Marco and Flavia, let alone Roger, were likely to be ready for it. Her evasions were interrupted by a call to the telephone. It was Dawson, and Muriel fancied Delilah to be prompting him.

‘Once you’ve got this meeting with Arthur behind you, we’re hoping for a bit of a get-together. Plenty of beer down here; or plonk if you prefer it.’ Plonkety-plonkety-plonk.

‘Now. About the school. A report at the last meeting indicated a predicted overspend of three thousand pounds….’ He droned on. ‘Well. This, prorated ‘til the year end, gives a predicted underspend of one
thousand pounds. However the underspend is likely to be eroded. The overspend predicted at the last meeting was mainly associated with equipment. This biased the spend to the first half of the year - hence the elimination of the predicted overspend.’ She treated him to a mumble and, as she rang off, heard the unmistakeable sound of Roger floundering down the staircase. He charged past Muriel, heading for the kitchen. She did not try to delay him but remained rigid by the telephone. Uttering many a curmudgeonly and roundabout phrase, he reached his destination as his hostess followed, slowly, behind him. She hid herself as he advanced on Phyllis and demanded a boiled egg.

‘The freshest you have - and coffee -freshly-ground too if you please.’

She heard the buzz of Phyllis’s petticoat as it rubbed against the nylon of her navy frock, held her breath and listened to the pair at play.

‘Wonderful woman. Wonderful woman.’ Worst fears confirmed. Roger was making a set at Phyllis.

‘Another thing. A fork. Is there a long-handled fork? There’s an itch. Down near the bottom of my plaster on the inside of my leg.’

Phyllis bustled off in search, perhaps, of an ancient toasting fork laid aside since the reign of Aunt Alice. A chair scraped and crutches squeaked against linoleum as Roger pulled himself towards the table and awaited the services of Phyllis. Muriel would have continued to eavesdrop but the telephone rang again.

It was Delilah. ‘It’s about the fete. I believe that I mentioned it to you briefly but the day draws nigh. We’re all very anxious to know whether you will be willing to hold it in your grounds. The village is on tenterhooks. We keep the trestles in your shed, the triple-bay, we call it. Teapots, cups and saucers are all in the cupboard below your back stairs but I’m sure you know all this. I’ve told Dawson that you are prepared to do the fortune telling and he thinks it’s a lovely idea.’

Partly because it was uncomfortable standing in the passage with the atmosphere of hideous flirtation wafting from the kitchen, and partly because she wanted to shut her up, Muriel interrupted. ‘Yes. I don’t see why not but I haven’t had the famous meeting with Arthur yet. Can I mention all this to him?’

‘No need. It’s up to you. Arthur has never meddled in these matters. Might you help with the teas? That is to say, between telling fortunes. I run the fete committee and it’s a terrible job filling slots. Dulcie
sometimes lends a hand on the day; not that she’ll commit herself in advance which makes it awkward, and then there are those who don’t like to take their cup from her but, while we’re on the subject, Dawson would be most grateful if you could let him have a bottle of plonk or suchlike for the tombola.’

Muriel promised to ring her when the meeting with Arthur had been consummated. Delilah answered, ‘You do have a sense of humour,’ as Muriel put the telephone down.

Roger’s voice sounded out. ‘Wonderful woman! Now my back. Here. Here. Lower down. Lower down. No! Higher up. Perfect.’ Turning away, Muriel walked to the hall. Let her scratch him silly. She stood whiling away the time; aggrieved and in revolt against all responsible demands, wondering whether to order Arthur to revoke Jerome’s crazy will. As she wondered, Roger, preceded by Phyllis, crashed into view. He had abandoned his crutches and depended on her shoulders, which he clutched from behind. Upon her face was a manifestation of triumph mingled with pain. In this tandem they made for an armchair where, with hurly-burly, Roger was lowered into the seat.

‘Wonderful woman,’ he uttered in jerky notes as Phyllis drew up a chair behind his and, entranced, scrutinised the visible part of his forefinger as the rest of it worked its way into a nostril.

