Muriel's Reign Read online

  Flavia joined them – wearing very high-heeled shoes and a great deal of beige lace that clung tightly to her figure. She was followed by Marco, tie askew and suit crumpled, full of verve; bounding with bows and bonhomie.

  No sign of Cleopatra.

  Mummy asked, ‘Where’s the baby? With nanny, I expect, for luncheon.’

  Marco explained, ‘Phyllis is feeding her lunch with the others in the kitchen. Great service, by the way, Ma.’ He kissed his mother who then ran quickly to the kitchen to ensure that the high-chair had been removed from the dining room.

  Mambles joined in: ‘I told Mummy about Cleopatra. She asked me if we need see her more than once. Diana and Fergie took their children to tea at Clarence House the other day and Mummy found them tiring.’

  Cunty and Farty, piled high with chocolates – many boxes having been pressed on the allergic old lady – left for the kitchen. The others opened several more kimonos and bottle-openers before they took their seats in the dining room.

  Peter, negotiating for harmony, leant across to his brother Hugh.

  ‘Hugh, as it’s fine, would you take Queen Elizabeth to visit the donkeys this afternoon? After the Queen’s speech of course.’

  ‘Certainly, Ma’am.’ He looked to her with courage and a red face and told her that he gleaned great pleasure from living so close to Neddy and Ryan in the paddock although they were sometimes noisy.

  Mambles said, ‘Count me out. I’ll wait by the fire and then go upstairs with Mummy when they get back. She’ll need a rest before we prepare for dinner.’

  Muriel, agitated, asked if they would come down well before dinnertime. She had invited Dawson and Delilah for a drink and had no wish to let them down.

  Mambles teased, ‘Have you got something up your sleeve, Muriel? People, I suppose, dying to meet us. We always cause a stir. I do hope it’s not that ghastly vicar and his wife who’s son let down our poor Greek cousins.’ Muriel had to admit that Mambles had guessed at the truth.

  ‘I think I shall risk it and go as a biscuit,’ Mambles said, stretching her eyes and smiling as she always did when revelling in the delivery of random snatches.

  Her mother beamed and told Hugh: ‘We may not always be popular but we are very important to the country.’

  Hugh, bedazzled, leant towards her and answered, ‘I hear what you say.’ She stared at him. ‘I should hope so. I have always spoken clearly.’

  Lizzie, still in an anxious state, made a set at Hugh. There was little to be lost. ‘I’m dying to visit the squash court. I actually used to play squash at school. I was frightfully good.’

  Hugh, not wishing to cross his wires, Phyllis having installed herself on his balcony, muttered something about ‘tomorrow’ whereupon Lizzie became jumpy and said she could tell she wasn’t wanted.

  Monopoly stayed in Muriel and Peter’s bedroom. He loathed Sir Walter Raleigh and Jubilee and did not enjoy the presence of Hugh in the house. There had been a time when he had worshipped him; had pined when he had so cruelly disappeared – but now his loyalty had swung to Muriel and to Peter. Hugh made him jittery.

  Muriel raced them through turkey and Christmas pudding, well laced with brandy butter, and cheeses. Desperate with the timing of events.

  They walked to the drawing room where a fire was lit and where a television had been placed, centrally, especially for the purpose of the day.

  The Queen Mother didn’t sit. ‘Easier to stand and wait to sit down after the National Anthem.’

  Mambles flopped onto the sofa. She loathed it when Mummy showed respect to her sister and writhed under the burden of her fading position in the family. Nonetheless, when the Anthem began, she did rise to her feet and stood, solemn but angry, until it faded and a picture of the Queen, radiant in a flowered frock and hair arranged like two cornets – one on each side of her temple – appeared on the screen. She sat at a desk and spoke in clear, childlike tones, telling of a Christmas party held in the mews at Buckingham Palace. ‘Even the horses in their stables are serenaded by the carol singers and seem to be aware that something quite special is happening – as they were on that happy July day when my son and daughter-in-law were married and they drew the carriages through cheerful crowds thronging the London streets.’

  Mambles looked daggers. Mummy reverent and Hugh terrifically impressed.

  Lizzie said, ‘I’m sorry but I worship the Queen. Perhaps it’s because she’s been anointed.’

  As she spoke she knew she had put her foot in it with the sour-faced Mambles and her hands shook.

