Muriel's Reign (8 page)

Roger, the media man, was too canny to accept Marco and Flavia’s invitation to spend the New Year with them.

He’d blown it badly with Muriel on his last visit – even introducing a pretender to her kingdom.

Muriel, during one of her periodic bouts of loneliness when married to Hugh and before coming to an understanding with Peter, had fallen for Roger in an unruly way but not before introducing him to her son and daughter-in-law. He drank heavily – which fact, as well as picking his nose deeply and disgustingly, had cured Muriel of last remnants of infatuation and, moreover, had created a lasting allergy. He had then turned to Flavia for a frenzied fling that had fizzled out when Muriel inherited Bradstow Manor and Flavia decided to take part in anticipating the pickings.

Flavia was disappointed when Roger refused their invitation. She was keen for distraction, flirtation and hashish. Nonetheless she continued to plan the party.

Marco made steady steps to Muriel’s cellar, calling to Flavia when he returned with baskets full of bottles, ‘I say,
old girl. What about this? Pre-war. 1929 Cheval Blanc,’ as he stacked the shed that stood at the back of the barn.

Flavia raided the attic for flags and fabrics. Dulcie was to be heard offering violent advice as more and more ancient objects were lugged down the stairs, through the hall and across the courtyard; sometimes in the dark. ‘Get the bloody corpse upright,’ she bellowed as she humped a tailor’s dummy, with Flavia’s help, over a rolled-up carpet. It was not to be rolled up for long. The carpet, too, was taken to the barn where Marco draped it over trestle tables to create a bar.

Muriel, aware of Dulcie’s heaving, acted on Peter’s advice and ignored all noises.

Hugh, Phyllis and Cleopatra continued as before in the squash court – but Hugh with more enthusiasm since knowing that he had a London season ahead of him and that soon he was to dislodge Phyllis. He had not decided when or how to break the news to her but he did, at least, know that a plot was hatched.

Marco told his already suspecting mother of the planned party as she meandered about in the hall and plucked dead heads off flowers. She was pleased that her earlier anxieties about her status as intruder no longer bothered her. She had firmed up.

‘Flav’s found some fantastic things in the attic. Nothing you’d need. Maids uniforms – aprons and all. Thought we
might slap Phyllis and Dulcie into them for the evening. And we’ve found wondrous treasures in the cellar. Should we ask the dreary old rector and his troupe?’

Again and for the countless time, she longed to be left in peace; alone to discover treasures in the attic. Marco and Flavia were running before they could walk and, again, with the use of her legs.

The evening for Muriel and Peter, in spite of Lizzie’s grating voice and scratchy mood, sped along. Lizzie, much lit up by the failure of her evening with Judge Jones and the tales she was able to tell, was also enlivened by the planning of the forthcoming visit from Hugh in London; not that she ever knew what to do with people when they did arrive on her doorstep. In fact she seldom invited anyone to anything – preferring to stay away from her own quarters.

‘So,’ she asked with chirpy verve, ‘when are you planning to turn me out?’

Peter, coolly enraged by the implications of her question and guessing at the hysterical way she strung out her neck as she asked it – veins everywhere, he imagined, replied, ‘New Year’s Day.’

‘No. Seriously, I’m sorry but it’s hopeless trying to travel on a Bank Holiday. Can I stay till Tuesday?’

‘Of course,’ Muriel downhearted, spoke firmly. ‘But Hugh will be hot on your heels, don’t forget.’

‘You’re not cross with me are you, Muriel? Peter. She’s no right to be cross with me, has she? He’s your brother after all. Doesn’t he deserve some treats?’

Peter laughed. ‘I think he’s had plenty of them in his time but I daresay he could do with a few more and who, Lizzie, but you are better able to provide them?’

Muriel put Monopoly out before going to bed.

It was New Year’s Eve and the barn was very cold in spite of Marco’s efforts with blow-heaters bought for the occasion from an electrical store. Draughts snaked in and over the floor. There was no porch or inner door to protect the vast room from wind that rushed in as guests arrived. Flavia, wearing a floating, transparent, impractical idiocy, had arranged for Cleopatra to spend the night at the Manor House with Peter keeping an ear. He didn’t go, as a rule, to parties and was pleased with an excuse to stay away from this one.

