Muriel Pulls It Off (7 page)

So that was it. Under pressure she had given Mambles the general particulars of her whereabouts. ‘Is there something fishy about it? Mummy keeps asking.’

Her voice soared and stretched as Monopoly lay quiet at Muriel’s feet with his paws wrapped around her bare ankles. His presence kept her
steady as Mambles continued, ‘I’m having such a horrid time and you’re no help at all.’ She was officially angry. ‘That dreary old Cunty is coming to lunch today and I always count on you when she insists on barging in.’

Muriel winced, as she always did, when Mambles spoke of Cunty. Cunty had been Mambles’s governess. Her real name was Miss Crunthard and the royal family, much given to the dishing out of nicknames, had christened her Cunty early in her employment. The pet name had come about, in part, owing to the inability of King George VI to pronounce his r’s.

Nobody, not even Miss Crunthard herself, had ever dared to protest and, on the whole, friends of the family had swallowed the awkwardness without too many a snigger, and the old brigade queried it no more. Muriel, though, could never quite accustom herself to the indignity silently suffered by the ageing governess.

‘You know how tedious Cunty is, always going on about my first trip on the underground.’

Muriel, revelling in a hot lick from the curled-up dog, broke in. ‘I’m sorry about Cunty but it’s difficult here. I need a while to take it all in. As I told you, the old man isn’t even a relation and it has all fallen on me out of the blue. He’s not dead. Just off his trolley.’

As she said this she realised that something blocked the light and that she was in near darkness. Wheezing drowned Monopoly’s soft breathing and Muriel looked to her left. It was Dulcie who had cast the shadow and Dulcie who showed no respect for the fact that Muriel was engaged in conversation. She spoke loudly to gain ground. ‘For a start, I would not say that Mr Atkins was off his trolley, and when you have finished with that damned machine, I want to ring the health centre about that knife you stuck in my mouth last evening.’

Dulcie’s huge, hard stomach was hideously close and Muriel, with her free hand, pushed forcefully at it and said, ‘Go away. Can’t you see I’m talking?’

Dulcie spluttered. ‘There’s one thing I will not tolerate and that is physical violence.’ She let loose an expletive but, to Muriel’s astonishment, charged off in the direction of the kitchen.

Returning to Mambles, Muriel explained about the hiccup. Then, ‘Where was I? Yes. Off his trolley.’

Mambles whined for a while and held tight to her determination to harass her friend into issuing an invitation for, apart from her date with Cunty, she was at a loose end. Like Roger.

Muriel relented and told Mambles that she could come for one night. Wednesday night, with Jubilee, chauffeur, maid and God knew what. Dulcie must practise her curtsey.

Marco and Flavia had not resurfaced, as far as she knew, and she decided to tackle Lizzie before events overtook her. Lizzie was frightfully cross. She had not been dropped more than a hint by Muriel - a hint relayed by Peter with a wispy word about ‘property’. Her voice was staccato and Muriel could almost hear the tic-tic-tic of her high-heeled shoe as she tapped it against the marbleised linoleum in her hall.

‘I’m sorry.’ Lizzie nearly always started a sentence with ‘I’m sorry’. ‘I’m sorry but you’ve got to tell me what you’re up to.’

Muriel spoke softly as there was no knowing when Dulcie might steal up beside her. As well as she was able, she encapsulated her tale; it was not an easy one to synthesise.

‘So. Are you frightfully rich?’

Muriel chested her cards.

‘No, but, seriously, how much? Is it a proper estate? Will you be seriously rich like Lupin and Madge?’

‘God knows.’

‘Well. I’m selling the shop. It’s worth thousands, so when the deal goes through, I’ll have masses of lovely money too, like you.’ A little laugh. A little ‘aren’t-we-all-awful’ laugh.

Lizzie possessed a sharp, quick brightness and quantities of sex appeal. Age appeal too. Muriel’s father had thought the world of her. ‘So responsive,’ he would say as Lizzie left her scent behind her in the air. Jerome was certain to fall for her. Better not let Lizzie loose in the geriatric wing.

Muriel, not perfectly confident, cried, ‘Please Lizzie. Don’t. I’m distraught.’

‘I can’t say that I’m sorry for you. Still. Once I’ve sold the shop, I’ll be able to hold my own.’

‘Your tongue. Hold that,’ Muriel said to herself but, for Lizzie, she tried a burst of hollow laughter. ‘You will indeed.’

