Muriel and Udolpho
by
Kurt Ulmer

SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published on smashwords.com

Copyright © 2011 by Kurt Ulmer
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Disclaimer
This short story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Muriel and Udolpho

The young actress Muriel Casterton celebrated her stage debut with cast and crew back stage after opening night. The audience’s thunderous applause was still ringing in her ears when the well meaning party host introduced Muriel to another first for the day: Udolpho Wolfe. This became an instant, all consuming, intoxicating and lifelong infatuation. She failed to show up for rehearsals soon after. Her critically acclaimed performances waned under Udolpho’s influence. Family and friends knew and her fiancé was aware of her obsession. Idle gossipers blamed Udolpho for a sudden and premature end to the career of a “rising star”. However, Udolpho was only partly to blame.
The infatuated wheat farmer, David Mackay from Seymour, wanted no other and married Muriel knowing full well that she would not give up Udolpho. The hope, that in time she would tire of him, was soon dashed. She never did entirely, busybodies say. The Dutchman was always at hand.

I gleaned these snippets over the years. Let me tell you what I know.

My Aunt Muriel, it seemed forever and certainly before I left High School, called at our place on Wednesdays. Not on a Tuesday or a Thursday, never on weekends, but on Wednesdays. Wednesday was significant but it wasn’t until many years later that I found out why. She must have been around 28 when the regular visits started. I know this because my mum is her older sister by five years. I once addressed her as Auntie Muriel and was quickly put in my place. Aunt, not Auntie.
Aunt Muriel rang our door bell at 5.50 PM, never earlier, sometimes later when the train was late. The Wednesday afternoon country service was due at Essendon railway station at 5.30 PM. From there, it was a comfortable five minute walk to our house. She spent a quarter of an hour or so somewhere.
I usually answered the door, let her in and she hugged me to her ample bosom. As a young boy I didn’t mind. In my teenage years, feeling the closeness of her breasts first embarrassed me, then excited me, then embarrassed me and once a man, put me off.
Off-putting too, was the smell of peppermint she had about her. That and Eau de Cologne, which I knew from a sneak look in her handbag. The peppermint haze was just bearable in winter. Not so in summer, when peppermint seemed to ooze from her skin. It mingled with cologne and sweat and drove me away.
She made herself comfortable in the front room, in the armchair near the window, where visitors sat. She brought her own teabags, Twinings Earl Grey and I brought her hot water. She ate French Brie with water crackers and peeled an apple with a small ivory handle knife. She lit a black Sobranie cigarette for afters and made me listen for the umpteenth time to stories of her life in the Thea-ata. She spoke of all-night parties, autograph hunters, stage-door Johnnies and marriage proposals. She knew people I had read about and seen in black and white movies. Did I know that she turned down an invitation to star on Broadway? She had given all that up for a life in the country. Yeah, right.
By the time the family finished their own tea, it was time for me to escort Aunt Muriel to the station to catch the 7.20 PM rattler to Flinders Street Station. Dad meanwhile had finished his second bottle of Vic Bitter ale.
“Get me another longneck, son,” he’d say.
I was twelve maybe when Dad sometimes became so legless that I had to fetch his beer from the garage refrigerator. I also took away the empties and tasted the dregs before stacking the bottles along the side fence. Sometimes I’d pour him a glass and when he wasn’t looking, this naughty boy took a swig. There was a lot of drinking in my house, especially at weekends. I once tried spirits but didn't like the taste. But bourbon with Coca Cola, when I was seventeen, tasted terrific. I resisted a second.

I remember well the Wednesday, before my graduation. I was in the milk bar when I saw Aunt Muriel, on the footpath opposite, enter the Railway Hotel. For once, the train was early. A quarter of an hour later, she emerged and made for our house. I pretended to be looking for her in the bar. I had just missed her, the barman said. I asked what I should buy her as a surprise birthday present.  He pointed out a long square bottle on the top shelf and described what it was and where it came from. Muriel’s favourite drink came with peppermint, the barman said and gave me a knowing wink I didn't understand.
That evening, we took the train together to the city making out that I was meeting my girlfriend at the station. I watched Aunt Muriel walk down Flinders Street and turn the corner into a lane. I followed her discretely. She stopped at an old red brick office block and entered a basement door. No sign, but men in business suits, men in shabby clothes, old men, young men, well dressed women and some not, entered without hesitation. I knew one face, our greengrocer, who averted his gaze. Not so one of my tutors, who told me to come in or piss off. I withdrew politely, waited and entered the building.
Access to a meeting room was by a single glass panel door. Ten rows of chairs and I guessed some 40 people were inside. When no one else arrived, I entered the room and sat in the last row and listened as speaker after speaker addressed the group. Some said only a few words; others spoke for a minute or more. The group as one greeted each speaker. I left when Muriel stood up and walked to the lectern, for I didn't want her to see me. I heard a resounding “Hello Muriel” as I shut the door quietly. What a dreadful place. These poor people have only themselves to blame.
My job had taken me to Sydney for 10 years with an occasional return to see my parents who had moved house for a better address. Aunt Muriel found a new Wednesday afternoon stopover at my cousin’s. Muriel came to Marcia’s wedding and drew a crowd of admiring single and married men, who should have known better. She was darling this and darling that, lightly touching men on the arm, hugging those she knew well, twirling a scarf, arranging her locks, laughing and flirting with anything in long pants. She ignored filthy looks from women married and single and chose not to hear “silly old tart” and “mutton dressed as lamb” snide remarks.
She embraced me too - the peppermint scent was still there. Somehow, it smelled fresher and cleaner. She was happy to learn that I was back in town for good. I wasn’t, for the transfer was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I found a flat in Fitzroy North on a Saturday, moved in on Sunday, started work on Monday and fronted up at 7.55 PM at a city address on Wednesday, a condition of my ongoing employment. The closer I came to my destination, the more familiar it looked. I recognized the basement door, entered the meeting room and sat in the chair nearest the door. I objected to what the banner on the wall told me. The poster prayer meant nothing to me.
The chairman called on volunteers to start proceedings and beckoned the first to raise his hand to share his experience.
“My name is Julian and I’m an alcoholic.” In unison, the audience replied, “Hello Julian.”

