Queen Camilla (30 page)

Graham knocked on the front door, then wiped his hands on his trousers. He had once overheard one of his colleagues say, ‘Shaking hands with Graham Cracknall is like trying to revive a dead fish.’ He heard dogs barking and a woman shouting. He arranged his face in what he imagined was a friendly expression. What Camilla saw when she opened the door was a badly dressed, early-middle-aged man with jug ears and lopsided features. She knew that this was her son.

‘Rory?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s Graham.’

Camilla said, ‘Of course, it’s Graham. Please, do come in.’

She couldn’t think of anything much to say; a huge conversational chasm opened up. Graham proved to be extraordinarily difficult to talk to. An enquiry about how he got there was met with the answer, ‘Train and taxi.’ Asked if he enjoyed the journey, he said, ‘No,’ without elaborating. Charles, who often said to Camilla that he could do a PhD on small talk, soon gave up the struggle. Camilla battled gamely on. She sensed that Graham was overwhelmed by the unique circumstances.

‘We much enjoyed your video,’ she said. ‘Did you ever get to meet that bubbly girl you were looking for?’

Graham said, ‘No.’

He felt sick with disappointment. He hadn’t expected his parents to fall on his neck and weep over their
long-lost son, but neither had he thought that they would greet him with such restrained politeness. And look at them! He was prepared for the fact that they would not be formally dressed, but… the pair of them looked like those scruffy types who toiled at the allotments behind his bungalow.

Camilla excused herself as soon as decency allowed and fled upstairs to prepare the spare bedroom for Graham. She had been horrified to learn that he intended to stay for four long days and three long nights. How on earth would they fill all those hours? And how would they feed him? They had absolutely no money left, and the only meat in the house was dog food. Perhaps she could add curry paste and chilli powder to a tin of Pedigree Chum?

She sat on the bare mattress with the clean sheets on her lap, and tried to compose herself. The training she had received at Mont Fertile, the Swiss finishing school, drummed in her mind. As the hostess, you must do anything to make your guest feel at ease.

She heard Freddie coming up the stairs and when he trotted into the room she said, quietly, ‘Oh dear, Freddie darling, what do you think of Graham?’

Freddie barked, ‘Confucius said, “After three days, fish and visitors stink.” ’

Camilla patted Freddie’s back, saying, ‘I wish you could talk to me, Freddie.’

Later that night, over an improvised supper of curried frankfurters, borrowed from the Threadgolds, and homegrown root vegetables, Charles and Camilla made a concerted effort to get to know their son. An aperitif
of parsnip wine had loosened Graham’s tongue; he had monologued for ten full minutes on the health and safety laws in Estonia – there weren’t any.

Charles tried to head him off by asking, ‘Do you have a garden, Graham?’

‘Yes, it’s mainly laid to lawn, but I’ve got a few rows of salvia and daffs. In the spring, of course. I don’t like tulips. You can’t rely on them to stay upright in the vase, can you?’

‘Er… no, indeed, er… tulips are terribly… spontaneous in their habits.’

‘Do you ride?’ asked Camilla.

‘Not on horses, no,’ said Graham, somehow giving the impression that he didn’t care to ride horses, but that he was often to be found mounted on camels or llamas, even elephants.

‘Are you interested in art at all? Painting… er… that sort of thing.’

Graham said, ‘I don’t like modern art, I think it’s a con, chimpanzees could do better. In fact, Michael Jackson’s chimp friend, Bubbles, has done some quite passable watercolours. His last exhibition sold out completely, within an hour.’

Charles, a watercolourist himself (as was Camilla), was rather peeved and a little jealous of the chimp’s success. Charles had exhibited at the One-Stop Centre recently, a rather fine series of watery ‘impressions’ of Hell Close. Only one had been sold, to the Queen.

When they retired a few steps to the other end of the room for coffee, the subject of Graham’s birth and adoption had still not been broached. A great deal of
dog patting went on. Leo, Tosca and Freddie were surprised at the extra attention they were receiving. Freddie took advantage of this to perform his trick of chasing his own tail.

Graham’s laugh was not a pleasant sound. When Freddie, wildly spinning, banged into the coffee table and knocked a glass of wine over, he was ordered to stop by Camilla, and silence fell between the three people in the room. Each of them wished that they were somewhere else. Eventually Graham went to bed, taking with him his inhaler and what he called a ‘book’: a subscription magazine called
TW Monthly
. It had transpired during the evening that Graham was an aficionado of the game of tiddlywinks and played to competition standard.

