The Queen and I Page 8

  “Munsters you know, on the telly…”

  “I don’t watch…”

  “How’s Mum?”

  Anne let down the ramp at the back of the van and her children, Peter and Zara, staggered out looking pale and ill. Anne said, “I bloody well told you you wouldn’t enjoy it in the back, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?” She threw the keys to Seven Hell Close to Peter and told him to open the front door. She ordered Zara to take the dog for a walk and instructed Charles to start emptying the van. She strode around to the front of the van, woke the driver, who was sitting in the passenger seat and then went to introduce herself to the Christmas family.

  To her astonishment, the Munster woman and the Munster men said, in Munster voices: “‘Ello, your Royal ‘Ighness, welcome to ‘Ell Close.” She shook eight hands and said, “My name is Anne. Call me that, would ya’, please!”

  Mrs Christmas practically swooned with delight and dropped into a curtsey, bending her fat knees and bowing her head, but when she arose from abasing herself in front of the Princess, she was disturbed to find that Princess Anne was curtseying to her, Winnie Christmas. She didn’t know what to make of it. It put her at sixes and sevens. What did it mean? Was she taking the piss? But no. She looked dead serious. Dead serious. As though Winnie was as good as she was. I mean.

  The Queen hurried down the Close when she heard that Anne had arrived. She threw herself into her daughter’s arms with uncharacteristic passion. “I’m so, so pleased to see you,” the Queen said.

  Charles stood by. He felt useless and stupid. There was something about Anne that made him feel…he groped for the word…foolish? No. Effete? Yes. Nearer the mark. Unlike him, she despised the speculative, preferring practical, down-to-earth solutions to everyday problems. In the past she had openly mocked his attempts to make sense of the world. He felt lonely. Where would he find a fellow spirit in Hell Close?

  Anne’s home was much like the other houses in Hell Close, but, being on a corner site, had an unusually large garden, which was full of brambles. The house was dirty, damp, cold and cramped, but she declared herself satisfied with it. “It’s a roof over one’s head,” she said. “It’s better than being put up against a wall and shot.”

  The Christmas sons, Craig, Wayne, Darren, Barry, Mario and Englebert were put to emptying the van. Mrs Christmas sent Mr Christmas to the shop to buy a packet of Flash and a plastic mop bucket. While he was gone on his errand, she and Anne swept the mouse droppings off the floors.

  Peter and Zara were taken next door to watch the Christmas’s vast television set. As they entered the living room they were unable to stop their noses from wrinkling. The Christmas’s vast black cat, Sonny, lay in a cardboard box on an acrylic cardigan. He was old and incontinent but, as Mrs Christmas explained to the children, “I’m not ‘avin’ ‘im put down; what’s a bit of a stink matter?” She approached Sonny and stroked his mangy head. “You want to die at ‘ome, don’t you?”

  The children cheered up slightly. The Christmas family were awfully common, but at least they liked animals, so they couldn’t be all bad. They had watched their mother weeping this morning as she said goodbye to her horses. They had tried to comfort her, but she had pushed them away and dried her eyes and said, “Always a mistake to get too attached to one’s animals.”

  Zara held her nose and crouched at the side of Sonny’s basket. She rearranged the urine-soaked cardigan while Peter zapped through thirty-six channels of cable television. Sonny blinked his dying eyes as the channels flicked by. He could smell mice, but he hadn’t the strength to climb out of his basket and do his duty.

  Meanwhile, the mice gambolled inside the cavity in the party wall between the two houses, waiting for Anne’s groceries to be unpacked and put away in the pantry.

  Spiggy turned up, expecting to carve up Anne’s carpets. But his skills were not needed. Unlike the others, Anne had taken Jack Barker’s measurements seriously. Her carpets and furniture were modest, both in taste and size. Mrs Christmas, who had expected luxury beyond her wildest dreams, was bitterly disappointed. Where was the gold and silver plate? The velvet curtains? The silk-covered chairs? The high beds with the brocade hangings? And where was all them fantastic evening frocks an’ tiaras? Anne’s wardrobe was full of trousers an’ jeans an’ jackets the colour of pond slime. Mrs Christmas felt cheated. “I mean,” she said later to Mr Christmas, as she peeled ten pounds of potatoes for their dinner, “What are the Royal Family for if they’re goin’ to be jus’ like ordinary people?”

