The Queen and I (11 page)

“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.

Philip stirred as she banged about in the bedroom, searching the cardboard boxes for baby clothes. How squalid he looks, thought the Queen and she had a glimmer of understanding of how easy it was to slide into such a state and how difficult it must be to get out of it.

Together, she and Violet washed and undressed Marilyn, put her in one of the Queen’s own nightgowns, covered the sofa in white linen and prepared for the baby’s arrival. The porcelain bowl was filled with boiling water, the baby’s layette was put by the gas fire to warm, and the daft teenager was ordered to make tea – using the Queen’s own Doulton cups and saucers.

“Break them cups an’ I’ll break your cowin’ neck!” Violet threatened the sullen youth.

The Queen began to line a shallow cardboard box with towels and pillow cases brought from home. “It’s like playing dollies again,” she said to Violet. “I’m rather enjoying myself.”

“We’ll ’ave to clean this shit ’ole up when Marilyn’s bin took to the ’ospital. Poor cow shoulda
said
. We’d ’a’ ’elped ’er out. Done her washin’, got stuff in for the baby, cleaned up.”

“I think she’s been too depressed to help herself, don’t you?” said the Queen. “I know somebody in a similar situation.”

“I’m writin’ to my MP about this bleedin’ ambulance,” said Violet, as she checked to see if the baby’s head was visible. “I’ll find out who ’e is an’ I’ll write to ’im. This is disgusting, I’m too old for this mullarkey.”

Yet her hands were assured as she manipulated Marilyn’s body and the Queen was impressed by how readily Marilyn followed Violet’s instructions as she told her when to push and when to stop.

“Did you train as a nurse, Violet?” asked the Queen, as she sterilised the scissors in the flames of the gas fire.

“No, you di’n’t train for nowt in our family. I passed for a scholarship but there weren’t no chance of goin’ to grammar school.” Violet laughed at the thought of it. “Couldn’t afford the uniform, an’ anyway I ’ad to bring money into the ’ouse.”

“How very unfair,” said the Queen. Marilyn shouted, “Oh Violet, it’s ’orrible, it’s ’urtin’ me.”

Violet wiped Marilyn’s face with a snow-white monogrammed face cloth, then peered between her thighs and said, “I can see its ’ead, it’ll be ’ere soon, you’ll soon have your little ’un in your arms.”

Leslie Kerry Violet Elizabeth Monk was born at 2.10 am and weighed five pounds and six ounces. “’Ardly more than a bag a’ spuds,” said Violet as she prepared to cut the cord which tied mother to child.

The Queen was entranced by the baby, which lay on Marilyn’s belly like a pink pebble on a white beach. Violet asked the Queen to wrap the baby and to clean its face. When this was done, the child opened its lids and looked at the Queen with eyes the colour of sapphires, like those in the brooch her parents gave her when Charles was born.

The Queen gave Leslie to Marilyn, who was babbling with happiness, thankful that the pain had stopped and that her baby wasn’t “deformed or owt like that”. The daft teenager was praised extravagantly because he made more tea without being asked. Leslie was placed in her cardboard box cradle while the women sipped at the orange liquid.

The daft teenager opened the door and three small children dressed in grubby tee-shirts and pants followed him into the room. “They want to see the baby,” he said. “You woke ’em up screamin’.”

“It’s a girl,” said Marilyn to her common-law stepchildren. “I’ve called her Leslie after your dad.” The Queen washed their hands and faces. Then they were allowed to take it in turns to hold the baby. She then led them upstairs and tucked them in under the ragged covers of their shared double bed.

On the landing, she saw her own face: a page torn from a newspaper and stuck to the wall with Christmas sellotape. The photograph showed her in her full regalia – about to open Parliament. The Queen did a quick tour of the bedrooms and bathroom. The stench of poverty and hopelessness filled her nose and mouth and attached itself to her clothing like a slimy skin. “I expect one gets used to the smell after a while,” thought the Queen as she went downstairs to open the door to the apologetic ambulance man who had finally found Hell Close.

Marilyn and Leslie were put into a carrying chair and humped into the ambulance. Queen Victoria’s layette was on Marilyn’s lap, inside a Woolworths carrier bag.