At least she was not to be faced with the complication of extricating herself from helping in the shop. But Lizzie with nothing to do! Another loose ender! Then came the words, ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to come and see. When would be best for you?’

Best? Marco, Flavia, Mambles, Roger and now Lizzie.

‘What about the weekend?’Muriel fervently hoped to have ousted the others by then.

As she broke off she heard noises in the hall. Marco and Flavia, dressed to the nines in summer wear, appeared agog; lively and eager.

‘Hi Ma. Have you chilled out? What about breakfast? Have you found a train for Roger yet?’

It was past ten o’clock and the matter was urgent if Roger were to lunch, however late, at Bradstow Manor.

‘Look Marco. Do it yourself. I’m frantic.’

Barbarism ate at her sensitivities. A roughness of revenge, long hidden, took charge of her every instinct. She was a mouse that had learnt how to bite.

‘Go to the kitchen and ask Kitty for a cup of coffee. Breakfast is off.’

Dulcie stood indefatigably amongst them. ‘Coffee’s off too. Cooker’s gone out and as for trains….’ She knew the timetables by heart; back to front. Not that she had ever travelled. Sundays, holidays, changes in the clock. She spouted as she looked at the ceiling. Marco jumped at one of the trains that she mentioned; one that could transport Roger to the local station by one-thirty. That would fit, given leeway with a late luncheon. ‘I’ll ring him now,’ said Marco, pleased to be acting with efficiency.

Flavia faced her mother-in-law. ‘So, Chick. What got into you this morning?’ She gave Muriel a hug as one bestowing forgiveness. ‘Cheer up. You don’t mind about Roger any more. You told me so yourself. After all, you introduced us to the guy in the first place. We could hardly help it if we became friends.’ Muriel was being blamed and it was most unjust.

Flavia was twisting things; laying everything at the door of Muriel’s misery, when the feckless Roger of her shame had been so warmly taken up by her son. Tears formed in her eyes as she turned away. They would never cease to torture her. Dulcie had followed Marco to the telephone lest he needed prompting when it came to train times, and Muriel explained to Flavia that she and Monopoly were going out for an hour or two. They were to visit Mr Atkins. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ She sighed and hoped that her words would show Flavia that there were strings attached. Flavia merely replied, ‘Righto. I’m going to do some mega exploring. Wheee.’

She pirouetted in her pretty frock.

Back at the bin, Muriel left Monopoly in the car; thinking to open a window. She walked into the hall to find it unmanned and wondered whether, on a Sunday, they were short-staffed. She passed the deserted reception desk and went on down towards a wide passage where kidney bowls and dressings lined the walls, but no nurse, most certainly nobody gorgeous, came to greet her. She had learned from Arthur that there were both wards and private rooms in this hospital and that Jerome occupied one of the private ones at great expense. (Great expense? So quick to be totting up her outgoings.)

Dawdling down the passage she looked to the left and then to the right in the hope of spotting her benefactor through the glass. Half way along, through an open door and in a cubicle, she saw him. He wore a dressing gown and slippers and sat in the clanking chair in which he had been wheeled away the week before. His head was slumped forward to rest on his chest. His hands, both chalky white, clasped at the rails. A motionless tableau.

Muriel tiptoed towards him and touched a hand. He blinked and jerked his head up to face her. She felt sick. Slowly he loosened his grip on the arm of the chair and held out one hand to her. This she took whilst bending down to put herself at his level. She looked into his face and said, ‘I’ve come to visit you.’ No answer. As she continued to look at him she noticed that his teeth were larger than she remembered and that the top row stuck out over his lower lip so that his mouth was not exactly open as she had first believed. His hair had been smarmed down and his head appeared smaller than it had on the day of their one and only meeting.

As she held his hand she began to wonder if she had entered the right cubicle. Most certainly she would not, under any other circumstances, have recognised him.

‘Is there anything you need?’ she asked, as the pressure of his hand increased but remained feeble. Muriel was convinced that he was smaller than the man she knew by sight; that he came from a different mould. She was not inclined to waste a morning chatting up someone else’s uncle - not that he was hers. It would be a complete waste of time. If, on the other hand, he was Jerome, it would be appropriate to stick it out a bit longer.