  “Dunno,” said Mr Christmas, as he arranged nineteen tiny breast of lamb chops onto a filthy grill pan. “But they ain’t the Royal Family no more, thassa point, ‘ent it?”

  From next door came the sound of pipes banging, as the former Princess Royal plumbed her washing machine in, using Tony Threadgold’s toolbox and the Reader’s Digest D.I.Y. Manual.

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  14

  THE PACK

  Harris was running so fast that he thought his heart and lungs would burst. Ahead of him was the Pack: the leader, King, an alsatian; Raver, the deputy leader; Kylie, the Pack bitch; and Lovejoy, Mick and Duffy, ordinary low-status dogs like himself. King stopped and urinated up against the Community Centre wall, and the others sat for a while until Harris joined them. Then, after a brief mock fight, they were off again, heading toward the Recreation Ground. Harris ran alongside Duffy, whose mother was a kerry blue and whose father was unknown. Duffy was a good scrapper, Harris had seen him in action.

  King led the Pack across the road, causing a Meals on Wheels van to screech to a halt. Harris followed; he had been taught to sit at the kerb, but he knew that if he did that now he would lose all credibility with the Pack. Tough dogs don’t look right or left. From the safety of the pavement he turned and bared his teeth at the white-faced driver of the van, a mild-looking, middle-aged woman. Then Raver barked and they were off again, running in the direction of the children’s play area, with its smashed equipment and concrete surface littered with broken glass and sweet wrappings.

  Lovejoy, the feeble-minded labrador and Mick, the lurcher, sniffed around Kylie, who ran to King for protection. Mick snapped at Lovejoy’s tail and Lovejoy snapped back and soon both dogs were rolling in the grass in a snarling vicious ball. Harris hoped he wouldn’t have to take sides. He had no experience of street fighting. He’d been kept on a lead for most of his life. He realised as he watched King and Raver join in the fight that he had, until now, led an extremely sheltered existence. Then, for no reason that Harris could see, the fight stopped and each dog sat down to lick its wounds.

  Harris lay on the grass next to Kylie. She was a pretty dog. A honey-coloured cross-collie. True, she could have done with a good grooming; her hair was matted with mud. But Harris was excited by her proximity. He had never been allowed to breed with anybody of his choice before. All his previous liaisons had been arranged for him by the Queen. It was time he had some romance in his life, he thought.

  He was edging nearer to Kylie when King got to his feet and pricked his ears and stared at the far end of the Recreation Ground, where a strange dog could be seen in the distance. Harris recognised the intruder immediately. It was Susan, his half sister, running slightly ahead of Philomena Toussaint and the Queen Mother, who were strolling arm-in-arm, enjoying the spring sunshine. Harris had never liked Susan. She was a snob and, anyway, he was jealous of her fancy wardrobe. Look at her now, wearing her poncy tartan coat. What did she look like? Harris saw an opportunity to enhance his status with the Pack and he left the line and ran towards Susan, barking furiously. Susan turned tail and ran back towards the Queen Mother, but she wasn’t a match for Harris, who easily caught up with her and bit her hard on her nose. The Queen Mother swiped at Harris with the walking stick she was carrying and shouted, “Harris, you horrid little dog!”

  As Harris retreated, Philomena threw a small stone that hit him behind his left ear, but he didn’t care about the pain. It was
worth it to receive the signals of congratulation from the Pack. Harris was promoted and allowed to run behind Raver as they left the Recreation Ground and headed towards the chip shop dustbins which sometimes held delicious fishy scraps.

  When Harris returned home late that night, smelling of fish, covered in mud and with dried blood behind his ear, the Queen said, “You’re nothing but a stinking hooligan, Harris!”

  Harris thought, hey, I don’t have to take this. I’m number three in the Pack now, baby. He strolled jauntily into the kitchen expecting to see his food in his bowl, but his bowl was empty. The Queen picked him up and took him upstairs to the bathroom. She locked the door, turned the bath taps on, added the last of her Crabtree and Evelyn’s bath lotion, waited until there was sufficient water in the tub and then hurled the protesting Harris into the foaming bubbles.

  In the next door bathroom, Beverley Threadgold said to her husband, “Tone, what’s she doin’ to that poor dog?” Tony said: “Killin’ it, I ‘ope.” Harris had been using the Threadgolds’ back garden as a lavatory.

