The Queen and I (22 page)

The tip tap of Margaret’s high heels was heard outside in the street as she hurried behind Philomena. Susan, the Queen Mother’s corgi, climbed onto the bed and lay on the bedspread, on the mound created by the Queen Mother’s feet. Margaret embraced her mother passionately, then asked her sister, “Have you sent for a doctor?” The Queen admitted that she had not, saying, “Mummy is ninety-two. She has had a wonderful life.”

Philomena said, “I axed her once if she would want pipes and t’ings put into she body and a machine to do she breathin’ an’ she say, ‘Heaven forbid’.”

Margaret burst out, “But we can’t just sit here and watch her
die
, not in this ghastly little room, in this ghastly bungalow, in this ghastly close, on this ghastly estate.”

William said, “She likes it here, and so do I.”

Word had spread in Hell Close and neighbours began to gather outside the front door. They spoke in quiet voices about their memories of the Queen Mother. Darren Christmas was made to dismount from his noisy moped and push it until he was safely out of earshot of Hell Close. And, as a mark of respect, nobody was allowed to steal from the milk float that morning.

Reverend Smallbone, the Republican vicar, called at the bungalow at eight o’clock, having been alerted by the newsagent, from whom he bought the only copy of the
Independent
to be found within a four mile radius. He stood at the Queen Mother’s bedside and muttered inaudibly about heaven and hell and sin and love.

The Queen Mother opened her eyes and said, “I didn’t want to marry him, you know. He had to ask me three times, I was in love with somebody else!” And closed her eyes again.

Margaret said, “She doesn’t know what she’s saying; she adored Daddy.”

The Queen Mother was Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon once more, seventeen, a famous beauty, swirling around the ballroom of Glamis Castle in the arms of her first love, whose name she couldn’t quite remember. Thinking was becoming difficult. It seemed to be getting dark. She could hear voices in the distance, but they were growing fainter and fainter. Then there was darkness but in the far distance a pinprick of bright light. Suddenly she was moving toward the light and the light took her and encompassed her and she was no more than a memory.

39 Punctuation

It was Charles’s turn to choose the station, so everyone in the cell was listening to Radio Four. Brian Redhead was talking to the ex-Governor of the Bank of England, who had resigned the day before. Nobody had yet been found to take his place. Mr Redhead queried, “So, sir, you’re telling me that, in your capacity as Governor of the Bank of England, even you, in your exalted position, did not know the terms of this Japanese loan? I find that hard to believe.”

“So do I,” said the ex-Governor, bitterly. “Why do you think I resigned?”

“So how will the loan be repaid?” asked Mr Redhead.

“It won’t,” said the Governor, “the vaults are empty. In order to fund his lunatic schemes Mr Barker has successfully robbed the Bank of England.”

The cell door opened and Mr Pike held out letters, saying, “Fat Oswald, from your mother. Moses, one from your wife, and one from your girlfriend.”

To Lee he said, “Nothing, as usual.” To Charles he said, “Teck, one, from a moron, judging by the writing on the envelope.”

Charles opened the envelope, inside were two letters.

Dear Dad,

I am alrite are you alrite

I now you are not on your holiday I seen Darrun Christmas an he tole me you was in the nick

Harris as wripped up all the plants in the gardin

Love Harry. 7 years.

Dear Dad,

Mum told us a lie that you was on holiday in Scottland. Are video has been stolen and also so has the candlesticks what belonged to that King George what reined years ago. Mr Christmas knows the bloke what took them. He said he is going to beat up this bloke and get are candlesticks back.

Are school is gettin a new roof soon. Jack Barker sent a letter to Misses Stricklan and she tole us in assembly yestardy.

Aunty Anne as got a horse called Gilbert. It lives in her back garden in a stabel. It is pink. The stabel not the horse. Will you send us some money from prison we have not got none.

Love from William.

P.S. Please write back soon.

