The Queen and I, Page 3

  Despite himself, Jack had been thrilled to hear that familiar drawl. It was something he would have to watch in himself. He had a tendency to enjoy these contacts with famous people, but perhaps now that he was famous himself…

  Pat Barker offered her husband a cheese and potato crisp sandwich and said, “What are you going to do about the pound, Jack?” Money had flooded out of the country as though a dam had burst.

  “I’m going to meet the Japanese on Monday,” he said.

  The Queen heaved herself off the packing case she had been sitting on to watch the broadcast. There was so much to do. She went to the hallway and saw Tony and Beverley dragging a double mattress up the narrow stairs. Philip followed behind, carrying a carved bedhead. He said,

  “Lilibet, I can’t find another bed in the van.” The Queen frowned and said,

  “But I’m sure I asked for two beds, one for me and one for you.”

  Philip said, “So how are we supposed to sleep tonight?”

  “Together,” she said.

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  6

  BISECTING THE SOFA

  The carpets were too big for the tiny rooms.

  Tony said, “I’ve got a mate, Spiggy, what’s a carpet fitter. He could cut ‘em to size; he’d do it for twenty quid.”

  The Queen looked down at her Aubusson rugs which were stacked in the hall, looking like lustrous Swiss rolls.

  Bev said, “Or you could have new. I mean, excuse me for saying, but they are a bit worn, aren’t they? Threadbare in places.”

  “Spiggy could carpet the whole house for two hundred and fifty quid, including fitting,” Tony suggested helpfully. “He’s got some nice olive green shag pile, we’ve got it in our living room.”

  It was 10.30 pm and the furniture was still in the van. The driver was asleep with his head on the steering wheel.

  “Philip?”

  The Queen was tired she had never been so tired. She couldn’t make any decisions. She wanted to retire to her room in Buckingham Palace, where her nightgown would be laid out. She wanted to slide between the linen sheets and drop her head onto the soft pillows and sleep forever, or until somebody brought the tea tray in the morning. Philip sat on the stairs, his head between his hands. He was exhausted after helping to carry the carpets in from the van. He had thought he was fit. Now he knew he wasn’t.

  “I don’t bloody know. Do as you like,” he said.

  “Send for Mr Spiggy,” said the Queen.

  Spiggy turned up three-quarters of an hour later with his Stanley knife and his metal tape measure and his four tins of Carlsberg. The Queen was unable to watch while Spiggy sliced and chopped at her precious rugs. She took the dog for a walk, but when she got to the end of the Close she was turned back by polite policemen manning a hastily constructed barrier. An Inspector Denton Holyland emerged from a little hut and explained that the rest of the Flowers Estate was out of bounds to her and her family, ‘until further notice’.

  “I’ve already explained to your son,” he said. “He wanted to find a fish and chip shop but I had to turn him back. Mr Barker’s orders.”

  The Queen walked around the Close four times. Nobody was about apart from the odd mongrel dog. She thought, I am living in a ghetto. I must consider myself a prisoner of war. I must be brave, I must maintain my own high standards. She knocked on her son’s front door. “May I come in?”

  Diana was in the hall. The Queen could see she had been crying. It wouldn’t do to sympathise, not now, thought the Queen.

  “Our carpets won’t fit,” gulped Diana, “and the furniture is still in the van.”

  Prince Charles and the driver of their removal van came into sight, struggling with an unwieldy Chinese carpet.

  “Not a hope, darling,” panted Prince Charles.

  “Do be careful of your back, Charles,” said the Queen. “There’s a little man up the road who will cut carpets to size…”

  “Mummy, I really think that you er shouldn’t…isn’t it frightfully patronising…I mean, in our present circumstances…to call anyone ‘a little man’?”

  “But he is a little man,” said the Queen. “Mr Spiggy is even smaller than I am and he’s a carpet fitter. Shall I ask him to call?”

  “But these carpets are priceless. It would be an act of er…well, sheer vandalism…”

  William and Harry appeared at the top of the stairs. They were dressed in pyjamas with Bart Simpson slippers on their feet.

