Muriel's Reign (7 page)

Lizzie took stock. Hugh was no certainty. Muriel and Peter were excluding in their closeness to each other. The judge was worth a try and, on that path, she knew that she was certain to conquer. She was lively as they drove and she entertained Judge Jones (Jack) with tales of Muriel’s past and to an edited degree her own. She told him that she had been married, years before, to an eligible man but that she had left him for a Dutch magnate of vast wealth. The Dutch magnate had, in truth, let her down (she didn’t mention this in the Mercedes) but not before handing over several pieces of valuable jewellery (which he tried, and failed, to regain – also not mentioned in the Mercedes) and setting her up in an antique shop in the Kings Road; the shop in which Muriel had worked for her before the shocking oddity of inheriting Bradstow Manor.

‘He was frightfully attractive.’ She spoke to the judge of the Dutchman, ‘But absolutely hopeless in bed.’

The judge changed gear and colour.

‘My word. I bet you’re a good judge. Judge – ha-ha. Lovely lady like you.’

They drew up on gravel beside a well-built house. It was bleak but not shabby. A lot of laurels.

Inside, Lizzie looked about her and realised that it wouldn’t quite do. Not in the long run. A wide passage held several large mahogany cabinets displaying sets of china glistening with gold leaf and over-restored paintings of dim-looking ancestors. Large purple and blue rugs; a live Labrador in a bleak, flowerless sitting room; unlit fire. There were several framed photographs on stands. One, clearly, of the judge’s own wedding in a London church with several grown-up bridesmaids. He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and the bride looked timid. There was another of, presumably, his wife at her coming out party; tight hair and flouncy frock. One photograph Lizzie noticed in particular was of three grinning teenage youths. It certainly wouldn’t do.

On a low table stood a tarnished silver box. Lizzie opened it and found it to be half full of cigarettes – in likelihood dating from the days of Judge Jack’s wife. He said that he never smoked, other than accepting the odd cigar when offered.

Lizzie picked one out. It was dry and had gone an odd shade of brown. She lit it with a fiddly match from a tiny box that was also encased in tarnished silver. She hadn’t smoked a cigarette for years but took one as a ploy to find distance between herself and the judge. Her huge
eyes watered and her throat went dry and scratchy as she took small puffs and tried to remember which fingers to use.

‘So,’ he said, ‘welcome to the humble home. It’s a bit lonely without Sandra and the boys can’t get home much these days. I had hoped to see them over Christmas but it didn’t work out. But needs must and I have an excellent helper. She’ll be cooking the dinner tonight. Leaves it for me to serve. Not quite the fancy fare over at Bradstow Manor – but let me show you your quarters.’

The quarters were large but damp. Watercolours of flower beds by the score hung heavily from picture hooks and Lizzie asked herself what the hell she was doing there – little realising that his impulse-invitation had also thrown Judge Jones into a quandary. His wife’s cousin, Betsy, and her foolish gossiping husband were to have brought a Christmas visitor with them to make up a bridge four but, only that morning, she had slipped a disc and was lying wailing on her bed. Betsy had rung Judge Jones early that day to warn him about bridge but, egged on by Dennis, said that they planned to leave her to wail and to venture out themselves, bridge or no bridge. They knew that Jack had lunched at Bradstow Manor that day in the company of royal ladies and they were anxious for scraps he might let fall before the event faded. When, in a salacious second, he had asked Lizzie
to make up the bridge four, he had been thinking firstly that she, although not young, was damned attractive but secondly of the game.

As he left her at the door of the spare room, he knew that it wouldn’t do to talk too openly about the lunch party in front of Muriel’s friend. It was sure to be reported to Muriel and he would stand accused of making capital out of his privilege. Lizzie had said, truthfully or not, that she was ‘allergic’ to royalty and was sure to discourage his account.

Dennis was likely to be drunk and to pump him and to accuse him of sticking to protocol if he refused to tell all.

He missed Sandra and her quiet ways; her support of him when he had made an idiot of himself – even her subsequent decline and determined amorous rejection of him when he failed to find himself a place on the New Year’s Honour’s list.

As he brooded in his bedroom and removed his tiepin, Lizzie popped on the Queen’s kimono and walked across the passage to a bathroom. Were she to end up here, she decided, she would insist on
en suite.

