Free Muriel Pulls It Off by Susanna Johnston Page B

to expire. To drop off her perch. Whatever else, he had taste, style or whatnot. And panache too; wit, charm and mastery. She must carry him along with her.
    Jerome, at least, lay in ignorance of the upheavals that were taking place under his vacated Elizabethan eaves.
    ‘Hi Monopoly. How does this suit you? Not bad eh? Ma. I’m going for a bath after Flave. Downstairs in half an hour for treats from the cellar.’
    Muriel, too, intended to take a bath. What about hot water? Her passion. Was it in superabundance?
    They met in the drawing room. Flavia cooed, ‘Hi Chick. What a place.’
    Marco stood, a lively conductor, behind a tray of drinks and glasses, picking up bottle after bottle and reading from foxed labels. Holding one up, he whistled, ‘Look at this. Château Laville Haut-Brion. Phew!’
    He rolled his eyes and danced upon his feet. ‘I’m saving the champagne until tomorrow. Veuve Clicquot. Ancient, flat and brown. Any Yanks in the neighbourhood? We could make a real scene with it. Dulcie has stacked some in the fridge. Time you got a new one by the way.’
    Flavia battled with a French window as Muriel accepted a glass of red Bordeaux from her son who went for whisky; contents of a bottle he had brought with him from London. Just in case.
    Glass in hand he followed Flavia through the French window, calling back that they planned to explore. Muriel was alone with her distinctly sweet and fruity wine, hoping that, in its antiquity, it would not disturb her stomach further. At least she knew where to find a lavatory.
    As she sat the door flew open and Dulcie, an abomination, advanced holding a Stanley knife; a short, blunt, squat object that she shoved into Muriel’s hand. With that she sat beside her on the sofa and wheezed, ‘I’ve got a blood blister in my mouth. Pierce it,’ and opened her mouth inordinately wide.
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘Stupid woman. Go on. Pierce it.’
    ‘I might cut an artery.’ She looked into the darkness of Dulcie’s mouth and saw a huge red lump, larger than a ping-pong ball, encased in papery skin. It took up all available space and Dulcie’s voice dwindled as she ordered, for the third time, ‘Pierce it.’
    Having set her glass down on a table, Muriel stabbed at the balloon. Blood spattered out upon her, covering hands and arms, shirt, skirt and shoes. It also flew in blobs onto the sofa in its priceless casing as Muriel seized upon a crewelwork cushion and clamped it over the source of the flood, obscuring Dulcie’s face and knocking askew her bifocals.
    Manslaughter? Hangdog, she presented herself in the dock. ‘Do you mean to say, Mrs Cottle, that you, totally inexperienced in medical matters, plunged this knife into the mouth of one of your domestic staff?’
    Inexperienced? She had taken a first-aid course.
    But Dulcie was alive, holding the crewelwork cushion to her mouth and blundering out of the room. Muriel held the damp knife and looked down upon the dripping redness of her clothing. Up she went to change. God knew what the gyrating Phyllis was to suspect. First diarrhoea. Now haemorrhage.
    As she peeled off her clothing she noticed that somebody had unpacked her things, and that Monopoly, curled up in his basket, cared nota whit for her bloody appearance. Were dogs the answer? Was it not an asset to share a room with one so infinitely more helpless, and idiotic even, than oneself?
    Monopoly’s head drooped over the wicker lip of his basket.
    The door opened and in came Dulcie. ‘Have you still got that knife I lent you?’
    Until a moment earlier Muriel had been clasping it. Only as she changed her clothes had she put it down on the table by her bed. She picked it up and showed it off; proving reliability.
    ‘Pierce it. It’s come up again.’ Her voice was steady, if muffled, and told that the need was immediate. She sat on a curving, carved stool and commanded, ‘Go on. Pierce it.’
    This time Muriel acted fast. The habit of piercing blood blisters in