The Queen and I

  He spoke to the Inspector: “Hi there, we’re from NTV and we’d like to interview the Queen of England. I understand we have to check in here first. My name is Tom Dix.”

  Holyland glanced at the ID card hanging from Dix’s navy pin stripe. “There is nobody called the Queen of England living in Hellebore Close.”

  “Aw, c’mon, fella,” said Tom, smiling. “We know she’s here.” Mary Jane was preparing herself for the camera, outlining her lips with a black pencil and brushing golden hairs from her shocking pink shoulders. Randy grumbled about the light, and hoisted the camera into the crook of her neck.

  Chief Inspector Holyland continued, secure in the knowledge that he had a brand new act of Parliament behind him and a coachload of policemen parked round the corner in Larkspur Avenue: “In accordance with the Former Royal Persons Act, section nine, paragraph five, photographing, interviewing and filming for the purpose of reproducing the said practices in the print or broadcasting media is forbidden.”

  Randy snarled, “Guy talks like he’s got a hot dog up his ass.”

  Tom smiled wider at Holyland. “OK, no interview today, but how about filming outside of her house?”

  “It’s more than my job’s worth,” said Holyland. “Now if you wouldn’t mind, you’re causing an obstruction.”

  Wilf Toby was trying to pass through the barrier. He was returning from a futile attempt to sell a stolen car battery. The battery was being transported in the skeleton of a child’s pushchair. Wilf crouched over the handle, looking like a monstrous nanny. He hadn’t slept well, he had dreamt about the Queen. They were disturbing, erotic dreams. He had woken several times and felt ashamed of himself. He would have liked to have dreamt about Diana, but for some reason it was always the Queen who shared his bed in dreamland.

  He half expected Chief Inspector Holyland to arrest him for his nocturnal fumblings and he was anxious to get through the barrier and get home and put the battery in the shed.

  Mary Jane approached Wilf. “May I ask you your name, sir?” she gushed.

  “Wilf Toby.”

  “Wilf, what’s it like having the Royals as neighbours?”

  “Well, y’know, it’s like, well, they’re…”

  “Just like you and me?” offered Mary Jane.

  “Well, I wun’t exactly say jus’ like you an’ me,” said Wilf.

  “Just ordinary folks?” supplied Mary Jane. But Wilf was standing with his mouth open, staring at the eye of the camera. Two amazing things were happening to him: he was talking to a beautiful American girl, who was hanging onto his every word, and he was being filmed doing it. He wished he’d shaved and worn his best trousers. Mary Jane frowned slightly, to show the viewers at home that she was about to embark on a number of serious political questions.

  “Are you a Socialist, Wilf?” she asked.

  Socialist? Wilf was alarmed. The word had become sort of mixed up with things Wilf didn’t understand or hadn’t experienced. Things like vegetarianism, treason and women’s rights.

  “No, no, I’m not a Socialist,” said Wilf. “I vote Labour, normal like.”

  “So you’re not a Revolutionary?” insisted Mary Jane.

  What was she asking now, thought Wilf. He broke into a sweat. Revolutionaries blew aeroplanes up, didn’t they?

  “No, I’m not a Revolutionary,” said Wilf. “I’ve never even been to an airport, let alone been on a plane.”

  Tom Dix groaned and hid his face in his hands.

  “But you are a Republican, aren’t you, Wilf?” said Mary Jane triumphandy.

  “A publican?” puzzled Wilf. “No, I don’t run a pub. I’m unemployed.”

  Bruno sniggered and switched his tape off. “Guy’s got the brains of a suckin’ mollusc. You wanna carry on?” Tom Dix nodded.

  Mary Jane forced another smile. “Wilf, how is the Queen reacting to her new life?”

  Wilf cleared his throat. A host of clichés rose to his lips. “Well, she’s not over the moon, but then she’s not under the moon either, if you know what I mean. She’s sort of just on the moon.”

  Tom Dix shouted, “Cut!” He turned furiously to Mary Jane. “Can we get back to earth, please? Jeezus!”

