The Queen and I Read online

  “I work hard for my living,” said Spiggy, defensively. “You wanna try luggin’ carpets round all day.”

  Charles was discomfited by this misunderstanding. Why couldn’t his family simply talk to their neighbours without…er…constant…er…?

  The Queen handed round delicate china cups and saucers. “Coffee,” she announced.

  Spiggy watched closely to see how the ex-Royals handled the tiny cups. They inserted their forefingers inside the little handles, lifted the saucers and drank. But Spiggy could not get his forefinger, calloused and swollen by years of manual work, to fit inside the handle of his cup. He looked at their hands and compared them to his own. Shamed for a moment, he hid his hands in the pockets of his overalls. He felt himself to be a lumbering beast. Whereas they had a shine on their bodies, sort of like they were covered in glass. Protected, like. Spiggy’s body was an illustrated map: accidents at work, fights, neglect, poverty, all had left visible reminders that Spiggy had lived. He grabbed the cup with his right hand and drank the meagre contents. Not enough in one of these to wash a gnat’s hat, he grumbled to himself, replacing the little cup on the saucer.

  Prince Charles pushed his way out through the small crowd that had gathered outside the Queen Mother’s front gate. A youth with a shaved head stood hunched and shivering in the icy wind. He approached Charles.

  “You need a video, don’t you?”

  Charles said, “Actually, we do rather, that is, my wife does. We left ours behind, didn’t think in the, er…but…aren’t they awfully, er…well…expensive?”

  “Normal, yeah, they are, but I can get ‘em for fifty quid.”

  “Fifty quid?”

  “Yeah, I know this bloke, see, what gets ‘em.”

  “A philanthropist, is he?”

  Warren Deacon stared uncomprehendingly at Charles. “He’s just a bloke.”

  “And they, er…that is…these video machines, do they…er…work?”

  “‘Course. They’re from good ‘omes,” Warren said, indignantly.

  Something was puzzling Charles. How did this rodent-faced youth know that they had no video? He asked Warren.

  “I walked by your ‘ouse las’ night. Looked in the winder. No red light. You should draw the curtains. You got some good stuff in there; them candlesticks are the business.”

  Charles thanked Warren for the compliment. The youth obviously had a strong aesthetic sense. It really didn’t do to judge people too quickly. Charles said, “They’re exquisite, aren’t they? William III. He er…that is, William started his collection in…”

  “Solid silver?” enquired Warren.

  “Oh yes,” assured Charles. “Made by Andrew Moore.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Warren, as though he was conversant with most of the silversmiths of the seventeenth century.

  “‘Spect they’d fetch a bit then, eh?”

  “Probably,” Charles conceded. “But, as you er…may know, we…that is…my family…we aren’t allowed to er…actually…sell any of our er…”

  “Stuff?” Warren was getting sick of waiting for Charles to finish his sentences. What a dork! And this bloke was lined up to be King and rule over Warren?

  “Yes, stuff.”

  “So really, you shoulda lef’ the candlesticks be’ind and bought the video?”

  “Brought the video, yes,” said Charles, pedantically.

  “So, you want one?” Warren felt it was time to close the deal.

  Charles felt in the pockets of his trousers. He had a fifty pound note somewhere. He found it and handed it over to Warren Deacon. He knew neither Warren’s name nor where he lived, but he thought, a boy who is interested in historical artefacts is worth cultivating. He had a vision of showing Warren his small art collection and perhaps encouraging the youth to take up painting…

  Charles climbed into the back of the box van and picked up a carton marked ‘shoes’, but shoes didn’t chink and neither did they take a huge effort to lift. Charles opened the lid of the carton and saw twenty-four bottles of Gordon’s gin nestling amongst sheets of green tissue paper. He struggled through the small crowd, holding the carton to his chest, sweating with the effort. He wished that Beverley could see him now, carrying such a weight doing a man’s work. When he got to the front door without dropping his heavy burden, the small crowd of women and pushchaired toddlers cheered ironically and Charles, flushed and proud, nodded to acknowledge the cheers, something he had been taught to do since he was three years old.