Charles whispered to Camilla when they were in bed together and conscious of the proximity of their son sleeping in the next room, ‘I suppose tiddlywinks needs a great deal of manual dexterity. I mean to say, one would have to have
exceedingly
strong thumbs.’

Camilla held her thumbs up in the dark and said, ‘I’ve always had strong thumbs. I used to be able to crack a walnut between my thumb and index finger.’

‘He gets it from you then, darling,’ Charles said.

Neither of them had said that they were disheartened by meeting their son Graham, but damp and dismal disappointment seemed to have leaked into the room and lay over everything like a wet fog.

Just before she went to sleep, Camilla said, ‘To be Tiddlywinks Champion of Ruislip three years running is pretty good, isn’t it?’ It was a genuine question.

Charles said, ‘It’s a splendid achievement, darling.’

Camilla whispered, ‘I’m not sure I can love Graham.’

Charles grimaced; this was exactly his sentiment. ‘Perhaps when we get to know him better…’ he said.

‘But the
tulips
,’ Camilla hissed, ‘and those
shoes
.’

Charles said, ‘Something could be done about his appearance – a good tailor, a decent barber.’

‘But he isn’t very… nice,’ said Camilla.

‘No,’ agreed Charles, ‘but we must make allowances for him.’

‘But he doesn’t like
dogs
, darling,’ said Camilla.

‘Not everybody does,’ whispered Charles.

‘But our sort of people do,’ she said, turning towards him in the dark.

‘Then we must make Graham into our sort of person,’ said Charles.

They kissed, and turned away from each other. It was unsaid, but understood between them, that there would be no physical intimacy while Graham was under their roof.

When Camilla went downstairs the next morning to make tea, she found Graham, fully dressed, sitting up-right on the sofa tapping into his laptop. She pulled her dressing gown together and tied the belt; she did not want Graham to see her ‘Everything A Pound’ shop nightshirt with its picture of the Hulk on the front.

‘Graham,’ she said, ‘you’re up early.’

‘Early?’ said Graham, censoriously. ‘Half the morning’s gone.’

Camilla glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was 7.50 a.m. ‘You must think me quite a slugabed.’

Graham said, ‘At your age you need more sleep, I suppose.’

As Camilla filled the kettle she thought, he is utterly charmless. The three dogs clustered around her as she made the tea. They seemed to be reluctant to be left alone in the sitting room with Graham.

As she was about to go upstairs with Charles’s tea, Graham said, ‘I’d advise you not to wear those King Kong slippers on the stairs. Certainly not with a cup of hot liquid in your hands,
and
with your hair in your eyes.’

Camilla said, ‘You’re probably right,’ and extracted her feet from the gorilla slippers before climbing the stairs.

On hearing that Graham had been up for hours, Charles quickly washed, shaved and dressed. He chose, Camilla noticed, smarter, more conservative clothes than usual.

‘You’re rather formal today,’ she said, noticing that the suit he was wearing smelt rather fusty.

Charles said, ‘I have to tell Mummy about Graham today, darling. I think a suit reflects the, er… gravity of the situation.’

Camilla said, ‘Darling, can’t we get to know Graham a little better before we inflict him on the family?’

‘Inflict?’ questioned Charles. ‘He
is
our son!’

Camilla said, ‘He inferred I was lazy, more or less said I was old, and made me take my lovely warm slippers off.’

Charles remembered the enlightening conversations he had enjoyed with Laurens Van der Post, in which his mentor had explained that separation from the mother can be the cause of aggression in adult life.

He said, ‘He’s almost certainly hurting dreadfully inside, Camilla. We must nurture him, surround him with love and security.’

Camilla said, ‘Before or after we tell your mother,
The Queen of England
, that she has a bastard grandson who is second in line to the throne?’

When Charles went downstairs he found Graham in the living room, staring out of the window at the bird table. A pair of blue tits were hanging upside down pecking at the white flesh of the suspended half coconut.

Charles whispered to Graham, ‘Aren’t they delightful
little birds? I’m absolutely thrilled to see them using my bird thingy.’

Graham said, ‘It’s a pity it will have to come down.’