  Mary Jane said, “C’n I help it if the guy’s a little slow. We’re in an Of Mice and Men situation here, Tom. This is Lenny I’m talking to. Tolstoy he ain’t.”

  Wilf stood by. Should he go or should he stay? To his great relief, he saw Violet bustling towards the barrier. He gratefully relinquished his place as interviewee and pushed his battery home. He had every confidence in his wife.

  At a signal from Inspector Holyland the coach full of policemen drove slowly round the corner and approached the barrier. The policemen on board hurried to eat the crisps and swig down the Coca-Cola they had been issued with only minutes before. They looked eagerly out of the coach windows, hoping for action. What they saw was Mary Jane attempting to interview Violet Toby, Inspector Holyland trying to part the two women and a frustrated television crew fighting to record an interview.

  The Superintendent in charge of them ordered them to put on their helmets and ‘disembark from the coach in an orderly fashion’. They did so. Within a minute the Americans and Violet Toby were surrounded by a blue circle of polite English policemen. Inspector Holyland extracted Violet and ordered her to go home. Then the Americans were escorted to their vehicle and warned that the next time they violated the ‘exclusion zone code’ they would be arrested.

  Tom Dix protested, “Hey, I gotta better reception than this in Moscow. Me and Boris Yeltsin put back a flagon of Jim Beam together.”

  Inspector Holyland said, “Very nice for you, sir, I’m sure. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting into your vehicle and leaving the area of the Flowers Estate…”

  As their Range Rover sped away from the barrier, Randy shouted, “You mothers!” leaving a whole crowd of policemen scratching their heads.

  “Mother?” What kind of an insult was that?

  The Queen looked out of her upstairs window. Good, the noisy Americans had gone. Perhaps now she could get to the shops.

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  30

  CONFIDENCES

  Trish McPherson drove her gaudy little Citroën car past the barrier and into Hell Close. She had three clients to visit. She would have to hurry, there was a case conference at Social Services that afternoon: the Threadgolds were demanding Lisa Marie and Vernon back. They had heard that both children had fractured various bones during their fostering by kindly Mr and Mrs Duncan.

  Trish dreaded the Threadgolds’ conferences. There were always tears and dramatic protestations of innocence from Beverley and Tony. Trish wanted to believe that they had never harmed their children but they would hardly admit it, would they? And Tony had a criminal record for violence, didn’t he? There it was on the files: Grievous Bodily Harm on a sixteen-year-old burglar; criminal assault on a night-club bouncer; using abusive language to a policeman.

  And then there was Beverley. She behaved appallingly during the case conferences, shouting, screaming and once getting up and threatening Trish with a clenched fist. They were obviously an unstable couple. The children were certainly better off with Mr and Mrs Duncan, who had a sand-pit in the garden and a veritable library of Ladybird books.

  Trish drew up outside the Queen’s house. She threw a tartan rug over her bulging briefcase which lay on the back seat. She didn’t like to remind her clients that she had other clients to deal with and a briefcase was so official-looking. It intimidated them; nobody who lived in Hell Close took a briefcase to work. In fact, hardly anyone who lived in Hell Close went to work. Trish liked to give the impression to each client that she just happened to be passing by and had dropped in for a chat.

  The Queen watched out of the front window as Trish removed the stereo from the dashboard of the Citroën and placed it in her voluminous duffel-bag (made from a redundant camel blanket by the look of it, thought the Queen, who had visited Jaipur and been
escorted by two hundred camels the smell!). The Queen hoped that Trish would go elsewhere, but no, there she was, opening her gate. It was too tiresome.

  Five minutes later, the Queen and Trish were sitting on either side of the unlit gas fire, sipping Earl Grey tea. Trish had supplied the tea-bags; they smelt faintly of camel, thought the Queen as she’d waited for the kettle to boil.

  “Well, how are things?” Trish asked in a voice that invited confidences.

