Muriel's Reign by Susanna Johnston

wishing to cross his wires, Phyllis having installed herself on his balcony, muttered something about ‘tomorrow’ whereupon Lizzie became jumpy and said she could tell she wasn’t wanted.
    Monopoly stayed in Muriel and Peter’s bedroom. He loathed Sir Walter Raleigh and Jubilee and did not enjoy the presence of Hugh in the house. There had been a time when he had worshipped him; had pined when he had so cruelly disappeared – but now his loyalty had swung to Muriel and to Peter. Hugh made him jittery.
    Muriel raced them through turkey and Christmas pudding, well laced with brandy butter, and cheeses. Desperate with the timing of events.
    They walked to the drawing room where a fire was lit and where a television had been placed, centrally, especially for the purpose of the day.
    The Queen Mother didn’t sit. ‘Easier to stand and wait to sit down after the National Anthem.’
    Mambles flopped onto the sofa. She loathed it when Mummy showed respect to her sister and writhed under the burden of her fading position in the family. Nonetheless, when the Anthem began, she did rise to her feet and stood, solemn but angry, until it faded and a picture of the Queen, radiant in a flowered frock and hair arranged like two cornets – one on each side of her temple – appeared on the screen. She sat at a desk and spoke in clear, childlike tones, telling of a Christmas party held in the mews at Buckingham Palace. ‘Even the horses in their stables are serenaded by the carol singers and seem to be aware that something quite special is happening – as they wereon that happy July day when my son and daughter-in-law were married and they drew the carriages through cheerful crowds thronging the London streets.’
    Mambles looked daggers. Mummy reverent and Hugh terrifically impressed.
    Lizzie said, ‘I’m sorry but I worship the Queen. Perhaps it’s because she’s been anointed.’
    As she spoke she knew she had put her foot in it with the sour-faced Mambles and her hands shook.
    As they began to revive after the excitement, the door flew open and Kitty summoned Muriel with a nod of patient irritation.
    Muriel went, at once, to join her and to learn that Sonia wanted an urgent word in the abandoned office. Why was the no-longer-employed Sonia not at home enjoying her own Christmas in her own way?
    In the cold office, Sonia quivered and held a struggling Sir Walter Raleigh in her arms. Sir Walter had, somehow, given his mistress the slip. ‘He’s damaged,’ she shrieked, ‘I’m calling the vet.’
    Muriel told her to desist until the dog’s owner had been consulted. Sonia mumbled something incoherent about the dog having chased a cat. Muriel carried Sir Walter, now quiet and still, in her arms and headed back to the drawing room where Queen Elizabeth was gracious and pronounced him ‘fit as a flea’.
    Uncharacteristically and infuriatingly for Muriel, Sir Walter somehow managed to wander off again – his being so small nobody noticed. After less than five minutes Sonia was in the room, crying maniacally and squeezing Sir Walter very nearly to death in her stubby arms.
    ‘Sir Walter,’ Muriel said as everyone stared, ‘is okay Sonia. No need to worry.’
    ‘This dog could be responsible for the death of a cat. There are three elderly cats here and nobody cares.’ She shook and shivered and raced out, dropping the dog, in the throes of a helpless outburst.
    Princess Matilda asked, ‘Does she know who we are?’
    Queen Elizabeth rose above these earthly matters and basked in her own serenity.
    Excusing herself, Muriel, carrying a cup of coffee, made a run for the office (after admitting to all that she was mortified and horrified by the accusations made against Sir Walter) where Sonia sat in floods tirading against the heartlessness of royalty.
    ‘Corin is prone to heart attacks if chased. Those bland faces in your drawing room. Nobody listens. Nobody cares. They bring these dogs down here with no thought for me. What