Dennis and Betsy arrived on time. He was red in the face. Wore a dark red cardigan and brightly coloured tweed trousers. Betsy was rather pretty; dressed in a gypsy way and wearing boots. One thing was clear. They
were both astounded to see Lizzie there. An unknown woman, terrifically dressy, standing in Sandra’s sitting room. Never even heard her mentioned.

‘Tell all!’ Dennis lit a cigarette. ‘We want to hear about you mingling with the mighty.’

Lizzie, wearing jewelled clasps, once the property of the Dutch tycoon, rose in frenzy.

‘I was there too. Muriel is my best friend. It was frightfully boring. I’m totally allergic to royalty. I can’t think why Muriel asked me.’ Which, of course, she hadn’t done. ‘But I worship bridge so, when …’ – for a second she didn’t remember the judge’s name – ‘when Jack invited me to stay the night I was totally delighted. I’m mad about bridge; not that I’m very good,’ she added on a note of caution.

Dennis said, ‘Quick work, Jack. Did you only meet this lovely lady this very day?’

Betsy, keen on peacekeeping, said hurriedly, ‘What a good idea. I’ve always loved last-minute plans – not that we ever make any. We feared it was farewell to bridge when poor Rosemary slipped her disc in the night. Can’t think how but she’s doubled up.’ Lizzie suspected Dennis of having paid her a midnight visit and of dislocating some portion of her spine.

The judge, having had time to adjust, said, ‘It was fun. Lovely place. Funny set-up, though.’

‘Hanky panky?’ asked Dennis.

‘I daresay you could say so. Husband in an outhouse. His brother at the manor – that sort of thing.’ He looked nervously at Lizzie.

‘But – the royals?’ urged Dennis. ‘Did you have to bow? What do you call them? Spill the beans, old boy.’

The group had to move into the dining room where stew and mashed potatoes had been left on a hotplate. Lizzie noticed that a pat of butter on the table showed small smears of marmalade. The musty mildew of a widower hung over the whole house. Her half-formed project must be abandoned or transformed. Candles of uneven length had certainly been used before – but not often. Salt cellars not even half full.

Judge Jones, though, was a friendly host and talked as fast as he knew how of the church service he had attended on Christmas Day.

It was not good enough for Dennis who, tucking in to stew, returned to witnessed highlights.

‘Does that newcomer at Bradstow have nobs there all the time? What’s her name for a start?’

Lizzie told them the tale of Muriel’s inheritance, of Hugh’s defection and of Peter’s moving in. Everything but what they angled for.

Chat was for a short time frozen as Betsy and Dennis both hoped for Lizzie’s departure in the morning to be
a final one. Not much point if she prevented Jack from spilling the beans – anyway they had already paired him off with Rosemary. If only she hadn’t slipped a disc.

Dennis, though, wasn’t to be silenced. ‘Was that dreadful Tommy Trout there? He gives me the willies. Not that I’m anti-gay. In fact I rather like them. Betsy,’ he turned to Lizzie, ‘loves them. He held up a hand and counted on his fingers a) No threat b) Often artistic c) Useful as escorts – or walkers as I believe they are now called. A little bit of Tommy goes a long way though. Like lavatory paper. All right when it’s new but not so good once it’s been used.’

Betsy tried to laugh. Dennis, with a hiccup looked to Lizzie: ‘My wife’s an intellectual, you see. Belongs to a book club. That sort of thing.’

After supper they played bridge but not inspiringly and, not very late, the visitors left to stuff their guest with painkillers.

Alone with Judge Jones, Lizzie worried about the rest of the evening. She accepted a glass of brandy – hoping not to regret those last sips as she swallowed. Judge Jones told her that he was interested in local history. The Dutch and so forth. She touched her necklace that had come to her via the Dutch magnate.

His wife, he told her, had been a first class citizen. ‘Craft shows and all that’ – that the boys were all in jobs
in London, ‘that is to say that Malcolm is overseas at the moment.’

They each had a young lady. ‘Live-in these days I’m afraid. Partly due to the economy.’

Lizzie was stupefyingly bored and wondered if Phyllis lay with Hugh on the duvet in the squash court.

Hugh, if nothing else, was attractive and hadn’t had a stroke.

When Judge Jones had turned off the downstairs lights and stood with Lizzie on the landing he said, wistfully, ‘I know these are early days but perhaps, who knows, we might see more of each other.’

She sidled and felt for the door handle – but he was upon her, lunging into lechery and starting to lick her face with a wet tongue that darted and slithered as he frisked and fondled her. Lizzie, although she knew full well that she had invited, even encouraged, such treatment – was displeased.