  “Anyway,” said Beverley, standing up in the bath, naked and lovely. “It’s time you ‘ad the taps.”

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  15

  LONESOME TONIGHT

  The following evening, the Queen climbed over the broken fence and rang the Threadgolds’ front door bell. A few notes of ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ chimed through the house. Beverley opened the door wearing burgundy mock velvet pyjamas with white elasticated cuffs at wrist and ankle. She was barefoot and the Queen noticed that Beverley’s toenails were a curious atrophied yellow colour. The Queen held out a five pound note: “I’m repaying the money your husband so kindly lent to me: for bus fares and the gas meter.”

  “Come in,” said Beverley, and led the Queen through the hall into the small kitchen. It was the first time the Queen had been in their house. Elvis Presley was everywhere; in pictures, on the wall, on plates, cups and saucers in a cupboard. On tea towels drying from an overhead rack. On an apron hanging from the back of the door. The kitchen curtains bore his face. The that under the Queen’s feet showed him in his notorious pelvic thrust pose.

  Tony Threadgold stubbed out his cigarette in Elvis’s left eye and got to his feet as the Queen entered. The Queen handed Tony the five pound note, saying, “I’m most grateful, Mr Threadgold. My mother finally found her purse in the gas oven.” Tony cleared a pile of Elvis boxer shorts from a stool and asked the Queen to sit down. Beverley filled the Presley kettle and the Queen said, “I see you’re fans of Elvis Presley.”

  The Threadgolds agreed that they were. When the tea was mashed, they went through to the living room and the Queen was introduced to the most precious pieces of Elvis memorabilia. But the Queen’s eye was taken by a lurid oil painting of two young children which hung over the fireplace. The Queen asked who they were. There was a slight pause, then Tony said, “It’s Vernon and Lisa, our kids. We thought it was worth ‘aving ‘em painted. It’ll be an heirloom in years to come.” The Queen was surprised; she had assumed that the Threadgolds were childless. She said so. Beverley said, “No, we got kids but they’ve bin took off us.” The Queen asked, “By whom?”

  Tony said, “Social Services, they’ve ‘ad ‘em eighteen month.” He and Beverley drew together and looked at the beautiful painted faces of their children. The Queen did not like to question them further and they did not volunteer any more information so the Queen thanked them for the tea and said goodnight. Tony saw her out and waited until she was safely at her own front door. The Queen said to him across the fence, as she took out her key, “I’m sure that you and Mrs Threadgold were excellent parents.”

  “Thanks,” said Tony, and he closed his door and went to comfort his wife. The Queen went upstairs and opened the bedroom door a few inches and peered inside. Her husband was lying on his side. He opened his eyes and looked at her with such an expression of misery that she went to the bed and took his grimy hand.

  “Philip, what is it?”

  “I’ve lost everything,” he said. “What’s the point in living?”

  “What is it that you miss particularly, my darling?” The Queen stroked her husband’s unshaven cheek. How old he looks today, she thought.

  “I miss every bloody thing, warmth, softness, comfort, beauty, the cars, the carriages, the servants, the food, the space. I can’t breathe in this hideous box of a house. I miss my office and the royal train and the plane and the Britannia. I don’t like the people in Hell Close, Lilibet. They’re ugly. They can’t talk properly. They smell. I’m frightened of them. I refuse to mix with them. I shall stay in bed until I die.”

  The Queen thought, he sounds like a child. She said, “I’m going to heat a tin of soup, would you like some?” Philip whined, “Not hungry!” and turned his back on his wife. The Queen went downstairs to make her supper. As she stood stirring her Baxter’s game soup, she heard the heartbreaking sound of Beverley Threadgold sobbing through the party wall. The Queen bit her lip, but a single sympathetic tear rolled down her face and dripped into the saucepan. The Queen quickly stirred this evidence of her lack of control into the soup. At least I won’t need to add salt, she thought. And there were no witnesses. Harris scrabbled at the kitchen door, hungry after a seven mile run with the Pack. The Queen had not been able to afford to buy dog food, so she poured some of the soup into his food bowl and broke a slice of stale bread into pieces to add a little bulk.

