Muriel's Reign Read Online Free PDF Page A

one of her weekly editions of
Fur and Feathers
although they were actually intended to water baby chicks.
    When everything was regally prepared Muriel and Phyllis returned to the hall – Muriel pausing to listen at Peter’s study door where all was silent and remembering to mention to anyone concerned that Farty was unable to drink any milk other than goat’s.
    She returned to the subject of the pram and Phyllis, with rotten grace, replied, ‘All right then. It’s in shreds. Seems a shame. You’d have thought …’
    Lizzie’s room was ready too. Muriel strained to add touches equal to those of Mambles and her mother (barring chamber pot) for fear of Lizzie’s comparisons. She was certain to snoop upon arriving, as she was due to do, before the others. She had already telephoned three times that morning – twice about the time of her train arrival and once about clothes – ‘What sort of evening dresses should I bring to keep my end up with your smart friends?’
    Muriel was planning her next move when Flavia crept up on her; startlingly dressed and carrying a tin of baby food and a bottle.
    ‘I’ve had a squizz in the study and Peter’s doing fine. Cleopatra’s still asleep. I knew she wouldn’t be any trouble. Be a chick and give her these when she wakes up. Me and Marco are off to join Tommy Tiddler at the pub. Good old Gran.’
    Flavia, Muriel noticed, had started to take a morbid interest in clothes. Her outfits had become showier and more expensive-looking as though to prove that, in spite of living in a barn in her mother-in-law’s garden and of having produced a baby, she could still hold her own in a more sophisticated world; that she had in no way been diminished by country air. Clothes were transformed into armour.
    Lizzie was likely to sense competition and to stiffen at being sartorially outdone – even by one many years her junior.
    Muriel had no idea what to do. She was near to trembling and cross. She took the tin and the bottle and said, ‘Okay, Flav, but come straight back and take her for a walk. I’m having an old pram cleaned and I’ll get you a new one after Christmas.’
    ‘Straight back? We’ll probably have a bit of fodder while we’re there.’
    She pirouetted elegantly and ran off saying, ‘Can’t wait. Marco’s hooting his horn.’
    Muriel screamed, ‘I’ll push her round at three o’clock.’
    ‘Don’t worry. We’ll fetch her when we’re through.’
    When Muriel went to Peter’s study Cleopatra was writhing; ready to wake and livid. She lifted the smelly child from the pen, glared at the tins of baby food left by Flavia and looked at her watch. It was only midday.
    Kitty, the angelic cook, knocked on the door.
    ‘You can’t go feeding her that, Mrs Cottle. I’ll mash her up some chicken and potato – and greens when you and Mr Peter have your lunch. I’ve got Gemma and Lara with me this morning in the kitchen. We’ll take her over to the barn and get her cleaned up – and dressed. They always leave the door ajar.’
    When Muriel had put another note into another envelope and drawn another bit of holly and placed it on the door handle, she realised that the paper boy had already called and left empty-handed.
    She and Peter went to the small table in the dining-room window and found that Kitty had wedged an old wooden high chair between the places where they were to sit. Kitty reappeared followed by thrilled Gemma and Lara – hair in Kirby grips, carrying a glowing Cleopatra. It hit her. The sensation she had yearned for. A grandmotherly glow as Cleopatra gave her a heavenlysmile. Kitty said, ‘It took a while to get her scrubbed up. Gemma found the frock; still in its wrapping since you brought it back from London.’
    Cleopatra ate some of the chicken and vegetables and threw some around the room; spattering silver and glass. Muriel’s grandmotherly glow lasted less than an hour after which she began to long for Marco and Flavia’s return and resolved