“Don’t you dare leave this ’ouse,” Violet said to the daft teenager, who was planning to do just that. “No sneaking off to one of them acid house parties and leavin’ them little kids on their own. We’ll be round in the mornin’, make sure you’re in.” He nodded without enthusiasm and went to his own chaotic bed.

Violet wrapped the afterbirth in newspaper, in the manner of an efficient butcher’s assistant wrapping a large order of ox liver. Then, in ceremonial manner, she and the Queen went into the back garden where they built a little bonfire and set fire to the meaty parcel. They watched and talked quietly until the afterbirth had been eaten by the flames.

The Queen had rarely felt so close to anyone before. There was something about the firelight which invited swapped confidences. Violet was vulgar and had appalling taste in clothes, but there was an inner strength to her that the Queen admired, even envied. The two women talked about the anguish their children had caused them. The Queen confessed to Violet that, since moving to Hell Close, she had heard nothing from her sons, Andrew and Edward, both of whom were abroad. “I’m awfully worried,” she said.

Violet snorted. “Selfish bleeders! They’ll soon come running when they want something.”

“I thought,” said the Queen, “that when they were eighteen they would be off my mind, if not off my hands.”

“Some cowin’ chance,” said Violet.

The Queen and Violet poked the embers until they died. Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble, thought the Queen.

When she got home, she looked around at her tidy and clean little house and was grateful for its comfort. And if I’m ever seriously incapacitated, she thought, Violet Toby will help me out.

The Queen went to sleep and dreamt that she was presenting the OBE to Violet, for Services to Humanity.

17 The Briefcase Was Bare

The Queen was eating cornflakes in front of the television. A single cornflake fell from her mouth and landed on the carpet, Harris immediately licked it up.

The Queen said, “What an absolute
slob
I’m becoming, Harris.” Her attention was then taken by a shouting match that had erupted in the TV-am studio. Jack Barker and the (usually genial) presenter of the programme were arguing about the health of the pound.

The presenter said, “But, Mr Barker, the pound is desperately weak. It fell a long way last night.” She fixed him with a beady glance.

Really, thought the Queen. She makes it sound as though the pound had attempted a suicide jump from a tall building.

Jack smiled reassuringly: “But, thanks to the measures we have taken, the pound is now rallying and is expected to hold its own.”

The Queen imagined the pound languishing in a hospital bed hooked up to monitors and drips, surrounded by anxious doctors and financial advisers.

The presenter turned to the camera and said, “And now, the weather,” and the Queen went into the kitchen to wash her bowl and spoon.

Later that morning, there was a violent row in the street between Violet Toby and Beverley Threadgold.

Beverley wanted to know why she hadn’t been woken up to officiate at her sister’s confinement. Horrible wounding words were exchanged between the two women. Violet accused Beverley of neglecting Marilyn during her pregnancy. “When was the last time you were inside your sister’s stinking house?” bellowed Violet.

The Queen stood behind her closed front door and listened to the row. Both antagonists were shouting from their respective front gates. It wasn’t difficult to hear what they were saying, both had foghorn voices when roused. Residents of Hell Close came out of their houses to enjoy the confrontation – it was unusual to have a shouting match in the spring. The long summer holiday was the traditional time – when the days were hot and the kids fell out and the mothers were irritable and longing for the first day of term.

To her alarm, the Queen heard her name mentioned. Beverley shouted, “You just wanted to get in with the Queen.”

Violet shouted, “I ain’t no snob. I chose ’er because she were awake an’ she don’t panic.
Unlike
you, Beverley Threadgold, ’oo can’t stand the sight of blood!”

The Queen came away from the door, not wishing to hear any more references to herself. It was true, she did keep a tight grip on herself. Would she go to her grave without experiencing an emotional breakdown? Was it better for one to hang onto the dictates of one’s upbringing: good manners, control and self-discipline, or to behave how one
felt
and scream in the street like a demented harridan?

Once, when she was thirteen, she had belched at a dinner for the Hungarian Ambassador – an audible belch that was diplomatically ignored by the other distinguished diners. She had dismissed the belch to Crawfie, saying, “Oh well, it’s better out than in.”

