Muriel Pulls It Off Read online

  Delilah hastened to set things straight. ‘Dulcie’s little joke. Your uncle isn’t really a lord but, of course, you knew that already.’

  ‘I can’t,’ cried Muriel, half to herself.

  Delilah was over-merciful. ‘I’m sure you can. You look most capable.’

  Dulcie began to hump logs into a basket that stood under an ornamental dinner gong that protruded from a wall at the foot of the staircase while Muriel, supported by the post, hoped for a lead. Breathing belligerence into every syllable, Dulcie spoke, ‘Talking of his Lordship. Isn’t it about time he produced that letter entrusted to him by his wife? I’d like to know what the hell he’s done with that.’

  Doubled up once more, Dulcie redirected the wheelbarrow.

  Fear in the air warned, only seconds before Muriel looked up to see Jerome Atkins walk briskly down the stairs, that his appearance was imminent. Even at that first sighting she could tell that he was proud of his not-very-wrinkly skin. Winged eyebrows added a look of misleading amiability as he picked his way over the treads. All at once he was on the ground beside them - a colourless, parched turkey; feet and hands small and neat; eyes conker-brown and dead as lavatory windows.

  It must be admitted, Muriel mused, that he has a full complement of grey-white hair. He looks younger than his years. She was unable to concentrate on anything but detail and continued to assess him thus until he opened his mouth. He clutched at Delilah’s hand but stared at Muriel through the lavatory windows. ‘Her. Who? Horrible face. Horrible.’ Delilah smoothed the path. ‘Your niece Jerome. The one you used to talk about. Muriel.’

  As she wondered what he could have said about her, his face turned goofy and a thin smile travelled his lips; a smile that transformed into a leer (reminding her of Hugh) as he advanced upon Muriel. ‘Good. Excellent. Come with you.’

  Many eyes wheeled towards them. Delilah’s twinkled. Dulcie’s, glowered through her bifocals, and those (blue) of a sweetly-expressioned young lady who had crept upon the scene, filled with tears.

  Delilah to the fore. ‘That’s right Jerome. Follow Muriel.’ To Muriel she piped, ‘Guide him to the front door. Take him by the hand. He’ll follow you.’ Muriel was her protégée. Tonight, the protégée decided, as she supported her uncle across the carpet, I will not write one of my reproachful letters to Hugh. I will not hark back to his imperturbable malice. Nor will I cringe under the weight of my own folly. I will not writhe in bed and work myself into a querulous state. Pray, Dawson, in that church up the road, that it is true. She swayed to the rhythm of Jerome’s step as he held fast to her arm. The tearful young lady followed on spindly heels as Jerome, jaunty, poured forth flattery. ‘Good. Excellent. Wonderful woman. I always said so. Quite attractive, I think, don’t you?’ he asked of nobody in particular.

  Muriel, cow-like, agreed as they reached the door and as Sonia, who had been absent when Jerome appeared, returned holding a piece of paper which she thrust into Muriel’s face.

  ‘I’m only the secretary,’ her vocal organs quivered, ‘but I’ve done the donkey work. This is what you need to show to the ambulance men and here’s the name of the doctor. He’s the one you have to register him with when you get him there.’

  She pushed a paper into Muriel’s spare hand and advised, ‘Don’t think this honeymoon is going to last. He takes to strangers. Then he turns on them like he does on the rest of us.’

  Sonia affected triumph but Muriel’s attention was taken by the arrival of an ambulance as it moved in low gear towards the front door. Her energy flagged as she realised that she was expected, by all who watched, to travel with the patient.

  The ambulance stopped and two uniformed men jumped out, bulging with resolve and flashing statutory smiles at Jerome as he stood, in blistering sunlight, in his thick grey suit.

  ‘He’s worn that suit,’ Delilah spoke low, ‘year in year out,’ For a second Muriel thought the rector’s wife had said ‘urine’. ‘Weddings, church, fete, musical evenings, school manager’s meetings, you name it, whatever the weather.’

  Although neat, the suit was distressingly rank.

  The attendants opened the door at the side of the great vehicle and out shot a metal ladder that clanked down upon the gravel. Jerome squeezed Muriel’s hand and appealed to her in toothy intimacy. ‘Up. Up.’ He pointed with his stick at the ladder. A lad with a high colour and a healthy face joined the band in front of the house as Muriel, with the eyes of the nameless follower upon her, urged Jerome forward.

  ‘What’s this then?’ the lad asked Delilah. ‘Are they carting him off at last?’

  ‘Yes. His relative’s here. I got hold of her as a matter of fact. There she is, holding his arm. The tall lady. She’s taking him to Shifford. There’s a gorgeous matron there.’