Phyllis, thus, was free to join in although Marco had been against her being invited.

‘She’ll dress to the nines in nylon and make a fool of Pa. Cramp his style with Lizzie and put Ma in a strop.’

Muriel and Lizzie were the first to arrive. Muriel was dazed to see so many objects from her attic on display; trunks draped in tapestries, banners; the amputated leg of an elephant. Chamber pots, bedpans, stuffed owls; a taxidermised hare. She noticed, too, some rather remarkable pieces of furniture – a large silver chest clanking, no
doubt, with knives, forks and spoons. Georgian probably. A screen covered in faded lilies of the valley; several formal portraits – tacked onto the walls. Her son and his wife had had a field day.

With much help from Dulcie, Marco and Flavia, after days of looting, had, to be sure, made the stark barn look exotic and eerie. The tailor’s dummy had been dressed up as Dame Edna Everage; huge red spectacles and a mauve wig.

Lizzie, sparkling in spangles, laughed edgily as she looked around – avid to sight Hugh. She was excited by the prospect of tantalising Judge Jones too. Fearful, nonetheless, that she might fail to dazzle, she clung to Muriel whilst thirsting to be free of her. In face of locals it suited her to be seen to be Muriel’s best friend.

Before long the barn was heaving and Hugh’s arrival was barely noticed either by Muriel or Lizzie who had been backed into a corner by Tommy Tiddler. He had come decked and perfumed; hoping to find royal people. He smacked his lips and said to Lizzie, ‘What about these trinkets and
bibelots
. One doesn’t often venture into the abodes of the blessed. I’m afraid the
humble home
will seem very shoddy when any of you lot pay a call – after all this finery.’ He spoke coyly as he referred to his cottage.

Phyllis, unstoppably in tow, stood beside Hugh as Lizzie inched towards them leaving Tommy ‘to goggle’.
Lizzie asked Hugh, low-toned, ‘Have you told Phyllis that you’re coming to stay with me in London?’

He cleared his throat as was his habit and answered, ‘Yes. Yes. Of course. No problem.’

Phyllis, with ‘problem’ etched onto her face, jumped: ‘Did I hear mention of my name?’ Hugh tried to bring her forward; further into the circle as Delilah barged up to promote a woman who had arrived with her at the party. ‘I must introduce you to your new neighbour Melanie. She’s only just moved in – gorgeous little cottage beyond the paddocks. She’s going to need to socialise.’

Hugh was polite and marginally attracted by Melanie’s mysteriously witch-like manner. He asked her where she lived in London and what brought her to Lincolnshire.

‘I don’t know really. It’s odd, isn’t it? I bought the cottage on a whim. Pressure of social life in London. I don’t know anyone here. My friends,’ she looked modest, ‘are mostly writers or in showbiz.’

Phyllis edged towards Lizzie. ‘I did hear mention of my name. Can you kindly put me in the picture?’

‘The picture? I just wondered if you were up to date about Hugh coming to stay with me in London for a bit. He’s lonely here as you know.’

‘Lonely? He’s a shit. Just like the rest of them. It was a bad day when she inherited this place.’

The lips of a moth-nibbled kudu glowered at them all
from a wall where it hung, insecurely, from a hook.

‘Poets too. Artistic people,’ Melanie told Hugh. ‘Are there any intellectuals here tonight?’ Hugh was not at all sure how to reply. The place was palpitating among the antlers. Dulcie and Flavia between them had worked wonders on stepladders with a Black-and-Decker.

Marco brimmed glasses and told no one in particular that ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was upon them. Time they formed a circle. No one listened or heard.

‘
Alimentari
, my dear Watson,’ he said to his father as he handed him a mushroom on a stick. Muriel didn’t remember ever having felt so muddled.

Delilah’s voice overtopped the rest. ‘Gorgeous. Thank you. We mustn’t stay late.’ Alastair stood beside the effigy of Dame Edna; transfixed as his mother went on, ‘One or two parishioners always pass away at this time of year and Dawson’s lovely with the dying.’

Defying Delilah’s vocal effects, a weird noise obliterated all else.