‘You and me,’ he whispered in slobbery gasps. ‘You’re very attractive.’

‘I know but I’m sorry.’ Lizzie seldom spoke without saying ‘I’m sorry’ but this time she meant it – and for herself.

‘Sandra,’ he whimpered, ‘Sandra turned against me. No warning. One night when I tried to …’

Lizzie said ‘I’m sorry’ again as she tried to turn the
door handle. It was slippery and didn’t engage properly.

‘The next time I tried, she made more excuses.’

This time the handle turned and she half-opened the door to her bedroom but Judge Jones clung and went on trying to lick her. Lizzie said, ‘I’m sorry but, look, I’m tired and I’ve got a lover already. Anyway. I’ve got a bad back.’

‘Back! It’s not the back I want. It’s the …’

He’d gone too far, far too far; even for Lizzie who had tried most things. She made it to the other side of the door and closed it firmly.

After removing jewellery she went to bed. Her struggle to stay awake and think things through was defeated and, head on damp pillow, she fell asleep.

The same trace of marmalade appeared on the same butter dish at breakfast where the burnt-down candles stood on the same spot as they had done the night before. Coffee and toast waited on a hotplate but no human being appeared to help. It struck Lizzie that, perhaps, no such person existed – that the judge had prepared it all himself in advance – including stew and mashed potatoes. Protected his image by saying there was a ‘good lady’ in the wings. Even made up the damp beds himself. She decided on cutting and running. She was flipped if she was going to toil in that bleak house surrounded by laurels and rabbits.

He asked her if she had slept well, adding that he had gone out like a light. She pictured him hot and snoring like a bull and was impatient to be off. It seemed that he had no awareness of the failures of the night before.

In the Mercedes, he asked her if they might meet in London. ‘Go for a bite somewhere perhaps.’ He didn’t mention a lick.

She thanked him, said goodbye after giving him her telephone number with one faulty digit and raced into the hall where Muriel stood among the piano legs and beaded stools, planning to take Monopoly for a walk.

‘How did it go?’

‘Well. He did pounce if that’s what you wondered.’

‘It wasn’t but did you like it?’

‘I certainly did not. He was desperate to have an affair.’

Judge Jones constituted no startling conquest but Lizzie enjoyed any trophy – however meagre. She had full and justified confidence when it came to attracting men. It was holding their interest that usually defeated her.

‘It was sweet of you, Muriel, but please don’t introduce me to any more nutters like that. Damp sheets and marmalade on the butter.’

Lizzie, in high heels, tottered out after Muriel and Monopoly. It was cold and snow hung in the sky. Lizzie was frozen in spite of a thick coat but, against other instincts, wanted to keep talking. Muriel was her only
hope for the present, Peter being feeble at chat.

They skirted the squash court, the barn, Dulcie and the disgraceful donkeys and walked towards the stream over hard short grass.

‘Seriously, Muriel,’ Lizzie asked through chattering teeth, ‘what exactly is going on between Hugh and that housekeeper of yours?’

‘Don’t know. Can only guess. She was completely taken in by Roger a year or so ago. Packed and left – but I’ve told you all about that.’

‘Yes. Yes. I know all that. But what’s going on now? Now. With Hugh?’

‘Frankly, Lizzie, I’d like to strangle Hugh with my bare hands. It’s bad enough having him so near, let alone his making up to Phyllis.’

Lizzie, as Muriel knew, sided with men.

‘Poor Hugh. He must feel so humiliated. No status.’

Lizzie set store by status – never having, it seemed to her, achieved it.

Muriel presumed that, whatever it was, she did, now, have some herself and loathed each second of it. But her heart bumped as she spied a cluster of early snowdrops and her spirit rebelled against the discussion of ‘pouncing’ and such-like – now that she was a grandmother.

What was to be done with them all? If only, at least, Marco and Flavia had a hoover.

‘Would it be all right if I stayed until after the New Year? You haven’t got any more grand people coming, have you?’

‘No. Nobody.’ There was nothing for it living, as she did, in this merciless house. Lizzie intending to capture Hugh.

Marco and Flavia, in the hooverless barn, drank white wine and talked over possibilities. Flavia was undomesticated and the large space was desolate. Marco had an instinct for style but no leaning towards detail. The playpen now lived in the squash court as did the ancient perambulator. The cot was still in Cleopatra’s own room in the barn. Phyllis tended to return her at bedtime so she could cook up something tasty for Hugh.

