Nothing But Kindness

     Muriel was both embarrassed, at being locked in the toilet, and then angry at everyone leaving without her. Granted, she may have nodded off some point after repeatedly calling for help, but nevertheless, there’d be a strongly worded notelet to the secretary of the ‘Historical Weavers Society (Essex Branch)’ when she got home. When that might be, was anyone’s guess.

     It was October and the nights had begun to really draw in and mornings were dark. Muriel had been looking forward to the museum visit, a real living museum, not some stuffy old mausoleum filled with dusty whatnots behind glass. The Fitzpatrick Museum, in the Spitalfields district of London, was a modest Georgian house, constructed by the protestant Huguenot communities as they fled persecution in Catholic France. It was one of the few extant houses that had escaped the bombings of the second world war, and more destructive still, the rampaging developers chasing profit whilst levelling history in London’s East End.

     Muriel, cold and hungry, had had a lovely day up until the lock-in. The train up had been spotless, and on time. She and Brenda had buddied up, splashed out on brunch with prosecco, and had reached the little cobbled street in Spitalfields spot on three o’clock, to meet the rest of the party.

     “Ladies, your attention, please,” a rather effete man, to Muriel’s mind, stood on the step of the terraced, tall, narrow residence of grey brick. The door, painted ox-blood red was quite the statement, she observed.

     “Before you enter the Fitzpatrick Museum, please be aware that talking must be kept to a minimum in order to maintain good relationships with our neighbours, no photographs are permitted,” he paused a moment for the grumbling to settle, “and may we ask that you do not touch any of the items throughout the house. The collected decor is of the period when Mr Jacques Macore, silk weaver, and his first wife, Judith, began to enjoy the fruits of their industrious endeavours.”

     Muriel, who wanted to get inside, feeling a chill coming up from the cobbles, tutted when Nancy Coates, ‘Historical Weavers Society’ treasurer, asked about the disappearance of Judith Macore. Nancy glared but Muriel glared back, refusing to be intimidated by a woman whose son was caught upskirting in Lidl.

     “Ah, yes, it’s a question we get asked a lot,” the guide said, Muriel thinking his smile somewhat weary, “Judith Macore disappeared around 1750, just as Jacques’ business enterprises were expanding. He subsequently married his housekeeper, Marguerite Raby, Judith being declared dead after not returning from an apparent trip to France to tend her ailing mother years before. You can find further details on our website and without further ado, do come in.”

     “Thank God!” muttered Muriel, joining the scrum as they squeezed through the narrow doorway and into the hallway, a steady drone of “ooh” replacing the moaning.

     It was a feast for the eyes, she felt, every surface was cluttered with objects ranging from Delft pottery figures to copper candle sticks. The walls in each room were painted in colours ranging from an unappetising shade of pink Muriel felt was similar to a hat her grandmother once wore, to sage and mint greens, rich heady reds and robust blues. Candles flickered in mirrored wall sconces and ornate foxed mirrors threw warm light across the furnishings.

     Examples of the silk weaver’s art was presented in the stark and chilly upper storey, from where the light by which the weavers worked, through tall windows, was good all day. The daylight was fading, now, as the ladies picked their way through the displays.

     Gazing at the fraying Turkish rugs, Muriel began to feel uncomfortable. They’d all been advised to use the loo in the Nando’s round the corner, but the queue was whopping, so she’d skipped it, and that extra bottle of lunchtime fizz was now making its presence felt. There was no public toilet in the museum.

     Leaning to whisper into the ear of a young woman who was engaged in quietly demonstrating the silk weaving loom, she explained her predicament. To Muriel’s mind, the girl’s answer was surly,

     “You’ll have to leave the house and go over the road. The toilet here is staff only.”

     “You wait until you’re my age, young lady,” Muriel whispered darkly, and began her quest. Her tortured bladder, not aided by her blood pressure medication, was a priority. She rounded a corner in the gloom and spotted a side door off one of the bedrooms. She recognised the tang of Harpic. “Bingo,” she exclaimed in hushed tones, and crept in, unseen.

     Now, much later, and despite her increasingly loud demands for assistance, she remained entombed. The toilet arrangements were primitive, at best, with a wooden seat over an earthenware pot with not a flush to be found. Muriel felt she could be forgiven for thinking they’d taken the period authenticity perilously close to vindictive. Her phone had no signal and had run out of charge hours before. Bugger, she thought. Her watch said seven. Had she slept in there all night?

     She expected Nancy Coates was behind her abandonment. She had a cruel streak, thought Muriel, her husband worked for the tax office for forty years, so no doubt it rubbed off. In the darkness, feeling helpless and needing a cuppa, she heard a click and the creak of a door hinge.

     “At last,” she cried, “Here, hello!”

     The privy door opened, and a small, shadowy figure leaned in, ignoring the significantly more matronly shape of Muriel.

     “Oh, I’m so grateful, thank you ever so…” she tailed off as the young girl, she could make her out by the light of a candle stump she carried, picked up some linen from a nearby closet and quietly walked away.