  “Things are pretty frightful, actually,” said the Queen. “I have no money; British Telecom is threatening me with disconnection; my mother thinks she is living in 1953; my husband is starving himself to death; my daughter has embarked on an affair with my carpet fitter; my son is due in court on Thursday; and my dog has fleas and is turning into a hooligan.”

  Trish pulled her socks up and her leggings down. She was allergic to flea bites, but it was an occupational hazard. Fleas came with the job. Harris scratched in the corner and watched the two women lift the delicate tea cups to their lips.

  Trish looked the Queen straight in the eye (it was important to maintain eye contact) and said, “And I expect you’re suffering from a lack of self-esteem, aren’t you? I mean you’ve been right up there, haven’t you?” Trish held one arm in the air. “And now you’re right down here.” Trish dropped her arm abrupdy, as though it were the blade of a guillotine. “You’ll have to re-invent yourself, won’t you? Find a new lifestyle.”

  “I don’t think there will be much style in my life,” said the Queen.

  “Course there will be,” reassured Trish.

  “I am too poor for style,” said the Queen, irritably.

  Trish smiled her horrible understanding smile. She paused and dropped her head as if she were wondering whether or not to speak what was on her mind. Then, bringing her head up, as though being decisive, she said, “Y’ know, I happen to think that and I mean this, though it’s a hoary old cliché…”

  The Queen wanted to bring something heavy and solid crashing down on Trish’s head. Black Rod’s ceremonial stick would have served the purpose nicely, she thought. Trish reached out and took the Queen’s rough hands in her own.

  “…The best things in life are free. I lie in bed at night and look at the stars and think to myself, “Trish, those stars are stepping stones to the unknown.” And I wake in the morning and hear the birds singing, and I say to my partner, “Hey, listen, nature’s alarm clocks are right on time.” Course, he pretends not to hear me.” Trish laughed, displaying her privatised teeth. The Queen sympathised with Trish’s sleeping partner.

  One of nature’s alarm clocks defecated on the window. A long white streak like an exclamation mark trickled down the glass. The Queen watched its progress.

  “So, how can I help you?” asked Trish, abruptly, now playing the practical, sensible Trish, the Woman Who Got Things Done.

  “You can’t help me,” said the Queen. “Money is the only thing I need at the moment.”

  “There must be something I can do,” insisted Trish.

  “You could retrieve your briefcase,” said the Queen. “A youth is running down the Close with it.” Trish flew out of the Queen’s house, but when she got to the pavement there was no sign of the youth, or the briefcase. Trish burst into tears. The Queen smiled. She had told a black lie; it wasn’t a youth who had stolen the briefcase. It was Tony Threadgold.

  Later that night, Tony came round to see the Queen. He was holding a bulging file in his hand. When she had drawn the living room curtains and they were seated side by side on the sofa, he extracted a letter from the file and said, “It’s from a consultant at the ‘ospital.”

  The Queen took the letter from Tony and read it. In the opinion of the paediatrician, Lisa-Marie and Vernon Threadgold suffered from brittle bone disease.

  “The envelope was still stuck down,” said Tony. “Trish ‘adn’t even read it.”

  The Queen understood at once that the diagnosis absolved Beverley and Tony from the charge of physically abusing their children. She heard banging and crashing coming from the upstairs of the Threadgolds’ house next door.

  “It’s Bev,” said Tony, with a smile which lit up his face. “She’s cleanin’ the kids’ room.”

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  31

  ERIC MAKES HIS MOVE

  The next morning the Queen received an envelope addressed to:

  The Occupant

  9 Hellebore Close

  Flowers Estate

  Middleton

  MI29WL

  Inside was a handwritten letter written on blue notepaper.

  Erilob

  39 Fox’s Den Lane

  Upper Hangton

  nr Kettering

  Northamptonshire

  To Her Majesty Elizabeth II, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.

  Dear Your Majesty,

  ♦

  Please allow me to humbly introduce myself. I am Eric Tremaine, a mere loyal subject, who has been horrified by what has happened to this country and its once great peoples. I know that that coward and traitor Jack Barker has forbidden your subjects to approach you like this, but I have decided to throw my towel into the ring and defy him. If it means that one day I will face execution for my presumption, then so be it. (I have already lost two fingers in an industrial accident, so I have got less to lose than most people.)