I didn’t hear what else Julian said. I am not like him. Or am I ?Apparently, I am an alcoholic in the eyes of my employer. Pig’s arse! Others came to the lectern and the ritual continued. I had nothing in common with any of them.

Muriel rose for her spiel. She gripped the lectern and looked in my direction. A dramatic pause, then:
”My name is Muriel.” Pause. “And I am - an alcoholic.”
“Hello Muriel!”
“I haven’t had a drink for eleven years, three months, two weeks and a day,” she confessed. What??? Liar ! Liar! You drunken hypocrite cow! I know you drink Udolpho Wolfe’s Aromatic Schnapps. Holland Gin. The barman at the Railway Hotel had revealed this to me. Schnapps and pepps. That’s your poison. Gin flavored with peppermint to mask the stink of your addiction.

She revealed, I suppose more for my benefit than anyone else’s, her first taste of alcohol: schnapps with essence of peppermint, schnapps and pepps, at the debut party. She spoke of its seductive sweetness, that it felt warm, good, made her giddy and wanting more. She drank and drank to oblivion that night, the first black-out, one of many. She had lost count.

I froze. Last night? You blacked out! I could not account for the bruises on my forearm or anything after the taxi dropped me off at the flat. I had one too many. But only one! How do you know?

I really felt sorry for her when she disclosed an instant addiction, a familial predisposition to alcoholism that ended a promising career and denied her a name in lights. Casual drinking turned unstoppable habit. Udolpho soothed the despair of not being able to stop and helped her forget what she had become. But on sobering up, the feelings of self-loathing and hopelessness overwhelmed her once again- the vicious circle started over. Schnapps and pepps was the crutch that helped her cope with the role of countrywoman away from the footlights. Salvation came, when in desperation, her husband threatened divorce. She came to Alcoholics Anonymous in the city once a week. For a while, bottled courage made it easier to confess her shame to strangers.
“Ha! Ha! Dutch courage from the Railway Hotel to counter Wednesday’s fear.”
Now she drank only sparkling mineral water with a drop of peppermint essence. That was her treat, a nostalgic but safe compensation for the reality that she must never again touch anything stronger. Adieu Udolpho.
As others related their plight and deliverance, I saw parallels with my existence. I might be there next Wednesday and maybe admit to a slight drinking problem, perhaps.
Muriel ended her talk by declaring that AA had saved her health, her sanity and her marriage. An hour and a half on a Wednesday was sufficient motivation and inspiration to help her through the next seven nights.
Nah, I’m not that far gone. I made it three nights before reaching for my poison. A Jack Daniel and coke or five. But I had stopped before a blackout. Hadn’t I?

See you Wednesday, Aunt Muriel.


About the author
I have one grandfather who was a builder. My other grandfather was a stonemason and my father was a traditional blacksmith. Both my grandmothers had cooked for a living, one in a hotel and the other for well-to-do people. A career in construction or perhaps engineering or catering would have been an obvious choice. 
Instead, I spent 20 years in business and in mid life retrained myself. I chose to work with my hands as my father and grandparents had. I become a renowned woodcraftsman and founded with my wife an art and craft gallery in a Tasmanian tourist town. After 20 years there, we followed our children to mainland Australia to retire on Victoria’s Bellarine Peninsula. I took up writing seriously in 2003. Working with their hands, creating and shaping materials has occupied my forebear. From stone, to iron, to wood. Now I spend my time putting pen to paper. The medium is getting softer.


What’s new?
Now that we have gotten to know each other a little, you might want to read more of my short stories? You’ll love the stories in “Read My Shorts”, “Tourist Traps” and “Pavel the Walker.”


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