She unwound her hand and left him alone while she searched for somebody in authority. Again the passages were empty, but when she reached the hall she met a big, bustling woman wearing a cotton coat and
skirt. In spite of her dress she turned out to be the matron in weekend mufti. Muriel, not keen to expose her doubts, feigned to have not yet visited the patient. ‘Can you kindly tell me where to find Mr. Atkins?’ she asked. Matron beamed and led her straight back to the same silent figure with white hands. ‘Here you are dear. A lovely young lady to see you.’ Perhaps matron was rather gorgeous.

Muriel reinstated herself level with his knees, re-clasped one of the hands and thus remained in silence for three quarters of an hour, during which time she did not look at him but readily fancied how he looked. That was that. When she came to rise she was racked with pins and needles.

Monopoly, patient since his character change, marked time in the scorching car. As they drove away from the nursing home, past the bright flower beds and the grey grass, they turned to each other for company. Monopoly had shifted himself, scattering hair onto the passenger seat.

How strange, she meditated, that I could have failed to love this dog; any dog.

She put it down to Hugh and to his rascally excluding methods of conducting himself. His soppy handling of the dog had enraged her, particularly the foolish expression he adopted when tending him. There was something about Hugh, the combination of Hugh and Monopoly, that gave her the creeps. It was almost as though, at pinnacles of infidelity and falsehood, he considered that his unswerving love for this dumb creature exonerated him from other deeds.

Monopoly, of course, had irritated her too; had seemed to have no sense of her suffering but existed to promote Hugh’s profligacy. Then there had been his interminable search for Hugh; even scouring the lavatory. She had found that disgusting. Now all was forgiven. Monopoly had changed sides. What, though, if Hugh were to return? Her brain, again, was buzzing with bothersome images as she drove home.

As she stepped from the car, dog at her heels, dread overpowered her but she knew at once that Marco had left for the station - for his car was not to be seen. She willed it that Flavia had accompanied him on his grizzly mission.

Dulcie, who had, to all outward appearances, forgotten about the punch-up, greeted her at the front door. ‘Well. How was he?’

What was to be done about Dulcie? Did she have total freedom in the house? Where did she sleep? Had she always been permitted to enter any
room, at any time, to make use of the telephone even when it was in the hands of another? To spurt blood over the furniture? What was this letter that she referred to with mysterious conceit? These questions were to be among the first to be put to Arthur the following morning.

‘Not too good.’

‘I knew it. I knew that the day you put him away he would disintegrate.’ She pronounced the word clumsily and swayed in delight. ‘If I’d had my way you never would have done it.’ Muriel ignored Dulcie’s superiority and headed for the kitchen. Kitty’s magnetism spirited her there.

Muriel had asked Phyllis to prepare a barren room on the top floor of the house for Roger. Now she remembered with rage that his leg was in plaster. ‘Kitty,’ she said, ‘I made a mistake about the room. Could I…do you think it would be possible…could Phyllis make up another one? The guest, the friend of my son, his leg is in plaster. I forgot.’

‘Phyllis is off. Always was on a Sunday after midday. I used to take over with Mr Atkins for the rest of the day. I’ll do it. Lunch is late and I’ve loads of time.’

‘Hasn’t the cooker conked out?’ Kitty smiled and said, ‘That was Dulcie I’ll be bound. Don’t pay attention. She says things as they come into her head. Then she’ll forget them just as quick.’

‘Where does Dulcie sleep?’

‘Oh heavens. You poor dear. Nobody’s told you anything. She sleeps out in the paddock in her van with the cats. Has done for donkey’s years. Ever since early days when Mrs Atkins ran the show. They say she could wind Mrs A. round her little finger.’ Kitty wiped her hands on a blue cloth and went about the business of attending to comforts for undeserving Roger on the first floor.

There was at least an hour before the party was due back from the railway station and Muriel gloated over the prospect of peace. While Kitty worked she would peruse her paradise uninterrupted. She would not answer the telephone, nor would she agree to be summoned to it. Dulcie could deal with Lizzie - or with Mambles come to that.

She willed her head to clear as she dwelt on the glories around her. Roses bulged in tubs and vases. Who picked them? Who arranged them?

She placed herself in the hall in a winged armchair furnished in frail chintz, and crossed one leg over the other. The struggle reflected in her face began to evaporate as, with an effort of will, she ceased to be
tormented by delirious imaginings. Placing her hands at her sides, she gazed upwards to a large portrait that hung above an oriental wooden sofa opposite to where she sat. It showed a languid lady dressed in lace and muslin, seated out of doors on a fine day under a spread of dark branches, one hand at her beaded throat whilst the other caressed a miniscule dog, smaller than any that Muriel had encountered.