Charles read the two letters with horror. It wasn’t only his sons’ abysmal use of the English language, the misspellings, the contempt shown for the rules of punctuation, the appalling handwriting. It was the contents of the letters. When he got out of prison he would
kill
Harris. And why hadn’t Diana mentioned the burglary?

As he was folding the letter, the cell door swung open and Mr Pike said, “Teck, your grandma’s dead. Governor sends his sympathy and says you’ll be let out for the funeral.”

The door closed again and Charles struggled with his feelings. His cellmates Lee, Carlton and Fat Oswald looked at him and were silent. Some minutes later Lee said, “If I was let out I’d do a runner.”

Charles stared out of the cell window at the top branches of the sycamore tree and longed for freedom.

Later that morning, when Fat Oswald returned from his creative writing class, he handed Charles a piece of paper, saying, “It’s for you, to cheer you up.”

Charles raised himself from his bunk, took the paper from Oswald’s pudgy hand and read:

Outside

Outside is cakes and tins of pop

And you can go into a shop,

To buy the chocolates that you like,

Or training shoes: the best is Nike.

Charles realised that what he was reading was a poem.

Outside is flowers and trees galore

If we could leave the prison door.

There is girls with pretty faces

We could take them to nice places.

Outside is where we want to be,

Charlie, Carlton, Lee and me.

“I say, it’s frightfully good, Oswald,” said Charles, who certainly agreed with the sentiments the poem expressed, though he abhorred the banality of the construction.

Fat Oswald heaved himself onto his top bunk, beaming with pride. “Read it out loud, Charlie,” said Lee, who, until now, had not realised that he was sharing a cell with a fellow poet.

When Charles had read the poem aloud to his fellow cell mates, Carlton said, “That’s a
wicked
poem, man.”

Lee remained silent. He was burning with creative jealousy. In his opinion, his own “Fluffy the Kitten” was by far the superior poem.

Charles lay on his bunk, the last line of the poem kept repeating itself in his head:

Outside is where we want to be,

Charlie, Carlton, Lee and me.

40 Women’s Work

Philomena and Violet knew how to lay out a body. It was something they had learnt to do in the past when times had been hard. They hadn’t expected to be needed in 1992, but their services were once again in demand. Few people in Hell Close could afford to pay for the services of an undertaker. Not unless they went into crippling debt or the cause of death was an industrial accident (in which case the employer was anxious to placate the family). Insurance policies were considered to be items of fabulous luxury, as exotic as having a holiday abroad or eating roast beef on Sunday.

Knowing how important it was to keep busy at such times, the women had sent the Queen out on various small errands. The Queen had gone willingly. Without her mother’s lively presence, she found the bungalow horribly oppressive.

When the two women had finished their work, they went to the end of the bed and looked at the Queen Mother. She had a small smile on her lips, as though she were dreaming of something rather pleasant. They had dressed her in her favourite blue evening gown and matching sapphire jewellery twinkled on her ears and around her throat.

“She looks serene, don’t she?” said Philomena, proudly.

Violet wiped her eyes and said, “I never see the point of ’avin’ the Royal Family, but she
were
a nice woman, spoilt but nice.”

They checked everything was tidy, then left the bedroom and began to clean the rest of the bungalow. They anticipated having many visitors over the next few days and they had sent Wilf to the shops for extra tea-bags, milk and sugar. Diana joined them in the kitchen. She had brought a bunch of purple flowers on long stalks. Behind her Ray-Bans, her eyes were swollen from crying.

“I picked these from the garden,” she said. “They’re for … the Queen Mother’s lying in state, or whatever it’s called.”

A pungent smell insinuated itself around the kitchen.

“They’re
chives
” said Violet, sniffing at the bouquet. “They’re ’erbs,” she explained.

“Oh, are they?” said Diana, blushing and confused. “Charles will be so
cross
with me.”

“Don’t matter,” said Violet. “Only they do pong.”