     “I’m sorry, I’m sure!” Muriel snapped indignantly, following the young woman’s light. She trailed her into the small bedroom and stopped still. The museum smelt of baking. Bread? She didn’t think they had an onsite cafeteria; she’d planned to add that as a recommendation on her feedback form.

     Looking about her, the room had taken on a different hue than she’d remembered. It was dark, of course, and the heavy velvet curtains had been drawn across the windows, but Muriel felt it was different somehow. She peered into the workshop but quickly withdrew, it was bitterly cold in there, dawn light just emerging. Quickly, as she planned to grab the train from Liverpool Street back to Braintree, Muriel rounded the narrow staircase, expecting to bump into the museum’s cluttered ephemera, instead the narrow and winding staircase was lit by candles casting dancing shadows.

     “Hello,” called Muriel, the young woman having given her the slip, “I say, I’ve been locked in. Is this a special event?”

     She reached the landing on the next floor and put on her most ingratiating smile, hearing movement in the large room she recalled as the master bedroom. She gently rapped on the door and poked her head round.

     “You’ll think me the most fearful goose…” then stopped dead.

     A tall, slender woman was piling her hair up, twisting it then pinning it in place with, to Muriel, an exquisite mother-of-pearl clip that reflected the warm, orange glow. She didn’t seem to notice Muriel. The woman stood and admired her long sleeved, ivory silk gown, trimmed with lace at the points where her milk white skin showed.

     “Susanne,” the woman roared, making Muriel start, expecting a more demure utterance from such an exotic creature. “Susanne, my wine.”

     For breakfast? Muriel turned as she heard the rapid clatter of someone running up the staircase, clearly aware of the consequences of not responding at the double when called. The young girl who’d freed Muriel, entered the room, curtseyed, and placed a carafe on a side table where a heavy bottomed wine glass stood.

     “Your wine, Madame Macore.” The girl stepped aside as Madame swished across the Turkish carpet, which Muriel noticed looked a damn sight better, and newer, by candlelight.

     The woman continued to ignore Muriel as the young woman poured a glass, then placed the carafe down and reversed through the door.

     “Is this one of those performance things?” asked Muriel dubiously, not a fan of play acting. There was no response as the woman tipped her head back and drained the glass.

     Gripping the neck of the carafe, she weaved unsteadily through the doorway, past Muriel, and began to clomp carefully down the stairs.

     “You could break your hip if you catch a shoe on your skirt,” Muriel said, receiving no response. Muriel considered this actor, whoever she was, damn rude. This would go on the feedback form too. Following her , Muriel eased herself carefully down the creaking steps and onto the landing below. The smell of cooking grew stronger. They must be preparing to hold a special event for a school, she reasoned, stopping at what she knew was the dining room, but it, again, had taken on a different look. A tall, pale gentleman with a long nose and rather daft white wig, with a red velvet bow tied at the back, was staring bleakly at the fireplace. Madame took a seat beside him, but neither of them greeted the other.

     “You’re late for breakfast, Marguerite” he said, his accent strong.

     “I was dressing, Jacques,” she replied, her tone acidic.

     Muriel watched as Marguerite poured herself a brim-full of wine, guzzling it, lips stained red, glaring at the man whom she presumed was her husband.

     The waif like Susanne, who’d freed Muriel from her confinement, walked quickly into the room with a heavy looking silver tray, clonking and catching the furniture that looked strangely less worn than it had earlier. Not speaking, the girl placed several domed platters on the table and quietly left the happy couple to it. The actors, Muriel felt, did a good job of creating a tense atmosphere.

     “I have to attend a meeting of the church elders,” said Jacques, reaching for one of the delicious smelling dishes. Muriel was famished.

     “I see, avoiding me again?” Marguerite smiled with wine-stained teeth.

     “Church business. You’re coming with me.”

     The woman snorted, “I am not, sir. I am receiving a guest at nine.” Marguerite gave a sly side eye at her husband.

     Muriel was, despite herself, enjoying this little domestic farce, and wondered why they’d started without any other members of the audience. Perhaps, she thought, this was a dress rehearsal?

     “You won’t make a fool of me,” shouted Jacques, a little too loud to Muriel’s mind.

     “Jacques,” cooed Marguerite. “You don’t need me to make you look foolish. I know how you chase poor Susanne around the house, and I’ve also noticed how she’s begun to bloom in the last month or so.”

     Gosh, thought Muriel, it’s like Coronation Street.

     Jacques brought his fist down with a crash, scattering silverware and crockery. A plate, with a pretty blue pattern, fell and cracked on the hearth. It was just like the one she’d been admiring yesterday, Muriel nodded, and that had a great big crack in it too.

     “You should watch your tongue,” Jacques shouted. “Remember what happened to Judith?”

     Muriel’s mind flashed back to standing in the perishing cold and that response to Nancy Coates’ boring question about the disappearance of the owner’s first wife. Fancy, she thought.

     “And how would the church elders feel about a man who made his first wife vanish, marry his housekeeper, and then get his maid pregnant? What an upstanding member of the community.”

     “I’ve show her nothing but kindness” he snapped.  Jacques tore off bread and dipped it forcefully into what looked like a broth.