  The Queen broke off reading, snatched the grill pan and threw two burning slices of toast out of the window. Black smoke filled the kitchen. She used Tremaine’s letter to disperse it. When the room was reasonably clear, she carried on reading.

  Your Majesty, I have put my head on the block and started a movement, it is called Bring Our Monarch Back, or B.O.M.B. for short. My wife Lobelia is quite good with words (see above for the amusing name of our house, evidence of Lobelia’s handiwork!)

  You are not alone, your Majesty! Many in Upper Hangton are behind you!

  Lobelia and I are going into Kettering this afternoon to recruit members for B.O.M.B. Normally we keep away from the hurly-burly of big towns, but we have overcome our reluctance. The Cause is greater than our dislike of the metropolitan whirl that is Kettering in the nineties, I fear.

  Lobelia, my wife of thirty-two years, has never been one to push herself forward. She had preferred in the past to leave more confident types such as myself to bathe in the limelight. (I am the Chairman of several societies, Model Railways, Upper Hangton Residents Committee, Keep Dogs in the Parks Campaign there are more, but enough!)

  But my retiring wife is prepared to approach total and absolute strangers and talk to them about B.O.M.B. in Kettering town centre, mark you! This is a mark of her disgust at what has happened to our beloved Royal Family. Jack Barker is pandering to the appetites of the people and trying to bring us all down to the level of the animals. He won’t be content until we are all being sexually promiscuous in the fields and farmyards of our once green and pleasant land.

  Pigs like Barker will not accept that some of us are born to rule and others need to be ruled, and ordered about for their own good.

  Well, I must stop now. I have to call in at number thirty-one and pick up the B.O.M.B. leaflets. Mr Bond, the owner of the aforesaid thirty-one has kindly desk-top published the above-mentioned leaflets!

  B.O.M.B. is yet small, but it will grow! Soon there will be branches of B.O.M.B. in every hamlet, village, town, city and urban conurbation in the land! Fear not! You will once again sit on the Throne.

  I remain, your Majesty,

  Your most humble subject,

  Eric P. Tremaine

  The Queen put Tremaine’s letter on to Philip’s tray. She thought it might amuse him but when she returned twenty minutes later she saw that the breakfast had not been eaten and that the letter appeared to be unread: it was still tucked at the same angle under the bowl of cold porridge.


  “I’ve had this rather amusing letter this morning, darling, shall I read it out to you?” she said brightly. The doctor had said that Prince Philip must be stimulated. “It’s from a chap called Eric P. Tremaine. I wonder if the ‘P’ stands for Philip? Quite a coincidence if it did, eh?”

  The Queen knew that she was talking to her husband as though he were a simple-minded slug, but she couldn’t stop herself. He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t move, wouldn’t eat now. It was absolutely infuriating. It was time to call the doctor again. She couldn’t watch him starve to death. He was so thin now that he didn’t resemble himself at all. He had white hair and a white beard and, without his tinted contact lenses, his eyes looked like the colour of the stone-washed denim that people in Hell Close seemed so fond of wearing.

  He suddenly lifted his head from the pillow and shouted, “I want Helene!”

  “Who’s Helene, dear?” asked the Queen.

  But Philip’s head sank back. His eyes closed and he appeared to go to sleep. The Queen went downstairs and picked up the telephone receiver. It was dead. She jiggled the black knob about, but there was no reassuring purr in her ear. British Telecom had carried out their threat to cut her off because she hadn’t paid her deposit.

  She put her coat on and hurried out of the house, clutching a ten pence coin and her address book. When she was inside the stinking telephone box she saw that it was flashing ‘999 only’. She felt like doing a little light vandalising, a bit of genteel telephone box smashing. Was Philip a 999 case? Was his life threatened? The Queen decided that it was. She rang 999. The operator answered at once.