  He staggered into the kitchen with his burden and found his mother washing up at the sink. She was using one hand. Princess Margaret was leaning against the tiny formica table, watching the Queen. Her own household was in chaos. She had nothing suitable to wear. The trunk containing her daytime casual wear had been left in London. Her entire Hell Close wardrobe consisted of six cocktail suits, suitable for show business award ceremonies, but nothing else. She had her furs with her, of course, but this morning a girl with a spider tattooed on her neck had hissed, “Cowin’ animal killer” as they had passed on the pavement outside her new home.

  The Queen wanted her out of her mother’s kitchen. She was blocking the light and taking up valuable space. There was work to be done.

  Spiggy put his head round the door and spoke to Princess Margaret. “Need any carpets fittin’? I can squeeze you in ‘s afternoon.”

  “Thanks awfully, but no,” she drawled. “It’s hardly worth it, I won’t be stopping.”

  “Please yourself, Maggie,” said Spiggy, trying to be friendly.

  “Maggie?” She pulled herself up to her full height. “How dare you speak to me in that tone. I am Princess Margaret to you.” He thought she was going to hit him. She pulled back a beautifully tailored Karl Lagerfeld sleeve and showed him her fist, but she withdrew it and contented herself with shouting, “You horrid little fat man,” as she ran back to her Hell Close home.

  The Queen put the kettle on. She thought that Mr Spiggy deserved a nice cup of tea. “I’m so sorry. We’re all rather overwrought.”

  “‘S all right,” said Spiggy. “I do need to lose a bit of weight.” Thas’ another thing, he thought. None of ‘em are fat. Whereas all his relations were fat. The women got fat after they had their kids and the men got fat ‘cause of the beer. At Christmas his family could hardly squeeze into their living room. The Queen hummed a tune as they waited for the kettle to boil and Spiggy caught the melody and whistled as he worked on the hall carpet.

  “Wa’s it called?” he asked the Queen as they came to the end of their impromptu duet.

  “Born Free,” she replied. “I saw the film in 1966. A Royal British Film Performance.”

  “Free tickets, eh?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “and no queuing at the box office.”

  “Funny though, going to the pictures with a crown on yer ‘ead.”

  The Queen laughed. “A tiara! One wouldn’t wear a crown; it wouldn’t be fair on the person sitting behind.”

  Spiggy laughed his booming laugh and Philomena Toussaint banged on the wall and shouted, “Stop the noise, me head is full of it.”

  Philomena was hungry and cold and her head hurt. She was jealous. Her kitchen had been full of laughter once, when the children were at home: Fitzroy, Troy and her baby Jethroe. The food those boys ate! She really needed a bulldozer to fill their mouths: always coming to and from the market she was. She could remember the weight of the basket and the smell of the flat iron as she pressed their damp white shirts for school every morning.

  She dragged a chair towards the high cupboard where she kept her packets and tins. She climbed onto the chair and put the cornflakes packet on the top of the cupboard. While she was there, at eye level, she touched and rearranged her tins and packets. Bringing this soup forward, that cereal back, until, satisfied with the adjustments, she lowered herself down from the chair.

  “Never had the police at me door,” she said aloud to the empty kitchen. “And I always got tins in me cupbo
ard,” she said to the hall. “And there’s a place for me in heaven,” she said to the bedroom as she took her coat off and got into bed to keep warm.

  By late afternoon, quite a crowd had gathered round the box van, hoping to see the Queen Mother. Inspector Holyland sent a young policeman to move them on. PC Isiah Ludlow would rather have been sent to guard a decomposing corpse than have to face these hard-faced Hell Close women and their malevolent-looking toddlers.

  “C’mon now, ladies. Move along, please.” He clapped his big leather police gloves together and that, together with his wispy moustache, gave him the appearance of an eager seal about to be thrown a ball. He repeated his order. None of the women moved.

  “You’re blocking the thoroughfare.”

  None of the women knew for sure what a thoroughfare was. Was it the same as a pavement? A woman, whose pregnant belly strained against her anorak, said, “We’re guardin’ the van for the Queen Mother.”

  “Well, you can go home now, can’t you? I’m here, I’ll guard the van.”

