Free Muriel Pulls It Off by Susanna Johnston Page A

lavatory was revealed and Muriel hurled off the wooden lid which spun and clanked upon the flagged flooring. The whole contraption was a work of art; the china, the chain, the warmth of the wood.
    Phyllis waited outside and Muriel heard her fidgeting as she ran the basin tap to muffle her sounds. Never, normally, did she suffer in this way. She flushed away the confusions of the last week, stood tall once again and inspected her face in the mirror; flicking at her hair with both hands. Her inside subsided and she stalked out into the passage; keen to show poise. Making no mention of discomfort, she suggested to Phyllis that they return to the hall to resume their administrative talk. ‘As you know, I am in ignorance of everything here. I am relying on all of you and on Mr Stiller, who will be here on Monday morning, to explain things to me and to the household. Meanwhile I have to take charge. That is the way it is.’
    Was Dawson deep in prayer as he brewed his own beer and as Delilah planned her socialising calendar?
    Phyllis replied, ‘Very well. What are the orders?’
    ‘I want a room prepared for my son and daughter-in-law who will,’ she glared at her watch, ‘be here in an hour or so. Dinner for three - no matter how simple - at about eight-fifteen, if that suits Kitty. Drinks before that. Where are the drinks normally set out?’
    ‘Never. Mr Atkins didn’t indulge and he’d sooner others didn’t when they came.’ She was not to be humbled or crushed.
    ‘Perhaps there are no drinks, then, in the house?’
    ‘There’s the cellar. That’s stacked. Has been since the start of time.’
    Whew.
    Muriel asked to be taken to the kitchen. A word with Kitty would cheer her up. The kitchen was unappealing; grey and white and smelling fridgey. The floor was covered in ice-cold linoleum and the surfaces with chipped Formica.
    Aunt Alice, she supposed, had done it over when the war ended and servants came flooding back.
    She resolved not to involve herself with the history of the house  or the habits of its previous owners or to fall into traps. She did not wish totransform into a dyke in grateful memory of Aunt Alice. Anything was possible.
    In the kitchen Kitty rolled a pin upon the table, extolling the delights of having someone to cook for once again. Mr Atkins had done no more than pick.
    Muriel, with her stomach in a shaky state, did not attend to the details of the meal that Kitty was about to cook. She explained to the women present that she hoped they would all be able to muddle through until Monday, and wished to heaven that Phyllis would disappear. When she did no such thing, Muriel gave her the slip and went to her bedroom. On the bed she lay, aching in the middle, wishing that Monopoly didn’t occupy a corner of the room and that Marco and Flavia were not on their way and hoping that they had not alerted Hugh. In the morning she must ring Mambles and Lizzie, if ever she could retrace her steps to the telephone.
    She decided to tell them how foul it was; antiquated, de-alcoholised, haunted…..
    Mind indistinct and mingled, she fell asleep, her head on a square pillow.

Chapter 6
    M arco in merry mood, stood at the foot of the four-poster bed. ‘Wake up. Flave’s in the bath. What a bath. Animal feet and all. Everything’s in control. I found an old hermaphrodite who showed me to the cellar. Full of it. Amazing stuff. This place really is the answer. Flave’s speechless. I’ve arranged drinks with the help of the hermaphrodite. I think she’s quite enjoying herself - says nobody’s been down there for at least fifteen years.’
    ‘Marco!’
    Muriel sprang up and slipped on skirt and shoes and more besides. Then and there she decided not to admonish her boy, for was he not just what she needed? It would have taken another fifteen years to summon the courage to order Dulcie.
    Marco was beside himself; wild in appreciation of the wonders of Bradstow. Wondering, his mother surmised, when she planned