‘Phyllis,’ Muriel asked, hell-bent upon shattering the spectacle, ‘Where are we to hold the meeting?’

‘Normally it would take place in the dining room.’

‘Come with me then. We’ll set it up. Mr Stiller will be here at ten o’clock.’ She tried with deliberation to take her down a peg as she made to preen her way, via conquest of Roger, into a position of supremacy. Was it not her own aim, but via nobody, to arrive at that point?

‘Very well.’ Phyllis’s red lips pulled together and her body stiffened as she rose to follow her mistress.

‘How many will we be?’

‘It’s up to you.’

‘Well. There’s me and Mr Stiller. You and Sonia, I presume. Not Dulcie.’ She was firm here. ‘But it would be very useful to have Kitty with us. That’ll do for this time round.’ She had not yet met Mavis, the cleaner.

‘What about your son? Shouldn’t he and his wife be in on this?’

‘They’ll be asleep.’

‘I could wake them. Roger, your gentleman guest, he’ll be wanting to inspect the cellar shortly. I’m willing to give him a hand but I can’t, can I, if I’m to be dragged into this business?’

Roger’s play upon the sensitivities of this unnerving woman was indefensible and made her long to kill him with an orange crutch. She told Phyllis to arrange chairs around the table, to put out biscuits or whatever, to see to a round of coffee.

Knowing that she looked scrawny and unappealing, Muriel returned to Roger. ‘For God’s sake Roger, leave Phyllis alone. Can’t you see what a foul position I’m in without your little tricks?’

‘Lady of the Manor. Haw. Haw. Nothing the matter with your position. Take your cellar for a start. I rather like her. Sorry for her, you know. All these changes. Can’t be easy. Calm down.’

It was hot again and her wits were trapped; darting as silver fish behind a pane of glass.

‘Listen Roger. Just sit here. Don’t move or wake anybody or invade the cellar or make up to Phyllis or pick your nose.’ She had said it and he was startled.

‘Sorry if I’m not wanted - but worry not! My plaster comes off on Wednesday and I have to be in London for that mid-morning. Marco and Flavia can drive me. I’m not taking the train again in this heat - or this condition.’ Reprieve. They would all be out of the way before Mambles’s arrival.

‘Meanwhile I shall have to get down to work on that cellar of yours. Marco can help me when he stirs his stumps and, er, Phyllis, when you’ve finished with her.’

Nothing in particular was accomplished at the meeting even though Muriel had believed everything to hinge upon it. It was decided that Phyllis was to stay on as housekeeper, Sonia as secretary, Kitty as cook, Mavis as cleaner and Dulcie as watchdog for a three-month trial run. Their duties were defined by Arthur and Muriel, and it was determined that a similar meeting take place the following week to sort out problems connected with those who worked out of doors.

No doubts were expressed by Arthur as to the validity of Muriel’s ownership. No questions were asked - other than by Sonia who sat muffled, her face barely topping the table. ‘About the dog? How long is he going to be amongst us? It can’t go on indefinitely.’

Arthur, who Muriel, too, had begun to consider a bit of a sweetie, replied, ‘Sorry, Sonia. Mrs Cottle is within her rights to say that the cats can’t stay indefinitely. If she wishes to keep her dog with her then, I’m afraid, you will have to make your own arrangements. Simple as that.’

So. She held the reins.

For the most part Muriel failed to concentrate during the meeting and allowed Arthur to burble on. The overall management of the house, repairs, locks, keys, roofing and so on, seemed to rest as before, in the hands of Sonia and himself.

When the meeting wound up and when Arthur had taken his leave, she walked with Monopoly in the garden. She wondered whether, in her awkwardness, she came across as haughty. Arrogant? Why did the healing of internal scars hinge, in her awareness, upon her changed position of power? Anti-democratic perceptions struggled with democratic ones, for had she not been trained to subservience? Images of both her draconian father and her weary, snobbish mother scoffed at her from the sky, and memories of Hugh and his disgrace came back to bother her. She was not, would not be, subservient. On the other hand was she comfortable with hierarchy? Mambles?