  As they began to revive after the excitement, the door flew open and Kitty summoned Muriel with a nod of patient irritation.

  Muriel went, at once, to join her and to learn that Sonia wanted an urgent word in the abandoned office. Why was the no-longer-employed Sonia not at home enjoying her own Christmas in her own way?

  In the cold office, Sonia quivered and held a struggling Sir Walter Raleigh in her arms. Sir Walter had, somehow, given his mistress the slip. ‘He’s damaged,’ she shrieked, ‘I’m calling the vet.’

  Muriel told her to desist until the dog’s owner had been consulted. Sonia mumbled something incoherent about the dog having chased a cat. Muriel carried Sir Walter, now quiet and still, in her arms and headed back to the drawing room where Queen Elizabeth was gracious and pronounced him ‘fit as a flea’.

  Uncharacteristically and infuriatingly for Muriel, Sir Walter somehow managed to wander off again – his being so small nobody noticed. After less than five minutes Sonia was in the room, crying maniacally and squeezing Sir Walter very nearly to death in her stubby arms.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ Muriel said as everyone stared, ‘is okay Sonia. No need to worry.’

  ‘This dog could be responsible for the death of a cat. There are three elderly cats here and nobody cares.’ She shook and shivered and raced out, dropping the dog, in the throes of a helpless outburst.

  Princess Matilda asked, ‘Does she know who we are?’

  Queen Elizabeth rose above these earthly matters and basked in her own serenity.

  Excusing herself, Muriel, carrying a cup of coffee, made a run for the office (after admitting to all that she was mortified and horrified by the accusations made against Sir Walter) where Sonia sat in floods tirading against the heartlessness of royalty.

  ‘Corin is prone to heart attacks if chased. Those bland faces in your drawing room. Nobody listens. Nobody cares. They bring these dogs down here with no thought for me. What with that and your mongrel.’

  Muriel threw the remains of her coffee into Sonia’s face. She knew it to be a mistake but she’d put up with rudeness, bolshiness, unwillingness and poisoned atmosphere for too long and loathed cats.

  As Sonia, shrivelled and doused in coffee, cowered behind a chair, Muriel said, ‘The cats will have to go. Joint ownership doesn’t work. I know that Corin belongs half to you and half to Dulcie but I must have freedom. It’s my home. I’d been looking forward to the afternoon and showing my visitors the donkeys.’

  ‘I’m sure you had.’

  ‘I’ll find a good home for Corin if you won’t take her yourself. That, of course, would be the best solution.’

  ‘I couldn’t. Not living on my busy road.’

  ‘Sorry, Sonia, but you seem to think she’s (Corin was a female cat) equally unsafe here. Lots of dogs visit; strays, village dogs, friends’ dogs. We can’t watch her round the clock as you can and Dulcie doesn’t worry.’

  Then, down on her knees, went Sonia – tears streaming. ‘Spare Corin. Please spare Corin. I can’t be responsible for her losing her home. Spare her. Spare her.’

  Muriel, wishing she hadn’t thrown the coffee, told Sonia to go home.

  ‘I’m never coming back. They’ll believe you. Nobody will believe me.’ It sounded as if she planned to report the coffee incident.

  The number of people planning to show Mummy the donkeys had increased. Marco (but not Flavia whose face was flushed) decided to join in. Cunty
and Farty were sent for, also Moggan – who had been keeping the kitchen in fits with imitations of Prince Charles.

  Hugh was the established leader and gave Mummy his arm as they walked, extremely slowly, across gravel and wet grass to the gate of the paddock where not only the donkeys but also Dulcie lived.

  Dulcie stood on the top step of her van. A cat (called Plod but known as Irene) clung around her neck and bowed with her as the party stopped at a good viewing point. No sign of Corin suffering a near heart attack.

  A terrible noise was the first thing to catch the attention of the onlookers; a noise like the labour pains of giants. A rasping, groaning, throaty bellow that came from a large grey mass that moved. Neddy was humping his son, Ryan. Heaving – up, down, up, over, down and even under. Dulcie, her rasping near to drowning incestuous noises, addressed herself to the house party.

  ‘You’ve chosen a bloody awful day to show Her Grace a bit of country life. That’ll teach you to hobnob with Hanoverians.’