  Sonia, in piteous perplexity, was beside him, tears streaming down her fluffy cheeks, falling to her knees at Muriel’s feet and clasping her hands as one in prayer.

  ‘Spare him. Spare my master. I beg of you. I only ask one thing. Spare my master.’

  Muriel said, ‘I’m sorry. I never ordered the thing. I know nothing.’

  Once again she wished she could have been kinder, but timidity and the feeling that she was being framed rioted within her and held her back. With his stick, Jerome lashed out at the beseeching creature.

  ‘Horrible. Get away. I’m going with her,’ he said, pointing at Muriel; wooing his ‘niece’.

  They climbed the metal ladder at the top of which the attendants stood at the ready to greet their patient and his companion, while Sonia, upon her knees, prayed to an elusive saviour.

  Butterflies fussed in the sun and rooks raged in tall trees at the foot of the land that slipped away to the side of the house. Sunlight set dancing cross-gleams of spangled light where the uniformed men stretched out their hands to assist their guests.

  Jerome quivered and Muriel clung to him as he tried to gain control of his stick. Suddenly he dug her hard on the hip. There was little room at the top of the steps, and had she not wound her fingers around a lever that jutted from the door she would have toppled over. He held his stick high in both hands before bringing it down on the shoulder of one of the men.

  Once, years before, Muriel had failed to coax a donkey into a loose box. Her mother had complained that she had no way with dumb creatures. Would never be a ‘proper country person’.

  As Sonia continued to belt out ‘Save him’, Delilah ran forward, reached up and snatched the weapon. Jerome kicked out at her but, niftily, she dodged and muttered, ‘Poor old dear. It will come to us all I daresay.’

  He rounded on Muriel now, forcing her grip on the lever to loosen and she fell backwards, onto the gravel beside the supplicating Sonia. Delilah brushed away stones from Muriel’s clothes and urged her to make haste. ‘So long as you’re not hurt of course. Your car. It’s at the rectory. Run as fast as you can and bring it here. We’ll have another go at getting him into the ambulance but we’d be better off with backup.’

  At a startling pace Muriel retraced her steps to the rectory where she found Dawson on the doorstep. He tugged a pipe from his mouth and advanced, ‘Where’s Delilah? I thought you would be bound to come back together. Sure to be good pals, you two. How did it go?’

  ‘It didn’t. That’s why I’m here. They need my car.’ Both her legs ached.

  ‘Since you are here, I wonder if I could have a word with you? There are one or two things which we ought to discuss. I think you would do well to join the Board of Governors. Church School.’ He pointed to a low building beyond his garden boundary. ‘Voluntary-aided. The only one of its kind for miles. Old Jerome used to be a governor. Well, we had to persuade him to stand down a while back. He couldn’t catch the drift which caused all sorts of problems. Bad language too, in front of the head teacher.’

  Muriel screeched, ‘I must go. I’ll be back.’ She drove to the front of Jerome’s house where her ‘uncle’ stood upon the ground, flanked by hot officials. The crowd around him ha
d swelled.

  A happy woman, on the tubby side, in a patterned frock and accompanied by a female child of five or six, stood excited as Delilah continued to offer advice.

  ‘Here comes Muriel. Your niece.’ Jerome lurched towards her as she extricated herself from the car. ‘You. Like it. It’s yours,’ he said, pointing to it.

  Delilah, quick on the uptake, snapped, ‘Get him into it Muriel. The men can’t take him against his will. Something to do with the law I gather. We’ll send them on ahead and I’ll pop in the back of your car to guide you to Shifford.’

  Jerome, in a mellower mood, installed himself in the front passenger seat which Delilah held open as the sweet-faced lady, carrying a canvas holdall, ran forward and placed herself in the back of the car.

  Thus Muriel drove, gingerly, to the psychiatric wing of the geriatric home at Shifford. By her side Jerome smiled while Delilah navigated, and her neighbour snivelled into a handkerchief. At one moment the car was overtaken by the ambulance; mission unaccomplished, returning to base.

  They drove over tarmac to a long white building, the ground planted gaily with pansies and geraniums, and the surrounding grass a greyish-yellow. Sprinklers were banned in the unprecedented drought. The empty-handed ambulance men had issued a warning and an assembly of tidy nurses waited for Jerome at the door of the institution. The car stopped and he sat, implacable, during which pause his three female chaperones rushed to his door.

  Delilah drew away and engaged herself in explanation to the waiting committee, whereupon they, with bland faces, wreathed around the passenger who, brows furrowed and parched skin drawn in anger at his loss of authority, refused to budge.

