Free Muriel's Reign by Susanna Johnston Page A

day before and fried. She asked Hugh to polish it up for her. It was wrapped tightly in a piece of greaseproof paper and, as she swallowed brandy butter,she asked, ‘Is it the late King, my husband, or my daughter, the Queen, on the coin?’
    Hugh reproachful and at a loose end. Lizzie staying indefinitely. Marco, Flavia and Cleopatra. Phyllis’s shifting position added to anxieties whilst, in the short term, solved some.
    Dulcie menacing; donkeys incestuous; Sonia insane; Dawson and Delilah a constant tug at her conscience. What, she asked herself, is there to hope for? Hugh and Lizzie? It didn’t do to picture Lizzie permanently in the squash court but, hang on, she did have a flat in London and now that Monopoly loathed Hugh, there was no interest for him in the country. But what of Phyllis? Too many conundrums.
    Mummy and Mambles took up a whole page in the visitors’ book. Cunty, Farty and Moggan didn’t sign their names. It was, according to Mambles, inappropriate, although they had stayed in the house.
    When the hoo-ha of their departure was over, the judge turned his wonky face to Lizzie and asked, ‘And how long, dear lady, are you staying here?’
    Lizzie, hunted, said that Muriel had not mentioned a date for her departure. ‘I feel like a displaced person. Not knowing if I’m wanted.’
    ‘Come come, dear lady, I was hoping you might make up a bridge four this evening. Do you have wheels?’
    ‘Wheels? No but I’m sure someone …’
    Muriel, quickly, said, ‘We’ll try to get you there. There and back. Let me have a quick think.’
    An evening alone with Peter promised her happiness and hope.
    The judge made a suggestion. ‘Why don’t you come back with me now and spend the night? I’ll return you to camp in the morning.’
    Lizzie, notwithstanding doubt, jumped at it. Hugh otherwise occupied. Muriel soppy with Peter.
    ‘I’ll make a quick dart and pack. Muriel, you don’t mind, do you? You know I worship bridge.’
     
    Muriel returned to the anthology of love poems and the fireside with Peter and Monopoly.
    Poems aside, there was an uncomfortable amount for them to discuss. Muriel’s fierce and utter disenchantment with Hugh was a tricky one. Peter had no wish to further rubbish his brother. He inclined to the belief that, whatever his true feelings about Hugh, he had rubbished him enough in that he lived in blissful contentment with Muriel.
    She hankered to be shot of her husband, his very presence a blight, and was irritated to remember that Mambles had bamboozled her into housing him in the absence of other solutions. She wondered whether theyoung man who had been so disturbed on seeing the picture hanging above the piano in the hall, had come to any conclusions on its provenance. Might the ownership of that still tempt Hugh into considering a divorce?
    Marco and Flavia, drunk and dissatisfied, dumping the demanding baby on her at inconvenient hours.
    Anxiety-ridden Lizzie, temporarily appeased by her bridge-playing sleepover with the goosing, widowed, exjudge, was to return the next morning for an indefinite number of days.
    Phyllis, destabilising in her triple role: housekeeper, husband’s mistress and nurserymaid to her granddaughter.
    She wondered whether she might not be happy as an ‘Avon Lady’ trudging up to the doors of others instead of owning so many doors herself.
    Her mind focused on Lizzie. Lizzie had, in spite of being no longer young, scampered up the stairs to pack her overnight needs; including the Queen’s kimono, in readiness for her journey with the judge.
    She had waved goodbye with neurotic brightness from the window of his old Mercedes as her escort strained to fasten the safety belt round his person – larger since lunch.

Chapter 14
    Lizzie took stock. Hugh was no certainty. Muriel and Peter were excluding in their closeness to each other. The judge was worth a try and, on that path, she knew that she was certain to conquer. She was lively as they drove and