Phyllis, thanks to Marco, having drunk as many glasses of 1929 Cheval Blanc as time had allowed, screamed at concert pitch.

For an instant Muriel, who turned in panic, thought that Phyllis was standing on her head. It was near to the ground; jerking on that of a tiger, and her legs kicked up and down; up and down like drummer’s sticks.

‘Who’d have been looking after the child, poor little bitch, if I hadn’t come to the rescue?’ Amorphous groans escaped from her mouth, her knee joints, her shoulders, her toes.

Hugh approached. ‘Ahem. Er, Phyllis. You’ve been great. Terrific.’

‘And now what? I’ll give you terrific. I knew that Mrs Lizzie had her eye on you. Not for the first time either.’

The room was silent but for Phyllis and all listened.

‘Not according to the bits and bobs I’ve picked up from Mr Hugh on the pillow.’ She reverted to formality as she kicked and sobbed into the tiger’s teeth.

Flavia was excited and pirouetted in her finery.

Delilah called for Dawson and pastoral care. ‘Come quickly, Dawson. She’s one of God’s creatures and she’s in need.’

Dulcie, keen for assault, brushed Delilah aside and grabbed Phyllis, picked her up and threw her over one shoulder. ‘Bloody little man-eating tart. That’s all she’s ever been after. Looking after the baby my eye. Just worming her way in with Grandpa.’

She stumped out into the icy night with Phyllis a furious captive on her back.

Flavia stopped pirouetting and started to cry. ‘What will we do? What about Cleopatra? Who’s going to look after her? Muriel’s a useless grandmother.’

Tommy Tiddler wrapped his poncho round her shoulder. ‘There. Dry those naughty little tears. One’s out of a job and would make a lovely nanny. Grey felt hat and all. Bound to be one in that attic. Treasure trove.’

‘Would you? Really?’

‘Nanny Tiddler at your service. One might have to take her to the
humble
for some of the sessions. One cooks at home for freezers. Quiche Lorraine’s and starters.’

Flavia viewed the future more hopefully. Anyone would do.

‘What about that poof poison he sprays himself with? Don’t want Cleopatra reeking of that.’ Marco shifted on his feet but rejoiced that help was at hand.

The party, such as it had been, began to subside.

Lizzie was twitchy and said, four times, ‘But Hugh. You said you’d told her,’ before trailing behind Muriel who hurried to relate all to Peter. She had barely taken in that Judge Jones had not put in an appearance. They left Hugh making a date to meet Melanie for lunch in London during his stay with Lizzie.

Tommy, very tipsy, chain-smoking and triumphant, asked if he might be permitted to touch up the pram. ‘Trellis-work or posies
appliquéd
to the hood. One can work wonders with spray paint.’

For once Peter went to bed before Muriel. She sat in his study and pondered – wishing that many things were
other than they were. She struggled to order her brain to dismiss glum thoughts and unsolvable problems. Her brain refused to obey her and, before lying down in bed beside Peter, she swallowed a strong sleeping pill. A box full of them had been procured for her by Mambles who gained perks and special benefits from a retired royal physician.

After breakfast Peter sat in his armchair, shifting it to pull away from the heat of the fire from which his eyes saw no spark or flame, and tried to deny himself the indulgence of gloating over his brother’s plight and, instead, probed the poison of their past as childhood brothers.

With Hugh now humiliated, living without luxuries in the squash court whilst he, Peter, relaxed in a position of contentment with Hugh’s wife almost always beside him, it was as well to remember that Hugh had had earlier control.

They were the only two children of a father who hated snow and Christmas, talked like a tycoon but failed to make a fortune and a fluttering, freckled mother who blinked and fussed and had inherited a tumbledown estate near London from a great-aunt. The house was large, Georgian, faced due north and needed repair. Peter remembered it with agonising precision and was glad, as his brain clicked to the present, that Bradstow Manor had been in reasonable repair when Muriel had been faced with the same type of unexpected windfall. His 
mind threaded back again. The ha-ha, the field that flourished in nettles, the Wellingtonia burdened with broken branches, the soggy grass tennis court and a haunted yew walk. It was wartime and bombing a remorseless threat. No lights were to be shown; black blinds were barely lifted during the day and sticky paper zigzagged over windowpanes to stop glass splintering during a raid. A pail stood on every landing to catch drips when pipes thawed after freezing. Gas masks lay under sofas where they were unlikely to be found in emergency and they ate boiled squirrel and stinging nettle soup. Outside there were dilapidated stables and a sketchy number of people to help in home or garden. Men and boys at war.