  Muriel spoke to the lady with the handkerchief. ‘Should we introduce ourselves? My name is Muriel Cottle.’

  ‘I think we all know that. Mine is Phyllis. I’ve looked after the old gentleman for five years now. Ever since his wife died. Nursed him through that and his illness. I can manage him, I assure you. This might be the moment to mention that he always promised that I should be cared for.’

  Silently Muriel queried Phyllis’s conscientiousness in relation to the rankness of Jerome’s suit, and thought back to Delilah’s reluctant criticism of her during their first and only telephone conversation.

  ‘Perhaps they should keep him here for a little. He may need different pills or something.’

  ‘His pills are adequate. First time you’ve met him isn’t it? He used to go on about you poor soul. We did all wonder why you never spared him the time of day. Fortunate,’ she added, with justification, ‘that I thought to pop his things into an overnight bag. Disappointed, he was, when you never showed up.’

  ‘I never knew.’

  Nurses meddled with Jerome through the car door, speaking in soppy voices; prompting and lobbying. Once again he turned to Muriel. ‘She like it. Take me.’ Encouraged by the nurses and Delilah she walked to Jerome’s side as he, with no help from his stick, disentangled himself from the car seat. Hospital doors flew open and Muriel and Jerome, face serene, entered the building.

  Delilah, the furious Phyllis and the nurses followed them into the hall and one nurse ran away down a passage to return with a huge, clanking wheelchair.

  Muriel gibbered in awkwardness and wondered how it had come about that she should be the only member of the cast able to befool him. Where was the gorgeous matron that Delilah had recommended?

  ‘Let it be true.’ She thought of the words that she might write to Hugh. Only might. ‘Let it be true that I am about to inherit a turbulent kingdom. I will become a proper country person.’

  Marco and Flavia. Would they sober up in awe? Would the enervating effects of their dissipation evaporate? Had Marco gone downhill since his parents disgraced themselves? And what was Peter to do without her if she abandoned her London life? She would have to break the news to Lizzie and explain about ditching her duties at the shop. Perhaps she could go to London once a week.

  At her bidding Jerome sat in the monstrous chair and searched for reassurance. ‘Not here. Go with you. Horrible people. Horrible faces.’

  He pointed to an ill-favoured nurse with a swollen upper lip, who said, ‘There dear. We’ll make you a cup of tea and show you to your room.’ Then, to Muriel, ‘No need to worry. The doctor will be along to sedate your daddy shortly. He’ll soon settle.’ With that she seized the bar behind the seat, made a dramatic half-turn, and wheeled him away out of sight down a long, thin corridor. The three women could do no more than hang about. Phyllis mopped her eyes and said, ‘That’s me out of a job. Will you be moving in at once?’

  Muriel appealed to Delilah. ‘Where do I stand? It seems to me that already I am expected to chop down trees and buy crates of pet food. Is there a dog?’

  ‘Heavens, no! Dogs at Bradstow Manor? I’d like to see Dulcie’s face. Sonia’s too, come to that. You don’t have one do you?’ Delilah looked alarmed. ‘I’m afraid that’s not allowed.’

  The words ‘Who by?’ ran through Muriel’s head.

  Delilah said, ‘We’ll ring Arthur when we get back to the rectory. He’s a sweetie. He’s Jerome’s solicitor. Does work for the church as well. He’ll be able to put you in the picture.’

  Arthur. The secrets lay with Arthur. Within an hour or two she would know where they lay. It was too thrilling. She imagined a doctor rendering Jerome unconscious as Phyllis asked, ‘May I keep my room for the present? I have no plans.’ She must have clocked up forty years. Walled in behind her sweet prettiness, scars of betrayal putrefied. ‘What about Sonia and Dulcie? Are they for the high jump too? I don’t see Dulcie taking this lying down.’ Saddened by the anxieties of these uncertain women, Muriel answered that she knew nothing.

  Delilah came to the rescue. ‘But you will as soon as you’ve had a powwow with Arthur.’

  Towards them marched an unusually tall man who lowered his eyes to look at the group. ‘Which is the relative?’

  Delilah promoted Muriel. ‘Mrs Cottle. She’s his next of kin.’

  The tall doctor addressed her. ‘I’m afraid there’s little chance of improvement. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.’

  Feel free, I’d never heard of him, or barely, until yesterday, Muriel thought, but said, ‘Please go on.’ Since her wild exposure to the press on the day of Hugh’s debacle she had learnt to keep contentious thoughts to herself.