  Cunty and Farty ran to protect their mistresses’ eyes. Her sight was poor and she didn’t understand why they crowded in on her. ‘Cunty. Farty. Go away. I’ve come to see the donkeys. I used to ride on one when I was a child in Angus.’

  The heaving and humping became louder and louder – as did Dulcie’s expletives. Hugh rounded the group together and said something soothing in explanation.

  Mummy muttered words that sounded like ‘the beasts of the field’ as Dulcie, well pleased, shouted, ‘Entertainment over for the day, I trust.’

  Muriel stayed behind in the paddock. She needed to have a word with Dulcie about Corin and Sonia’s explosion. Dreaded it but felt it must be tackled. Dulcie stuck her stomach out, ‘She’s not having Corin and that’s flat. I can keep her safe from a bunch of miserable little town-mouse dogs if anyone can.’

  ‘You will have to sort it out with Sonia but she is no longer to be involved with the welfare of cats on my land.’ Muriel became masterful for a moment. She took a step backwards and crunched the empty shell of a snail with her wellington boot. It had been taught to her in a biology class that snails were hermaphrodites, hibernated and were, if such a thing was feasible in a snail, right-handed. Dulcie showed no will to hibernate and shook her right fist.

  Muriel, standing still for many minutes, said ‘Hibernate. Hermaphrodite’ to herself over and over again until it gave her a headache.

  Dulcie looked over Plod’s back and her shoulder towards the stream and beyond. ‘I daresay you are wondering about them trees.’

  Behind the paddock was a copse where trees, bare in December, stood, spindly and spare. In their branches clustered great, dark bundles of densely packed twigs. A bit like herons’ nests but rounder and more solid. They differed in size from that of a small football to a giant balloon.

  Dulcie followed Muriel’s eyes: ‘Those bundles of twigs are no more than malignant growths. If you’d got it into your head they were mistletoe you were completely wrong. Stuff and nonsense. Mistletoe and fairy lights. What is more the whole neighbourhood will be down with malignant growths if you don’t do bloody something about it.’

  The foul form of Eric stole up beside them. ‘Don’t you listen. Cut those out and you’ll be upsetting the balance of nature.’

  Malignant growths or the balance of nature.

  Muriel returned to the house and the many quandaries that awaited her.

  Chapter 11

  Lizzie was down first in the early evening. Soon after came Muriel and Peter who prepared for Dawson and Delilah and their visit. Lizzie was short – not much above five feet. Her hairdresser-helped dark hair turned under, pageboy style, at the bottom of her neck. Her eyes were large and blue and, at times, almost vacant. Nose straight but wide of nostril. Mouth huge and inviting entertainment. She dressed well – draping scarves and bracelets. Lizzie’s appearance showed careful nonchalance but, when she spoke, the image changed to eagerness.

  ‘Are the royals going to be down in time for the rector?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Is Hugh, poor Hugh, invited for dinner this evening? I did suggest paying him a call but he was frightfully putting off.’

  Lizzie could be astoundingly touchy. ‘Why? Why, do you think? We always got on tremendously well in the old days.’

  Muriel, speaking quietly to temper crossness, said, ‘Of course he likes you. It’s just that he’s up to no good with Phyllis – my housekeeper.’

  ‘That fright in nylon? Poor Hugh.’ She sided with men. Muriel squirmed to be reminded of Hugh’s undignified position – although he’d certainly asked for it.

  Monopoly, driven to distraction by the presence of the visiting dogs who gave themselves airs, kept mostly to the bedroom.

  There came a loud ‘Cooee.’

  Dawson and Delilah were dressed for a party and arrived many minutes earlier than expected. Dawson, in dog collar, asked for a gin and tonic while Delilah opted for champagne and Muriel hoped she wouldn’t get too silly before the visitors from upstairs condescended to appear.

  Delilah told Lizzie that Dawson had a lovely story up his sleeve for them. Something to do with a cartoon in which the Queen Mother wore a gown and mortar board. There had been a caption saying ‘To crown it all’. Lizzie was jumpy with the prospect of solecisms. Peter hoped for them. Muriel was beyond caring. Nonetheless she was pleased by Dawson having an anecdote up his sleeve and Delilah, all curls and teeth, smiled having practised curtseys.