  “We’re sleeping on a mattress,” piped Harry.

  “In sleeping bags,” bragged William. “Pa says we’re having an adventure.”

  Diana showed the Queen around the house. It didn’t take long. The decor had been chosen by someone who had never heard of Terence Conran. Diana shuddered at the purple and turquoise wallpaper on the walls of the marital bedroom, the polystyrene ceiling tiles, the orange paintwork splodged over the sash window.

  She thought, I’ll ring Interiors tomorrow, ask the editor to come round with paint charts and wallpaper samples.

  The Queen said, “We’re lucky, we’ve been decorated throughout.”

  Both women were rather dreading the night to come. Neither was used to sharing either a bedroom or a bed with her husband.

  The two little boys lay on their backs and gazed rapturously at their Superman wallpaper.

  “And look,” said William, pointing to a round patch of mould above the window. “That’s the planet Krypton.”

  But Harry had gone to sleep with one hand flopping off the mattress and onto the dirty bare boards of the bedroom floor.

  Spiggy drank the last of his cans and surveyed his handiwork. The carpets glowed under the bare bulbs. The Queen gathered the offcuts together and put them in the box room preparing for the day when they would be woven back and relaid in Buckingham Palace. Because this nonsense wouldn’t last long. It was a hiccup of history. Mr Barker would make a dreadful hash of things and the populace would cry out for the restoration of the Conservative government and the monarchy wouldn’t they? Yes, of course they would. The English were known for their tolerance, their sense of fair play. Extremism of any kind was simply not in their nature. The Queen was careful, even in thought to distinguish the English from the Scots, Irish and Welsh, who, owing to their Celtic blood, were inclined to be rather hot-headed at times.

  “That’ll be fifty quid, Your Majesty,” said Spiggy. “Being as it’s after midnight, so to speak.”

  The Queen found her handbag and paid him. She was unaccustomed to handling money and counted it out slowly.

  “Right, ta,” said Spiggy. “I’ll nip round to Prince Charles’s now. He’ll still be up, will he?”

  It was 4 am before Spiggy checked out at the barrier, a hundred pounds better off and with a story to tell in the pub the next day. He could hardly wait, his tongue itched.

  At 4.30 am, Tony Threadgold was sawing through a sofa that had once belonged to Napoleon, on the doorstep of Number Nine. Nobody in Hell Close complained about the noise. Noise was normal and was created with great vigour, both day and night. It was only when there was a lack of noise that the inhabitants of Hell Close came to their doors and windows, wondering what was wrong.

  The sofa gave way and fell apart. Beverley steadied one end. She waited until Tone and Philip had carried the longer half into the living room before following them through with the shorter half.

  “Half a dozen six-inch nails in that tomorrow, it’ll be as right as rain.” Tony was pleased with his carpentry. The Queen looked at her beloved sofa and saw that, even cut in half, it was too big for the room.

  “You’ve been so kind, Mr and Mrs Threadgold,” she said. “Now I insist you go to your beds.”

  “It does look lovely in here,” said Bev, looking round. “A bit crowded, but lovely.”

  “When the pictures are hung,” said the Queen, yawning.

  “Yes, I like that one,” said Bev, catching the yawn. “Who did that one?”

  “Titian,
” said the Queen. “Goodnight.”

  The atmosphere between the Queen and Prince Philip was awkward as they washed and undressed for bed. Furniture filled every room. They had to squeeze past each other with frequent apologies for touching. Finally, they lay in bed in the grey light of morning, thinking about the horrors of the previous day and of the horrors to come.

  From outside came the sound of shouting as a milkman tried to defend his float from a Hell Close milk thief. The Queen turned towards her husband. He was still a handsome man, she thought.

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  7

  LITTLE TREASURES

  The Yeoman of the Silver Plate scrutinised Jack Barker, the new Prime Minister.

  Very nice, he thought. Smaller than he looked on the telly, but very nice. Clothes a bit Top Man and shoes a touch Freeman Hardyish, but a good, fine-boned face, adorable eyes violet, and lashes like spiders’ legs. Yum yum.