  ‘We can sedate him so there will be no recurrence of violence. I have spoken to his GP who has put me in the picture.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ she said to herself, biting her lip. It would not do to chuckle.

  ‘Of course there’s no reason to suppose he won’t go on like this for many years. His heart is unusually strong.’

  Muriel said, ‘My position is not very clear. May I ring you tomorrow for news of him?’

  The tall doctor agreed before shaking their hands.

  In the back of the car Phyllis resumed her snivelling. When they left her under the porch Delilah consoled her with a bright, ‘Worry not Phyllis. Muriel will see to it that you’re all right.’ Phyllis, unconvinced, turned her own key in the magnificent lock.

  At the rectory, Dawson was agog as Delilah filled him in on the afternoon’s activities and as Muriel acknowledged herself staggered to realise how little time had been consumed by momentous events. She had not only become acquainted with her uncle and with members of his household, but Jerome had been incarcerated all in the space of a few hours.

  It was four-thirty when they sat down in the spotless sitting room. Dawson spread his legs, puffed on his pipe and said, ‘It’s a rum do. Will you be staying on now? The place could do with a bit of pulling together.’

  Delilah insisted that Arthur be approached. ‘Don’t worry. He’s a sweetie,’ she persisted, then dialled a number and launched without preamble, ‘I have Muriel here. Muriel Cottle. I got hold of her as a matter of fact. I’m handing her over to you. We have just managed to pop Jerome into that gorgeous place at Shifford. By the way, Arthur, drinks here w
hen she takes over. She’ll need to socialise. It’s going to be lonely for her.’

  Muriel took the receiver, and for fifteen minutes or more learnt of her fate from Arthur Stiller, solicitor to Jerome Atkins.

  ‘You are his sole heir. I am at liberty to tell you this. There’s been a bit of chatter about a letter intended for Dulcie. Hints about Phyllis too, but no need to pay any attention to such claims. No way of changing his will now - not since, if I heard right, he has been committed. Upon the death of my client, however, there will be considerable duty payable. Of course we might be able to think up some way whereby he could hand it all over to you now. There’s oodles of money there, but what with keeping the place going - far too many on the payroll - and now the additional cost of the nursing home…’ At this stage Muriel failed to pay attention. Her heart sprang up more elastic than ever before and her body thrilled, for if Arthur was to be believed, she was indeed in line for Bradstow Manor.

  Re-engaging, she listened to Arthur’s flow of words. ‘Whether or not you want to take the place over now, of course, I don’t know. I imagine there could be some resentment. Too much of a free hand down there. Might you be moving in? If so we will have to apply to the court to get you power of attorney. Sonia, the secretary, is entitled to sign cheques as it is; wages, household goods and so on. She doesn’t hold full power. For major items, roof or what you will, we would always be called in to advise and to get Jerome’s signature out of him. It’s really going to be up to you. How do you view it?’

  ‘I need to think things over.’

  It was decided that Dawson and Delilah should put her up for the night and that, in the morning, she pay a visit to Arthur’s office in the local town.

  ‘You can sleep in Sebastian’s room.’ Delilah, beside herself with excitement. ‘He’s our first-born. In the army. As a matter of fact neither of our boys is at home at present. Alastair, our baby, is normally with us but this week, as ill luck would have it, he’s over at his aunt and uncle’s. He will be sorry to have missed you. I’m afraid all the rooms are piled high with jumble for the fete in three weeks time. It’s always held in Jerome’s grounds. Will you be willing to lend them? I’m sure you will.’ Delilah whipped clean bedlinen from a cupboard. As she struggled with a pillowcase she brightened. ‘I’ve just had a lovely idea. As a newcomer you could tell fortunes for us. We’re all too well known down here to get away with it any longer. In fact we haven’t done it for several years. There’s a gorgeous thatched summerhouse in the sunken garden that we could fill with atmosphere. All you’ll have to do is get hold of a pack of cards - crystal balls have had their day.’ Nothing, now, was to stop the flow. ‘We’ll tie your gorgeous hair up in a gypsy scarf and blacken your face with walnut juice. Alastair will make a sign for you. He’s clever with his hands. ‘Gypsy Rosalee.’ She turned her attention back to the bedroom. ‘We can soon clear a space in here and, by the by, we don’t have much more than a snack in the evening - other than when we’re socialising. As you can see, Dawson isn’t young and he needs his sleep. In fact, and you may find this shocking, we usually treat ourselves to a little something in front of the television and, occasionally, we indulge in a bottle of plonk – that, or some of Dawson’s home-brewed beer. He gets the kit over at Blueton but, of course, he’s told you that already.’