She was truly unhappy as she indulged in fantasies of revenge. Roger, the destabilising menace of recent years, must be banished. But might not any victory over him prove to be a pyrrhic one? Might Phyllis, during Mambles’s visit, spy upon her and hasten to provide Roger with gossip for columns? And what of Marco? Beloved but confusing. Peter was on hold.

Muriel’s situation had devolved upon her but she feared that this power might have already become more important to her than any relationship - or did it merely relate to relationships? The house. The garden. The peculiar pickle. Houses depended on people inhabiting them. Why was this happening?

Marco, Flavia, Phyllis and Roger spent most of the second half of the day in the cellar; Phyllis pounding to and fro with trays, glasses, bottle openers and cushions for comfort. As some of Muriel’s inner conflicts gathered force it became clear to her, even in her semi-ignorance, that the cellar was of unique standing. She had heard of wine being sold off as death duty payment. Roger must not consume the nest egg.

From time to time she caught catches of laughter and complaint, of appreciation and contentment gushing and oozing from the depths of the
building as her loneliness intensified and her hand lowered to touch the head of her dog.

In bed that night she thought back to Roger’s bare sitting room in North London. There had been no photographs, no sign of normal life. He had lived, and probably still did, in a well of anonymity. There had been a packet of Alka Seltzer and a book about hangovers. Little else. He would need both after the spree in the cellar. If only Marco and Flavia had let Roger be. She willed them not to speak of her. Willed that their conversation be of nothing but gossip columns, horse racing, food fads, drink and hangovers. She knew, full well, that Roger, however little power he had over himself, had the power to make others warped and unaccountable.

The following day the house was thick with action before Muriel and Monopoly made their morning descent. Roger sat in the hall at a low, velvet-covered table on top of which rested a computer-like contraption and at which he pounded with several fingers as his eyes rotated to a heap of notes by his side. He had unshuttered two of the windows, the ones necessary to illuminate the patch where he sat. It would not, Muriel thought huffily, have crossed his mind to have lent a hand in any area other than one that served himself. In steely motion she completed tasks as Roger held up a defensive hand.

‘Sorry. Can’t talk. Dates. Vintages. Treasure trove it must be said.’

Phyllis, still tarty but this time in pink, sneaked in upon the scene bearing a tray supporting a boiled egg hidden under a pale flannel cosy and a pot of coffee that smelt of Volterra in spring. She told Muriel, icily, that two letters lay for her upon the kitchen table but her attention remained with Roger.

‘There. Down there.’ He pointed to a small octagonal table and dismissed her with a few words triggering the familiar buzz of her clothing as she waltzed away on tight shoes.

‘Roger. How dare you order Phyllis about?’

‘I’m a houseguest aren’t I? I think you’ll find that in most statelys houseguests are expected to express their wishes to the staff. Brace up Muriel. I’ve already told you - I like her and she likes me. Anything wrong?’

Houseguests, staff, statelys. How grotesque he was. Between each one of Roger’s teeth a narrow gap showed. Muriel stared in anguish at the
susceptible side of her own being. Roger and his bit-of-the-old-one-two, his sidelong, meaningful, cheeky looks. His innate cleverness, his rich, expressive voice. Tight trousers. Masculine mystery. What a weird tangle of aberration had entrapped her.

Monopoly’s tail flickered over the pile containing notes on the contents of her cellar.

‘Fucking brute!’ Roger let out a hissing, sucking noise and sat back as if defeated. He wore a no-peace-for-the-righteous look on his face.

‘When does the hapless Phyllis get a day off?’

‘Roger. Please.’ She supplicated as had done Sonia on the day of Jerome’s incarceration; notwithstanding the knowledge that no one would ever get the better of Roger.

‘Please don’t disrupt my household. Please don’t publish anything to further complicate my position here. Please leave Phyllis alone.’

‘What are you accusing me of? What the hell do you think I’ve been able to get up to?’ He pointed to his damaged limb. ‘That’s not to say,’ he continued with relish, ‘that I mightn’t have a crack at her some other time.’