I wonder if they do recipe cards, thought Muriel. The actors were exceptionally good, she had to give them that. She’d never remember her lines.

     “So, when will you be home?” Marguerite asked, lightly.

     “Before luncheon. Will he be gone by then?”

     Marguerite looks rather like a cat I used to have, Muriel observed, it clawed the furniture and tormented birds.

     “Yes,” Marguerite purred, “I am, a least, discrete.”

     They continued eating and Muriel wondered if this had now become a Pinter play, the sort with long pauses and then all of a sudden someone interjects with an irrelevancy. She looked at her watch. If she got an Uber, she could get the eight ten to Braintree. Then she remembered her phone was out of charge. Perhaps someone downstairs could get a taxi for her?

     Backing quietly out of the performance, Muriel brushed past the museum’s display cabinet of Staffordshire flat backs; oddly, none of them chipped or nibbled like the ones she’d surreptitiously photographed earlier. She reached the foot of the stairs and heard voices in the room at the back of the house, an area previously roped off.

     “Hello,” she called. “I wonder if someone could call me a taxi?” Carefully she pushed on the heavy door and stepped down onto flagstones. The kitchen was baking hot, smelling of damp and cabbage. It had an open fire and small iron range, with a heavy looking table in the centre of the room. A door to what must have been a yard out back was ajar. There was no one inside.

     Muriel looked about her. They’d certainly aimed for authenticity for whatever the museum was doing today. There was flour scattered across the table, and a dead animal, hanging from a hook above the fireplace was watching her with a single beady eye.

     The outside door was flung open and the young woman, Susanne, in her pinafore and mop cap, bustled in, wiping her eyes. Poor duck, Murial sympathised, facing being an unmarried mother, then told herself, “This isn’t for real, it’s a performance.”

     A thin young man, in leather breeches, a stained long sleeved top and jerkin, stinking of horse and something even less pleasant, pushed in behind Susanne and grasped her arm. Golly, thought Muriel, these young actors are very committed; he’ll need a good scrub after this.

     “Susanne, tell somebody.”

     The young woman rolled her eyes and returned to a pan over the fire. “Who? The church?”

     The young man scratched an angry boil on his neck. Muriel had to stop reaching into her handbag for some Germolene.

     “Then we’ll have to marry, say it’s mine.”

     Susanne lifted the heavy pan onto the table and began to ladle out what looked like oatmeal into study earthenware bowls, sprinkling them with what looked like spices.

     “And what will we do then? How will we live? I lose my job, the roof over my head. We stay with your scold of a mother and drunkard brother, you with your horses and me skivvying with a baby on my hip?”

     “Do you have a better plan?” He pouted and continued to worry at his neck.

To Muriel, the young man needed to grow up, take responsibility, get a better job, and take care of that girl. Then again, where would the drama be in that?

“I do.” Susanne snapped her head up as the sound of a tinkling bell summoned her to bring them the next course.

Muriel chose not to follow her. She decided it would be better if she left the actors to it and found her own taxi. She smiled at the young man, who ignored her, picking his nose, leaving Muriel feeling quite queasy. Climbing the stairs to the front door of the museum she took a last look, having to admit they’d done an excellent job in a short time of moving the displays here and there to make it more homely. If you didn’t know it was all make believe, she smiled, opening the door, and stepping into the refreshingly biting October morning, the Fitzpatrick Museum was, to all intents and purposes, a living and breathing Huguenot home.

#

She’d found a seat away from the teenagers and dedicated drunks on the train, and plugged her phone in. She’d be home by nine. Wait until she told Brenda about her adventure. And the actors! She didn’t recognise them, but she was convinced they were good enough to be on the telly. Better than Nancy Coates’ niece, who went to drama school, but all she ever put on Facebook was the latest fancy pattern on a cappuccino in the café where she worked.

They always had a follow up meeting after the ‘Historical Weavers Society’ went on a visit. Muriel, determined to make the most of her protracted time in the museum, decided to do some more research. She looked at the museum’s website and the tab marked, ‘history.’

“Hmm, so that’s how things panned out.” She said to herself, attracting looks from her fellow passengers.

Jacques and Marguerite died only a few days apart. Jacques, in his will, left the house and its contents to his housekeeper, Elisabeth Tourard. Elisabeth, soon after, married a groom, William Fitzgerald, and gave birth to their son, Jacques. Together they built a prosperous business trading silk and imported garments. The museum was founded after the last Fitzgerald died without an heir, in the late 1960s.

#

Muriel got home, kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief, changed out of her clammy outfit and made tea. Massaging her aching toes, she continued her research into the Macore/Fitzgerald family. Her brain was still buzzing with the sights and (far too authentic) smells of the museum. Something gave her time to pause. In an article about the museum, a researcher had found a pamphlet printed in the mid-1750s, detailing the curious deaths of Jacques and Marguerite Macore. Rumour had it they were poisoned.

Remembering the words of the girl playing Elisabeth, as she dished out breakfast, Muriel wondered about the flavourings added to the porridge. She smiled in admiration, you had to admit, whoever it was putting today’s event together, had cast some very convincing actors.