  She could not count on the ladies coming down before supper was announced; particularly after Mummy’s experiences with the donkeys – not to mention Sonia and Sir Walter Raleigh.

  But the miracle did happen. There was a hush as the door opened and Phyllis, having belted to and fro from the squash court, ushered the guests of honour into the drawing room. Delilah and Lizzie curtseyed. Peter, at a nudge from Lizzie, nodded his head and Muriel, unnerved, remained upright. Mambles darted her a critical look and Mummy beamed on all present.

  Delilah tackled an obdurate Mambles. ‘We are all thrilled to have Muriel at the manor. Of course we are very broadminded people here in Bradstow but, well, what with her husband in the squash court and her, well …’

  ‘That’s the way the world goes round.’ Mambles loved ‘sayings’ always believing herself to have invented them.

  ‘Then. She’s made one or two little mistakes. You have influence. If only she could come to us for pastoral advice. Letting that metal detector into the grounds …’

  In the very early days Muriel had allowed a Salvation Army member to search for coins in a nearby field. It turned out that he was an unpopular figure in the neighbourhood and given to thieving. He’d had to be banned access.

  Getting no reply this time, Delilah swivelled and asked Muriel, ‘Might it be comme il bien to present Her Majesty with some of Dawson’s home-brewed beer? I left a bottle of it in the hall so as to ask your advice first. We so love the thought of it being served at Clarence House.’

  Not for the first time Muriel thought, Christ, what a pickle.

  Marco bounced in – eager for happenings. ‘Flav’s at Dad’s place and Phyllis is having kittens; bathing Cleopatra as well as tarting up dinner for Dad. Peach blossom room fragrance and all.’

  ‘That’s gorgeous for your daddy,’ Delilah cried as Dawson ran through the mortar board anecdote – directing it at Peter. ‘Well. It was some time back. Her Majesty was collecting some doctorate or other. I take an interest in these things – being an academic.’

  Delilah overheard and brightened at his words. ‘Yes. Dawson’s an academic. I’m just the rector’s wife.’

  Lizzie, unnerved not to be the centre of attention, went close to Muriel and demanded, ‘Are the newspapers delivered tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? Boxing Day. I rather doubt it.’

  ‘I must have the — (she mentioned the name of a right-wing daily paper). It has the best telly guide. Can you find out?’

  Delilah swung round. ‘No papers on B
oxing Day. Not delivered to the door at any rate. It could be that they are printed. The supermarket would be your best bet.’

  ‘Where is it? Will anyone be going past? Is it too far to walk?’

  ‘Four to five miles at a guess.’

  ‘Will someone be going in the morning?’

  She inched closer to Muriel who was trying to synchronise her party and let thoughts of luncheon the following day attack her.

  Hugh, Tommy Tiddler and the goosing judge invaded her brain. The royal ladies, it turned out, were scheduled to leave after lunch. They had to be at Windsor Castle in time for dinner but Lizzie had made no mention of her departure. Mambles lost her punchiness when Mummy was around and went into regression, occasionally sucking her thumb.

  Mummy was more important; more in the public eye than herself. She had been ousted by the Queen’s children, their wives and descendants.

  Delilah ran, backing as she left the room, to the hall, returning with the bottle of home-brewed beer that she presented to the seated Mummy.

  When the party was over – when Dawson and Delilah had left, when Marco had hopped back to the squash court to help eat Phyllis’s quiche Lorraine and down wine from Muriel’s cellar – the ladies and Peter dined, not particularly merrily, in candlelight in the dining room.

  Alone in her room with Peter, Muriel shrugged off the happenings of the day and opened an anthology of love poems that Peter had given her as a Christmas present. It excited her that Peter, in spite of blindness, organised matters such as presents.

  The introduction thrilled and fascinated her. The author wrote of the altering complexities of love. ‘I love you. You love me. I used to love you. You don’t love me. I want to sleep with you. Here we are in bed together. I hate you. You’ve betrayed me. I want to kill you. Oh! No! I have killed you.’

  She was in bed with Peter and loved him. He loved her. They wanted to be in bed together. Hugh had betrayed her. She wasn’t sure if she had betrayed him. She didn’t exactly want to kill him and sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t but she loathed having him in the squash court and was sickened each time he approached or attempted tenderness with her. Loathed it.