The boys’ mother worked hard to keep things going but had poor organisational skills. Since the house was large Peter, as he thought back, found it bemusing that he and Hugh had been made to share a bedroom. That had been easily the worst thing about the war – sharing a room with Hugh whose brutal ghoulishness knew no limit.

Neither parent had influence – for a start Peter barely understood what either of them tried to say but Hugh was blood-curdlingly comprehensible.

Although their features were alike, the boys differed greatly in childish development. Hugh was taller than was average for his age. Peter grew slowly and was chubby – in spite of rationing.

Sometimes, at night, doodlebugs went silent and the household evacuated to the cellar for fear of calamity. They were always ill-prepared and dreadfully cold. Doodlebug nights, as Peter cast his mind back, were the best, for then, at least, he was not alone with Hugh. In the image he held he was no more than six or seven years old.

Anything had been happier than the chilly hours at Hugh’s mercy. Sheets were clammy and paint on the walls, an air-force blue, peeled – leaving jutting-out flakes that formed faces of witches with snot pouring from their noses in the near darkness.

No sooner were they both in bed than Hugh started his favourite game. It was called ‘how do you know?’ and drove Peter almost insane with despondency.

When he hid his head in the lumpy pillow, he used to try being nice and often said, ‘Good night, Hugh. I’m going to sleep.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Cos I always do.’

‘How do you know you always do?’

‘Cos I want to.’

‘How do you know you want to?’

This torment went on and on and on – often starting again when Hugh woke.

Peter, at that time, had a morbid fear of dead animals
of which there always seemed to be several around the place; a stiffened frog by the pond, a jellified dead baby bird with eyes bulging onto the path; a mouse floating in a water butt. One summer morning there was a rat, newly dead, beside the grass court that had no lines as they had run out of paint. Peter circled wide so as to avoid it but Hugh picked it up and swung it by the tail – squash – into Peter’s face. He retched and cried. Hugh called out, ‘Crybaby. Crybaby. Wet. Wet. Wet.’ Then he thought again. ‘But you are wet. You wet your bed. I’m telling everyone.’ Peter had once done this when he had whooping cough and knew that Hugh exaggerated since there was no one much to tell but he dreaded his father hearing of it when he came home in a rough mood. It didn’t make any difference that it had happened ages before – the wet bed.

On the night of the rat Hugh suggested that they race each other to bed, adding, ‘If you get in first I won’t play “how do you know”.’

Inspired with hope Peter hurled himself into bed, pushed his legs to the bottom where they met with soft, wet, and horrible slush. The rat was there and bleeding.

There was another thing. Peter yearned to learn how to knit. Their nanny, a pink-faced kleptomaniac, knitted jumpers for her long-term fiancé, George, who worked as a porter at the railway station. On her half day off she
was employed at the morgue where she enjoyed laying corpses out. ‘First I squeeze out the body juices,’ she would tell him, ‘then I cross their arms over their chests and sing “Abide with me”.’

Peter wanted to ask her to teach him to knit but always lost his nerve for fear that Hugh might find out. The urge became very strong and he tried with twigs but found them too knobbly. And he had no wool. He managed to get hold, though, of two long pencils and a card of darning yarn but never really achieved results. He struggled with it on a bench under one of the Wellingtonias but one morning he was discovered there by Hugh who shouted in glee, ‘Nit Wit. Nit Wit. Nit Wit. But I’ll call you Knit Wet as you wet your bed.’

In a poor Lancashire accent he danced and began to sing a George Formby song starting: ‘I’m a little nitwit – knitting all day,’ and ending: ‘You should see me knit. One plain. One purl. A pleasant occupation for a good little girl.’

Life improved when Hugh was sent to boarding school. During his time away Peter talked his mother into moving him into a small room of his own and nearer to hers.