“Lilies is what’s needed,” said Philomena, “but the t’ings is one pound twenty-five
each
.”

“What’s one pound twenty-five each?” asked Fitzroy Toussaint, entering the kitchen.

“Lilies, the kind that smells so sweet,” said his mother. “The kind the Queen Mother liked.”

Fitzroy had never actually met Diana before. He took her face, figure, legs, hair, teeth and complexion in with a practised glance. He saw that the black suit was Caroline Charles and the suede shoes with the pointed toes were Emma Hope. What wouldn’t he give to take this blushing lady out to the Starlight Club for a few Margueritas and a session on the dance floor? Diana looked over the chives at Fitzroy. He was so
tall
and beautiful – those high cheekbones. And his clothes were Paul Smith, his shoes were Gieves and Hawkes. He smelt so delicious. His voice was as smooth as syrup. His fingernails were clean. His teeth were perfect. She had heard he was kind to his mother.

Fitzroy said to Diana, “I’m going to buy some lilies, fancy a drive?”

Diana said, “Yes,” and they left the oldies in the kitchen and headed for the florist’s.

Diana walked around the front of the car towards the passenger seat but Fitzroy said, “Hey! Catch!” and threw the car keys to her. Diana caught them, crossed to the other side of the car, opened the driver’s door and slipped behind the steering wheel.

At the barrier, Inspector Holyland stared at Diana and Fitzroy and said, “Are you prison visiting today, Mrs Teck?” Diana lowered her eyes and shook her head. Every morning since Charles had been imprisoned she had waited for a Visiting Order but it hadn’t yet arrived. The barrier lifted and Diana drove out of Hell Close and towards a world she was more familiar with: smart cars, handsome escorts and expensive flowers. She drove down Marigold Road and passed the Infants School where Harry was running in the playground. He had his coat over his head and was playing muggers – his favourite game. She skirted the Recreation Ground and saw Harris leading a large pack of unruly dogs through a tunnel on the children’s play area.

Fitzroy slotted a cassette into the car stereo. Pavarotti’s voice filled the car – “Nessun Dorma”.

“I hope you don’t mind?” he said.

“Oh
no
, he’s my absolute fave, I saw him live in Hyde Park. Charles prefers Wagner.”

Fitzroy said sympathetically, “Wagner’s bad news.”

He leaned forward and pressed another button and the sun roof opened. Pavarotti’s voice escaped and attracted the attention of the Queen, who was standing outside Food-U-R, receiving the condolences of Victor Berryman. The Queen looked up and saw Diana driving Fitzroy Toussaint, who was sitting in the front passenger seat waving his arms to the music.

What
now
? the Queen thought and she picked her carrier bags up and started to trudge back to Hell Close.

As Diana sped down the dual carriageway which led to the town, she and Fitzroy joined in with the final bars of “Nessun Dorma”, adding their own comparatively puny voices to the sweet bellow that was Pavarotti’s. On the opposite side of the road, heading toward the Flowers Estate, was a horse and cart. Traffic was lined up behind it; furious motorists peered ahead, waiting for an opportunity to overtake.

“It’s my sister-in-law and her bloke,” said Diana as she passed them.

“They look like a pair of gypsies,” said Fitzroy disparagingly. “And what
did
that horse have on his
head
?”

Diana glanced into the rear view mirror. “It’s the hat that Anne wore at Ascot last year,” she said, adding drily, “It looks better on the horse, though.”

She was pleased when Fitzroy laughed. It was a long time since she had made Charles laugh.

As they passed the prison, Diana said, “Poor Charles.”

Fitzroy said, “Yeah, you must be lonely without him, I expect?”

Their eyes met for a split second. But it was long enough for them both to know that Diana was not going to be
too
lonely. There would be compensations. Diana blossomed.

Meanwhile, in Charles’s garden, the sun was beating down. And the water was evaporating from the Gro-Bags and the hanging baskets and the seed trays, leaving the compost as dry as the Nevada Desert.