Soon she understood that Muriel was enjoying one of her strange holidays from the world. There was nothing she could do until the girl repacked the tattered baggage of her personality and came home. Sinking into immobility, Muriel would allow Evelyn to manoeuvre her around like a piece of furniture, putting her wherever convenient. I don’t know how I am going to manage, Evelyn thought, if she is like this when the baby comes.
So Monday morning brought relief. Muriel was back. Her pale eyes travelled around the house, without interest, but more freely than of late. “You are being a good girl today,” Evelyn said kindly. Muriel got up and took herself upstairs to the lavatory.
Evelyn was in the kitchen when the knocking started up at the front door. Muriel heard it too. I know what is done, she thought, or what can be done, when that noise starts up. She remembered to rearrange her clothes, or to do as much rearrangement as was necessary under the enveloping blue dress. She watched her large feet going before her, placing themselves slightly sideways on each descending stair.
Evelyn snatched the pan off the stove. As she blundered down the hallway, she felt tiny malignant hands pull at her skirt and catch at her ankles. She could not, could not, make headway.
Her face contorted with effort and alarm. “Muriel!” Muriel turned her head, gave her a blank look, her hand on the catch of the front door; then a slow, spreading smirk. The door swung open, framing mother and daughter, as if they had come to open it together in an expansive gesture of welcome.
A young woman stood on the doorstep.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” she said. “Isabel Field, Social Services.”
As she said this, she put one foot over the threshold. Presumptuous, Evelyn thought. For a moment she moved forward to block the doorway; stepped back just as the girl’s eyes began to widen in surprise.
“Delighted,” Evelyn said. “I can’t think why we haven’t met.”
Standing in the hall, the girl unwound a long woollen scarf from round her neck.
“I’ve written,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I’ve called before.”
“Really?”
“You’ve been out, perhaps.”
“Very likely.”
“So I’ve been unlucky.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Are you well, Mrs. Axon?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“And is Muriel well?”
“Come through, Miss Field.”
Muriel sat and stared into the fireplace, pulling at a thread of her blue dress. She gave the visitor one glance devoid of all interest, then slumped down further into her chair.
“Hello, Muriel.” Isabel stood before her, but her client would not look up. She took a chair; leaning forward, a hand extended, she tried to engage Muriel’s attention. Her voice was gentle, almost timid. She doesn’t know how to go on, Evelyn thought.
“How are things, Muriel?”
“You’ll find,” Evelyn said, “that Muriel has no small talk. It’s a big disadvantage to her, socially.”
“It’s not really small talk, is it?” The girl glanced up at Evelyn. “I am here on business, after all.”
“Yes, but there’s no compulsion, is there? You don’t have to come. She’s not committed a crime.”
“No, no, of course not, but we are very concerned about Muriel. It’s months since she’s been to the Day Centre.”
“Well, she has a full life.”
“Really? That wasn’t the picture we’d formed.”
“We?”
“Social Services. It’s unfortunate that so many people have handled Muriel’s case, but we do have records, you know.”
“Well, look for yourself. She’s happy enough. She didn’t like the class.”
“Didn’t she?” Concern crossed the girl’s face. She’s all hot and strong when she talks to me, Evelyn thought, and gentle as a mouse with Muriel. But now she’s wondering what to do.
“I didn’t know that. She should have said something at the time. What didn’t she like?”
“She doesn’t care for being regimented. She likes a bit of independent action, Muriel.”
Again, Miss Field’s attention flickered over her client. “She seems so…so cut off. Is she often like this?”
“Now and again. She’s a grown woman. She’s got a tongue in her head.”