  It was 9 am. They were going down in the lift of the disused air-raid shelter which was situated in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. Jack stifled a yawn. He’d been up all night doing his sums. “I expect you’re glad to get out of those daft clothes at night, aren’t you?” he said to the Yeoman, looking at the gaiters and buckles and the jacket with its complicated froggings and fastenings.

  “Oh, I like a bit of glitz, me,” said the Yeoman, producing a key from his waistcoat pocket. The lift stopped.

  “How deep are we?” asked Jack.

  “Forty feet, but we’re not there yet.”

  They left the lift and walked along a U-shaped corridor.

  “What’s your name?” asked Jack.

  “Officially I’m the Yeoman of the Silver Plate.”

  “Unofficially?” said Jack.

  “Malcolm Bultitude Bostock.”

  “Worked here long, Mr Bostock?”

  “Since leaving school, Mr Barker.”

  “Like it?”

  “Oh yes, I like nice things. I miss the daylight in the summer, but I’ve got a sun-bed at home.”

  They came up to the fourteen-inch thick steel door which was protected by an intricate combination lock. Mr Bostock inserted the key and after a series of clicks the door swung open. “Just a mo,” he said, and switched the lights on. They were in an area the size of a football pitch which was divided into a series of doorless rooms. Each room was lined with shelves covered in industrial plastic sheeting.

  Mr Bostock asked, “Anything in particular you want to see, Mr Barker?”

  “Everything,” said Jack.

  “Most of the collection’s at Sandringham, of course,” said Bostock, pulling the sheeting away and revealing an array of exquisitely carved animals. Jack picked up a jewelled cat.

  “Pretty.”

  “Fabergé.”

  “How much do you reckon they’re worth?” asked Jack, indicating the twinkling menagerie.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly say, Mr Barker,” said Mr Bostock, replacing the cat.

  “Guess.”

  “Well, something in the paper did catch my eye last year. A Fabergé tortoise it was, fetched £250,000 at auction.”

  Jack looked again at the little animals. He counted them under his breath.

  Mr Bostock said. “There are four hundred and eleven of them.”

  “Enough to build a hospital,” Jack muttered.

  “Several hospitals,” corrected Mr Bostock, huffily.

  They moved on. Jack was amazed at the insouciant manner in which the treasure was stored and displayed.

  “Oh dear, we could do with a bit of a tidy up here,” said Mr Bostock, scooping up a few emeralds that had escaped from their plastic box. “Takes four strong men to lift that,” he said, pointing out a massive silver soup tureen. And, further on, “Gold is a bugger to clean,” as he parted the plastic sheeting to reveal a tower of gold plates, bowls and serving dishes.

  Jack whispered, “Real gold?”

  “Eighteen carat.”

  Jack remembered that his wife’s fourteen carat wedding ring had cost him £115 ten years ago and that had a hole in it.

  “Does anybody come down here?” he asked Mr Bostock.

  “She comes, about twice a year, but it’s more of a personnel exercise, if you get my drift. She doesn’t gloat. The last time she was here, she asked if the temperature couldn’t be turned down; she doesn’t like wasting money.”

  “No, well, I can see how she’d have to be careful,” said Jack as he fingered a scabbard presented to Queen Victoria by an Arabian prince. He had given up asking the value of the treasures. The figures became meaningless and Mr Bostock was clearly uncomfortable talking about money.

  “So, this is only a part of the collection, is it?” Jack asked when they had visited each wondrous room.

  “Tip of the iceberg.”

  As they ascended in the lift, back to the daylight and the birdsong and the murmur of traffic, Jack thanked Mr Bostock and said, “There’ll be some foreign gentlemen to show round later this week. I’ll be in touch directly.”

  “Might I ask what type of foreign gentlemen?” said Mr Bostock, tilting his face towards the sun.

  “Japanese,” said Jack Barker.

  “And might I ask if I’m to keep my present position, Mr Barker?”

  Jack repeated one of his election slogans: “In Barker’s Britain everything and everyone will work.”

  They crossed the dew-covered lawn together, discussing Japanese protocol and precisely how low the Yeoman of the Silver Plate should bow when he greeted the visitors who came, not bearing gifts, but buying them.