  The pregnant woman laughed scornfully. “I wun’t trust the police to guard a lump of shit.”

  PC Ludlow bridled at this slur on his professional integrity, but he remembered what he had been taught at Hendon. Stay calm, don’t let the public get the upper hand. Stay in control.

  “It’s cos a you my ‘usband’s doin’ two year in Pentonville,” the woman went on.

  PC Ludlow should have ignored her remarks but, being young and inexperienced, he said, “So, he’s innocent of any crime, is he?” He’d tried to get a sceptical tone in his voice, but it hadn’t quite worked.

  The pregnant woman took it as a genuine question. PC Ludlow saw with horror that tears were now dripping down her round, flushed cheeks. Was this what his instructors had called a dialogue with the public?

  “They said ‘e’d stripped the church roof of all its lead, but it were a bleedin’ lie.” The other women gathered around, patting and stroking the sobbing woman. “‘E were frit of heights. It were me ‘oo ‘ad to stand on a chair to change the light bulbs.”

  As Charles emerged from the bungalow, eager to empty the van of its final contents, he heard a woman’s voice crying plaintively, “Les! Les! I want my Les!”

  He saw a small group of women surrounding a young policeman. The policeman’s helmet fell to the ground and was picked up by a toddler wearing an earring, who put it on his own small head and ran away down the Close.

  PC Ludlow tried to explain to the hysterical woman that, though he knew about stitch-ups in the locker room, he had never been a party to one himself. “Now look here,” he said. He touched the sleeve of her anorak.

  The small group moved as one, blocking Charles’s entrance to the back of the van. What he now saw was a policeman gripping the arm of a hugely-pregnant young woman who was struggling to be free. He had read accounts of police brutality. Could they possibly be true?

  PC Ludlow was now in the centre of the little mob of shouting, shrieking women. If he wasn’t careful, he would be knocked off his feet. He hung onto the sleeve of the pregnant woman, whom he now believed to be called Marilyn, according to the shouts of the other members of the mob. Even as he was swayed this way and that, he rehearsed what he would write in his report, because this had now become an ‘incident’. Reams of paper stretched ahead of him.

  Charles stood on the edge of the group. Should he intervene? He had a reputation for his conciliatory skills. He was convinced that, given the chance, he could have ended the miners’ strike. He had wanted to join the University Labour Club at Cambridge, but had been advised against it by Rab Butler. Charles saw Beverley Threadgold slam her front door and race across the road. Her white lycra top, red miniskirt and bare, blue legs gave her the look of a voluptuous union flag.

  She ploughed into the group, shouting, “Leave our Marilyn alone, you cowin’ pig.”

  PC Ludlow now saw himself in court giving evidence, because Beverley was grappling with him, had him down on the ground. His face was pressed into the pavement, which stank of dogs and cats and nicotine. She was sitting on his back. He could hardly breathe; she was a big woman. With a mighty effort he threw her off. He heard her head hit the ground, then her cry of pain.

  “Then, your honour,” said the running commentary in his brain, “I was aware of a further weight on my back, a man whom I now know to be the former Prince of Wales. This man seemed to be making a frenzied attack on my regulation police overcoat. When asked to stop, he said words to the effect of ‘I stood by during the miners’ strike, this is for Orgreve.’ At that point, your honour, Inspector Holyland arrived with reinforcements and several people were arrested, including the former Prince of Wales. The riot was eventually stopped at eighteen hundred hours.”

  During the riot, the remaining contents of the box van were stolen by Warren Deacon and his small brother, Hussein. The Gainsboroughs, Constables and assorted sporting oils were sold to the landlord of the local pub, the Yuri Gagarin, for a pound each. Mine host was refurbishing the smoke room, turning it Olde Worlde. The paintings would look all right next to the warming pans and horns of plenty stuffed with dried flowers.

  Later, the Queen tried to comfort her mother on her loss by saying, “I’ve got a nice Rembrandt; you can have that. It would look nice over the fireplace; shall I fetch it, Mummy?”

  “No, don’t leave me, Lilibet. I can’t be left; I’ve never been alone.” The Queen Mother clutched her elder daughter’s hand.