Crawfie had said, “No, no, no, Lilibet, it is always, always better
in
than out.”

What must it feel like to open one’s mouth and
scream
? The Queen stood over the washing-up bowl and gave a tiny, experimental scream. To her ears, it sounded like a hinge needing oil. She tried again. “Aaaaargh!” Quite satisfactory. And again, “Aaaaaaaarggh!!!!” Her throat opened wide and the Queen could feel the scream travel up her lungs, overflow her windpipe and roar out of her mouth like a British lion. The scream woke Philip, it brought people running to the Queen’s front door. It caused Harris to lie low and flatten his ears, birds left the Queen’s garden in a flapping panic, earthworms burrowed deeper.

The scream drew attention away from the row in the street and the man from the Department of Social Security paused before opening the Queen’s gate and walking up the path. What on earth was going on
now
? Was the Queen being murdered? Had he brought the correct forms for a Funeral Claim?

The Queen opened the front door and assured her neighbours that she was perfectly well. She had trodden on a drawing pin in her stockinged feet. All eyes looked down. The Queen was wearing sturdy green Wellingtons. The man from the DSS pushed through the sceptical crowd and introduced himself: “I’m David Dorkin, from the DSS. I’ve come to sort out your benefit.”

The Queen led him into the living room and invited him to sit on the Napoleonic sofa. She advised him to avoid the join where the six inch nails had been hammered in. Dorkin opened his metal briefcase and started to take out his forms and lay them on the lid. He was nervous: who wouldn’t be? He couldn’t find his pen, and the Queen went to her desk and handed him a heavy gold fountain pen, worth twice his annual salary. Dorkin said, “I can’t use a fountain pen!” He had taken the top off and seen the encrustation of small jewels around the nib. It was too much of a responsibility, he felt. What if he damaged it? There could be a huge insurance claim. He handed the pen back to the Queen, took a deep breath, searched in his beige anorak and located his own rollerball. With a pen in his hand he felt more in command of himself. He declined coffee.

“I’d like your husband to be present at this interview,” said Dorkin.

“My husband is unwell,” said the Queen. “He has been unwell since we moved in.”

“Since your relocation?” said Dorkin.

“Since we
moved in
,” repeated the Queen.

The rollerball rolled over the page of Dorkin’s reporter’s notebook.

“And what is the current situation regarding your personal finances?”

“We are penniless. I have been forced to borrow from my mother; but now my mother is also penniless. As is my entire family. I have been forced to rely on the charity of neighbours. But I cannot continue to do so. My neighbours are …” The Queen paused.

“Socially disadvantaged?” supplied Dorkin.

“No, they are
poor
,” said the Queen. “They, like me, lack money. I would like you, Mr Dorkin, to give me some money – today, please. I have no food, no heat and when the electricity goes, I will have no light.”

“When your claim is processed and approved, you will receive a giro through the post,” said Dorkin.

As it was Friday the Queen had expected this young man with the prominent adam’s apple simply to take banknotes from out of his briefcase and hand them over to her. All of her family were under a similar misapprehension, which was why they had been spending that week with such abandon. She tried once again to explain to Dorkin that she needed the money immediately; there was nothing in the refrigerator, the cupboards were bare.

Right on cue, Prince Philip shuffled into the room, bleating that he’d had no breakfast, demanding to know where his contact lenses were, complaining of the cold.

Dorkin was shocked at Philip’s disintegration: seen on television before the election, he had appeared to be a vigorous man, immaculately dressed, with a healthy pink complexion and an arrogant bearing. Dorkin could hardly bring himself to look at the broken wreck in front of him. It was like finding your own father lying drunk in a gutter. The Queen pacified Philip with the promise of coffee, led him to the foot of the stairs and urged him back to bed.

When she re-entered the living room, she saw that David Dorkin had started to fill in a form. Was this the previously-mentioned Claim Form? If so, it must be completed at once. Philip and Harris must be fed. She had always had a small appetite; she would manage. But the man and the dog were helpless and entirely dependent upon her ability to navigate a course through the murky waters of the DSS.