  Harris looked on with disgust. Just what was happening here? His social life had improved but the food had become a joke. A joke! The Queen said, “I’ll buy you some bones tomorrow, Harris, that’s a promise. Now you eat your soup and bread and I’ll eat mine.”

  Harris looked at her with a malevolence that the Queen had never seen in him before. He growled at the back of his throat, his eyes became slits, he bared his teeth and moved towards the Queen’s slim ankles. She kicked out at him before he could bite her. He retreated behind the kitchen door. “Your behaviour is intolerable, Harris. From now on I forbid you to mix with those frightful mongrels. They are a bad influence on you. You used to be such a nice little dog!”

  Harris curled his lip like a sullen teenager. He had never been a nice little dog. The footmen hated him and he had enjoyed tormenting them, tangling his lead, urinating in the corridors and knocking his water bowl over. But these were minor crimes compared with his sneaky habit of taking nips at their vulnerable ankles. Harris had exploited his position as the Queen’s favourite. There had been a time when he could do no wrong. Until tonight. He decided it would be politic to hang about the house for a few days, ask the Queen’s pardon, be a nice little dog. He came out from behind the door and began to lap politely at his soup.

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  16

  LESLIE MAKES HER ENTRANCE

  In the early hours of the following morning Marilyn, common-law wife of the imprisoned Les, gave birth to her first child. Violet Toby acted as midwife. She had been sent for as soon as Marilyn’s waters had broken. Marilyn hadn’t elected to have a home birth. She was especially looking forward to three days in the Maternity Hospital, but the ambulance, misdirected by the computer, lost its way in the maze of the Flowers Estate. When Violet realised that the baby’s arrival was imminent, she looked out of the window in Marilyn’s living room to see who was still up in Hell Close. There was a chink of light showing through the Queen’s velvet curtains. So Violet reassured Marilyn, who was crying out in pain, that she was going for assistance and ran outside and knocked on the Queen’s front door.

  The Queen looked through the curtains and saw Violet Toby on her doorstep, wearing a Burgundy candlewick dressing gown and plimsolls. The Queen was doing a jigsaw, she held a piece of Balmoral cloud in her hand. As she went to answer the door, she saw where the piece belonged and slotted it into place.

  “I need ‘elp,” said Violet, panting from the short run. “Marilyn’s baby’s comin’ an’ there’s only a daft teenager i
n the ‘ouse.”

  The Queen protested that she had no experience of maternity procedures, she would be ‘useless, only get in the way’. But Violet insisted and the Queen reluctantly followed her down the street and into Marilyn’s living room. The daft teenager, one of Les’s children by a previous liaison, stood over Marilyn with a wet dishcloth, a grey slimy piece of cloth taken unrinsed from the kitchen sink. “I said face cloth, you great gorm,” said Violet and sent him upstairs to the bathroom, shouting after him, “An’ find some clean sheets!”

  “There ain’t no clean sheets,” he shouted down.

  Marilyn contorted herself on the dirt-glazed sofa, which was draped with clothes waiting to be washed. Violet threw the stinking clothes aside, put Marilyn on her back and took her knickers off. The Queen had watched enough cowboy films to know that hot water would be needed and she went to find a kettle and a clean bowl. The kitchen was spectacularly squalid. It was evident that whoever was in charge of keeping the house had failed to do so for rather a long time.

  The Queen could not bring herself to touch any of the objects in the room, coated as they all were in grease and dirt. Her feet stuck to the filthy tiled floor. There was no kettle, only a blackened saucepan standing on a fat-encrusted stove.

  As she turned to go out, her eye was caught by a bright splash of colour. On a shelf, too high for the squalor to have reached, some body had placed a three pack of babies’ vests yellow, turquoise and green. The Queen stood on tiptoe and knocked the plastic package down. For some reason, the vests made her throat constrict. “I’m going home,” she said.

  “Don’t leave me now, it’ll be ‘ere any minute,” pleaded Violet. Marilyn was shrieking with each contraction, “I want Les, I want Les.”

  “I’ll be back,” promised the Queen. She ran back to her house and collected linen sheets, towels and pillowcases, a silver kettle, cups and saucers, tea and milk, a large fifteenth-century porcelain bowl and baby clothes that had once belonged to her great-grandmother, Queen Victoria. She had brought them with her from Buckingham Palace. She knew that Diana was keen to have a daughter.