  Night had long since fallen. The Queen was tired, she craved the oblivion of sleep. It had taken forever to undress her mother and prepare her for bed and there was still so much to do. Ring the police station, comfort Diana, prepare a meal for Philip and herself. She longed to see Anne. Anne was a bulwark.

  She could hear inane studio audience laughter through the wall. Perhaps the next-door neighbour would stay with her mother until she went to sleep? She gently withdrew her mother’s hand and, under the guise of giving Susan a bowl of Go-dog in the kitchen, she quietly let herself out of the bungalow and went next door and rang the bell.

  Philomena answered the door wearing her coat, hat, scarf and gloves.

  “Oh,” said the Queen. “Are you going out?”

  “No, I just come in,” lied Philomena, shocked to see the Queen of England and the Commonwealth at the door. The Queen explained her dilemma, stressing her mother’s great age.

  “I’ll help you outta’ your trouble, woman. I see your son bein’ took by the police, bringin’ shame on his family.”

  The Queen, humbled, muttered her thanks and went to break the news to her mother that she would not be spending the night alone; Mrs Philomena Toussaint, former hospital cleaner, teetotaller and Episcopalian, would be sitting by the gas fire in the living room next door; but there were four conditions. While she was in the house, there was to be no drinking, gambling, drug taking or blasphemy. The Queen Mother agreed to these conditions and the two old women were introduced.

  “We met before, in Jamaica,” said Philomena. “I was wearing a red dress and wavin’ a little flag.”

  The Queen Mother played for time. “Ah now, what year would that be?” she said.

  Philomena rummaged about in her memory. The ticking of the Sèvres clock on the dressing table served to accentuate the distance and the time that the two old women were trying to bridge.

  “1927?” said the Queen Mother, vaguely remembering a West Indian Tour.

  “So you remember me?” Philomena was pleased. “Your husband, what’s ‘s name?”

  “George.”

  “Yes, that’s the one, George. I was sorry when he was took by God.”

  “Yes, so was I,” admitted the Queen Mother. “I was rather cross with God at the time.”

  “When God took my husband away, I stopped goin’ to church,” admitted Philomena. “The man beat me and took me money for drink, but I missed him. Did George beat you?” The Queen Mother said no, that George had never beaten her, that, h
aving been beaten himself as a child, he hated violence. He was a dear, sweet man and he hadn’t particularly enjoyed being King.

  “See,” said Philomena, “that’s why the Lord took him; to give the man some peace.”

  The Queen Mother settled back onto the fine linen pillowcases and closed her eyes, and Philomena took off her outdoor clothing and sat by the fire on a fine gilt armchair, relishing the free heat.

  Charles was allowed to make one phone call. Diana was emulsioning the kitchen walls when the phone rang. A constipated voice said, “Mrs Teck? Tulip Road Police Station here. Your husband is on the line.” She heard Charles’s voice, “Listen, I’m awfully sorry about all this.”

  Diana said, “Charles, I couldn’t believe it when Wilf Toby came round and said you’d been fighting in the street. I was painting the bathroom. Aqua Green looks stupendous, by the way I’m going to try and get a matching shower curtain. Anyway, I had my Sony on and missed all the excitement. You being arrested, thrown in the black maria; but I let the boys stay up and watch the rest of the riot. Oh, that boy Warren came round with the video. I paid him fifty quid.”

  Charles said, “But I paid him fifty quid.”

  Diana carried on as though he hadn’t spoken, he had never heard her so animated.

  “It works beautifully. I’m going to watch Casablanca before I go to bed.”

  Charles said, “Listen, darling, it’s frightfully important, could you phone our solicitor for me? I’m about to be charged with affray.”

  Diana heard a voice say, “That’s enough, Teck, back to your cell.”

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  11

  KNOB

  Charles was sharing a cell with a tall thin youth called Lee Christmas. When Charles entered the cell, Lee turned his lugubrious face, stared at Charles and said, “You Prince Charles?”

  Charles said, “No, I’m Charlie Teck.”

  Lee said, “Watcha in for?”