‘If only Ma could pension Uncle Peter off.’ Marco’s expression was cross and his eyebrows met above bleary eyes. ‘Tell you what, Flav. Let’s get Roger down and set the cat among the pigeons. He’d have a crack at Lizzie and put Pa on his metal. Hoof out that fright Phyllis.’

Roger had caused havoc amongst them all in the past.

‘What about Cleopatra then?’ She pouted and her voice transformed into a wail. ‘I won’t survive without Phyllis.’

‘I’ll dream something up. We’ll have a New Year’s Eve party and ask them all. Tommy Tiddler, Pa, Phyllis, Lizzie, Uncle Peter, the judge. The whole shooting match.
Rector and Delilah – the son who drops his trousers on public transport. Wine from Ma’s cellar. World first.’

Flavia brightened. She loved a party – even if this wasn’t exactly her idea of one but she had a flair for instant effect. She knew just where to find flags and damask cloths at the top of her mother-in-law’s house. A house to belong, presumably, one day to Marco. It was imperative to stick it out.

‘Give Roger a ring.’

Meanwhile Hugh was restless. He’d like to have run Lizzie to a local cinema or a pub lunch. She was game and sparky and ‘on’ for adventure. But there was Phyllis who had moved in and clung. She had extracted unfulfillable promises and had taken advantage by luring him into criticism of Muriel. ‘I can’t cope with the way she treats you.’ He was compromised and she’d taken over Cleopatra. He found that hindering – a toddler squawking in the squash court. Nonetheless he enjoyed tormenting Muriel with a soppy look of reminder that they shared a grandchild.

Phyllis fussed on the balcony – sorting the futon. Cleopatra lay in her pen playing with a cuddly toy given to her by Cunty for Christmas.

Hugh went to the window and spied Muriel, Monopoly and Lizzie walking near the stream. He pulled a scarf round his neck and buttoned up his coat.

Muriel, dragooned by her mother into courtesy since birth, had had lapses but now reverted and greeted Hugh civilly. He was encouraged and said that he needed to speak with her and that Lizzie was more than entitled to listen in.

‘The situation, Muriel. It can’t go on.’

‘Which one?’

‘Phyllis. Cleopatra. They’ve moved in on me. Your granddaughter too, Muriel.’

Lizzie, although juddering with cold, was on the job. ‘It must be seriously awful for you. She’s too dreadful for words – that Phyllis. Awful name too. Why don’t you come and stay with me in London for a few days? Clear the air. After the New Year, that is.’

None of them knew of the party that Marco and Flavia brewed up. Hugh pondered. He couldn’t remember when the New Year was. Lizzie’s invitation, though, was thrilling. He half closed his eyes and, turning towards her, said, ‘
Enchantée Madame
.’ Muriel willed him to open his eyes and speak in English but said nothing.

There was no holding Lizzie although she was shivering in the cold air. ‘Do come. Stay as long as you like. I’ve only got a tiny spare room – not quite Muriel’s problem I know.’ Her laugh tinkled, ‘But there’s always masses to do in London.’

‘Far too long since I hit the metropolis.’ He opened
his eyes this time but still spoke partly in French. ‘Lovely
Londres
. I do miss it.’

Hugh left them. He was not keen to be snubbed by Monopoly and so delighted by Lizzie’s invitation that he was not going to risk a retraction. He hoped that Muriel might give him something to spend in London. They were still married to each other but she’d never said anything about sharing assets since she came into her astounding inheritance. That picture. True. She had promised it to him and there was a chance … She also gave him the rent from her London house but time spent with Lizzie was sure to run him into the red.

Muriel was nonplussed. ‘Are you sure, Lizzie? It’s very kind and all that.’

‘Seriously, Muriel. I suggested it entirely for your sake. I do feel sorry for Hugh, of course, but I know you’re dying to be alone with Peter. A break will make it easier for Hugh to hoof out that creature.’

‘He did ask for it. Poor Phyllis. She’s anyone’s and Hugh took full advantage.’

‘He was lonely. Anyway – I’ll give him a frightfully good time. Ask people to dinner or something.’

Lizzie had never asked Muriel to dinner in all the years she’d known her.

Back indoors, when Peter and Muriel were alone, he said, ‘Perfect. It won’t last or even be a success but it will
give us a breather and we can give Phyllis a holiday – if she has anywhere to go.’