Charles’s forehead creased. ‘Come down?’ he said.

‘I was out there at six o’clock this morning,’ said Graham. ‘It’s a highly unstable structure. I’m surprised you got planning permission.’

Charles said, ‘I didn’t get planning permission because I didn’t
apply
for it. It’s only a bird table.’

Graham said, ‘It might be “only a bird table” to you, but to me it’s a dangerous structure that could kill or maim a small child or a vulnerable adult.’

Charles said, ‘I know it’s your job to assess risks, Graham, but couldn’t you turn a blind eye?’

Graham said, ‘Please don’t ask me to compromise my professional integrity. I’ll help you to take it down.’

Graham thought that dismantling the bird table would help him and his father to bond. He had been aware of a certain coldness emanating from his mother earlier that morning. He knew it was nothing he had done or said. Perhaps, he thought, she was going through ‘the change of life’. His adoptive mother had metamorphosed from a placid, homely woman into a shrieking diva during her change.

Graham said, ‘And avian flu is on the way. This is not the time to encourage birds, is it?’

Charles looked around the living room, trying to see it through Graham’s eyes. Suddenly the most harmless of things seemed to present an ominous danger: the little crystal chandelier could fall from its ceiling mounting, somebody could trip over the holes in the
threadbare Aubusson carpet. If the radio overheated it could explode and cause an inferno.

To deflect Graham’s attention from the bird table, Charles said, ‘I would like to introduce you to my mother and the rest of the family today.’

‘I’m a bit nervous about meeting the Queen,’ admitted Graham.

Charles said, ‘We’ll have breakfast and then I’ll take you round.’

The dogs ran into the kitchen and stood eagerly by their feeding bowls. They were usually fed half a bowl of dried dog food each. But this morning they were treated to Pedigree Chum. Camilla put half a tin into each bowl, saying, ‘You have Her Majesty the Queen to thank for this.’

The dogs gobbled it down greedily, and then waited for more. When Camilla made no move to refill the bowls, Freddie barked, ‘Is that it? Is that all we’re getting? What about a Bonio?’

Leo whimpered, ‘I’m twice the size of them. I’m a growing dog, I need two Bonios.’

After throwing each dog a Bonio, Camilla picked the bowls up from the floor, rinsed them under the tap and stacked them on the draining board, signifying that the dogs’ breakfast was over. The dogs lay together under the table, hoping that a few crumbs would drop from Graham’s plate; they had noticed that he was a messy eater.

After a while, Freddie growled, ‘This is demeaning. We’re totally dependent on human beings for all our needs.’

Tosca moved closer to Leo and whimpered, ‘We’re still in control of our sex lives.’

Leo licked a sticky patch on Tosca’s ear and whimpered back, ‘And how could we feed ourselves, Freddie? We haven’t got fingers. We can’t open the tins.’

Freddie snarled, ‘There was a time when we dogs killed our own food.’ Then, unable to resist, he gave a tiny nip to the exposed patch of flesh between Graham’s sock and trouser leg. ‘Tasty!’ said Freddie, before Graham kicked him under the table.

When the telephone rang Harris and Susan ran into the living room and heard the Queen say, ‘Good morning, Charles… I’m quite well, thank you… Yes, Harris is back to his usual self… No, I am not especially busy this morning, but I’m going to see your father this afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to come with me… Can’t you tell me on the telephone?’

Harris said to Susan, ‘Charles is coming round. I hope he brings his dogs, I’m in the mood for a scrap.’

Susan growled, ‘Don’t overdo it. You’re still convalescing.’

The Queen said, ‘Come at ten, and I’ll make coffee. Will Camilla be with you?… I’m dreadfully sorry, Charles. I’d quite forgotten that Camilla is still under house arrest… So how many cups shall I put out… three?’

When she’d put the phone down, she said to Harris and Susan, ‘Charles is bringing a visitor to see us, so I want you two to be on your best behaviour. No barking, no biting, no fighting.’

*

It was some time before the Queen could take in the full import of what Charles was saying. She had thought he was talking gibberish as he told her a faltering tale about Camilla, Zurich, cuckoo clocks, adoptive parents, and a boy called Rory, who then seemed to have turned into Graham, the young man who was standing in her living room, biting the fingernails of one hand while jiggling the change in his shapeless grey trouser pocket with the other.