  ∨ The Queen and I ∧

  8

  CLIENT RESISTANT

  The cold woke her and she was enveloped in misery before her strength and resources could be summoned. Harris scrabbled at the bedroom door, desperate to get out. The Queen put a cashmere cardigan on over her nightdress, went downstairs and let the dog out into the back garden. The April air was raw and as she watched him lift his leg in the frosty grass, her breath puffed out, white and visible in front of her. A heap of empty Magnolia paint tins lay in the garden. Somebody had tried to set fire to them, lost heart and left them. The Queen called the little dog inside, but he wanted to explore this new territory and ran on his ridiculous little legs to the end of the garden, where he disappeared into the mist.

  When Harris reappeared he was carrying a dead rat in his mouth. The rat was frozen into an attitude of extreme agony. It took a sharp crack on the head with a wooden spoon before Harris would release his gift to the Queen. She had once eaten a mouthful of rat at a banquet in Belize. To have refused would have caused great offence. The RAF were anxious to retain the use of Belize as a refuelling stop.

  “Mornin’. Sleep all right?”

  It was Beverley in an orange dressing gown taking frozen washing off the line. Tony’s jeans stood to attention as though Tony were still inside them. “‘E’s got an interview for a job ‘s afternoon, so I’ve gotta get ‘is best clothes dry.”

  Beverley’s heart pounded as she spoke. How did you talk to someone whose head you were used to licking and sticking on an envelope? She unpegged Tony’s best jumper which was frozen into an attitude of arms-raised triumph.

  “Harris found a rat,” said the Queen.

  “A ret?”

  “A rat, look!” Beverley looked down at the dead rodent at the Queen’s feet. “Am I to expect more?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Beverley. “They don’t come in the houses. Well, not often. They’ve got their own complex at the bottom of the gardens.”

  Beverley made it sound as though the rats inhabited a timeshare village, frolicked in a kidney-shaped swimming pool and argued over sun-loungers.

  Somebody was knocking on the front door. The Queen excused herself and went through the little hall. She put a coat on over her nightdress and cardigan and tried to open the door. It was extraordinarily difficult. True, it was years since she’d opened the front door of any house, but surely it had be
en easier than this? She pulled with all her weight. Meanwhile, the person on the other side of the door had opened the letter-box. The Queen saw a pair of soulful brown eyes and heard a sympathetic female voice.

  “Hi, I’m Trish McPherson. I’m your social worker. Look, I know it’s difficult for you, but it’s not going to help the situation if you won’t let me in, is it?”

  The Queen recoiled from the words ‘social worker’ and stepped back from the door. Trish remembered her training; it was important to be non-confrontational. She tried again, “C’mon now, Mrs Windsor, open the door and we’ll have a nice chat. I’m here to help you with your trauma. We’ll put the kettle on and have a nice cup of tea, shall we?”

  The Queen said, “I am not dressed. I cannot receive visitors until I am dressed.”

  Trish laughed gaily, “Don’t worry about me; I take folks as I find them. Most of my clients are still in bed when I call.”

  Trish knew that she was a good person and she was convinced that most of her clients were good, deep down. She felt truly sorry for the Queen. Her fellow social workers had refused to take on the Windsor case file but, as Trish had said in the intake office this morning, “They may be royal, but they are human. To me, they are just two displaced pensioners who will need a great deal of support.”

  Not wishing to antagonise her client, Trish withdrew, wrote a note on Social Services notepaper and pushed it through the door. It said, “I will call round this afternoon, about three. Yours, Trish.”

  The Queen went upstairs, scraped the ice from the inside of the window and looked down at Trish, who was scraping ice off the windscreen of her car with what looked like a kitchen spatula, the sort the Queen occasionally used at barbecues at Balmoral. Trish was dressed in Aztec-styled clothes and could easily have strayed off the stage during a performance of The Royal Hunt of the Sun. She appeared to be wearing parts of a dead goat on her feet. She sat in the car and made notes, “Client resistant; not dressed at 10 am.”