Muriel's Reign Read Online Free PDF Page B

not well, not at all well, with, Ithink, the Spanish flu, perhaps the very, very last in the world to suffer from that epidemic, once thought eradicated, but caught by me in a rather louche way in a rather remote part of the world, where the Spanish flu is said to have come back among the young attractive natives.
    You are wonderfully aware of how much your invitations mean to me, I, an American trying to learn the ways of the British, which passport I am so proud to say I have been honoured with – though I must say I am puzzled, for my passport identifies me as a British citizen, not a subject. Has the United Kingdom become a republic without the royals knowing?’
    She was sorry about the Spanish flu and not to be seeing him. David did so appreciate the marvels of the house. Few of her visitors or dependants appeared to have noticed anything very special about it although Peter, with high enthusiasm, often made her describe every cranny to him in detail.
    Flavia, followed by an unsteady Marco, floundered into the hall where the Christmas tree had been installed and where piles of cut holly lay on plastic sheeting ready to decorate pictures and clocks. It was clear to Muriel as she walked down the stairs, having again checked on Lizzie’s bedroom, that both Marco and Flavia were very drunk. She wondered which of the two had driven the car back from the pub.
    ‘Hi Ma,’ Marco, wearing a fixed grin, held tight to the stair rail as he waited for his mother to reach the bottom step. ‘Getting ready for royalty? Is your show on the road?’
    They both smoked cigarettes and seemed anxious to cover tracks; to divert attention from their absenteeism.
    ‘Great fodder at The Bell. That Tommy Tiddler is a scream. Had us all in fits. I had to warn him not to do his imitation of the Queen Mother on Boxing Day as she’ll be here in person. He thought I was kidding.’
    He lurched and Flavia took over. ‘Where’s Cleopatra? Can you be a chick and continue the love-in with your granddaughter a bit longer? We need a nap. Touch of flu.’
    They both teetered.
    Muriel told them that they would find their small daughter learning to play the flute with her grandfather in the squash court and advised them to fetch her on their way home.
    Marco smiled stupidly and said, ‘Steady on, Ma. We need a bit of shut-eye. Good on you, though, for sharing grandparental responsibility with Pa.’
    Muriel objected to the word ‘responsibility’ and rage mounted as she begged her son, beloved but confusing, and his pretty, dressy, drunk and feckless wife to retrieve their child.
    Phyllis, who loved tinsel, began to decorate the tree. Outside it was wet and windy and darkness settled early. Muriel fretted that the heating was not turned up to the right temperature and wished she understood the system – reluctant to ask advice from anyone about anything.
    She turned to the handsome staircase. Worth checking just once more on Lizzie’s room. As she trod on the third step there was a soft click and the electricity went off. Only dim light, losing force by the second, came from various windows. The house had lately been rewired and she was indignant. Peter, who had heard her exclaim, called her.
    ‘Come in here, Muriel, before it gets dark. My study. There’s a good fire banked up. We can do a bit of chatting as we wait for developments. Lizzie will make a meal of it. I daresay the telephone’s off too by the way and radiators will soon start to cool.’
    There had been a strong wind and Peter guessed that a fallen tree had dislocated not only the lights but also the telephone.
    She joined him and wondered about the Aga and if it was fired electrically. Water too. Did Kitty, for instance, have any backup in the kitchen? She was not due to come in until later. What of the squash court? Hugh floundering with the flute and the baby. No way, presumably, of heating up his ‘dinner for one’.
    Peter was musing. ‘Too late to put them off I fear.