The Queen and I (7 page)

She clutched her mink coat to her and inspected the bathroom. This brought a fresh peal of laughter: displaying teeth that feared the dentist’s chair.

“I love it,” she pealed. “It’s so
containable
, and look, Lilibet, there’s a hook for one’s peignoir.”

The Queen looked at the stainless steel hook on the back of the bathroom door. It was nothing to get excited about; it was simply a hook, a utilitarian object, designed for a purpose; that of hanging one’s clothes from.

“There’s no lavatory paper, Lilibet,” whispered the Queen Mother. “How does one obtain lavatory paper?”

She cocked her head to one side coquettishly and waited for an answer.

“One has to buy it from a shop,” said Charles, who was single-handedly emptying the contents of the box van that had recently arrived outside his grandmother’s bungalow. He was carrying a standard lamp under one arm and a silk shade under the other.

“
One
does?” The Queen Mother’s smile seemed fixed, as though it had been commemorated on Mount Rushmore.

“How simply thrilling.”

“Do you think so?”

The Queen was irritated by her mother’s refusal to
give in
to one moment of despair. The bungalow was truly appalling, cramped, smelly and cold. How would her mother
manage
? She had never so much as drawn her own
curtains
. Yet here she was putting a stupidly brave face on this truly awful situation.

Spiggy arrived on his familiar errand and was met with cries of extravagant greeting. Jack Barker’s specifications had been disbelieved by the Queen Mother. A room couldn’t be nine feet by nine feet. A digit had been missed out; Barker had meant to write nineteen feet. So large rugs had been removed from Clarence House and transported to Hell Close in the box van. The servants had seen to it – their final act of service: those sober enough to stand.

Spiggy removed the instruments of destruction from his tool bag. Stanley knife, steel measure, black binding tape, and proceeded to cut a precious rug, a present from Persia, to fit around the Queen Mother’s orange-tiled fireplace. He was once again the hero of the hour. The Queen Mother promenaded in her back garden, her corgi, Susan, at her side. The black woman next door watched her from her kitchen window. The Queen Mother waved, but the black woman ducked away, out of sight. The Queen Mother’s smile faltered slightly, then recovered, like the
Financial Times
Index on a rocky day in the City.

The Queen Mother needed people to love her. People loving her was plasma; without it, she would die. She had lived without a man’s love for the greater part of her life. Being adored by the populace was only a small compensation. She was slightly disturbed by her next-door neighbour’s unfriendly attitude but, as she came in from the garden her smile was firmly back in place.

She saw Spiggy look up from his labours. There was adoration in his eyes. She engaged him in conversation, enquiring about his wife. “Run off,” said Spiggy.

“Children?”

“She took ’em wiv ’er.”

“So, you’re a gay bachelor?” tinkled the Queen Mother.

Spiggy’s brow darkened. “Who’s been sayin’ I’m gay?”

Turning to Spiggy, Charles said, “What Granny meant to say was that you probably have a carefree existence, unshackled by domestic responsibilities.”

“I work hard for my living,” said Spiggy, defensively. “You wanna try luggin’ carpets round all day.”

Charles was discomfited by this misunderstanding. Why couldn’t his family simply
talk
to their neighbours without … er … constant … er …?

The Queen handed round delicate china cups and saucers. “Coffee,” she announced.

Spiggy watched closely to see how the ex-Royals handled the tiny cups. They inserted their forefingers inside the little handles, lifted the saucers and drank. But Spiggy could not get his forefinger, calloused and swollen by years of manual work, to fit inside the handle of his cup. He looked at their hands and compared them to his own. Shamed for a moment, he hid his hands in the pockets of his overalls. He felt himself to be a lumbering beast. Whereas they had a shine on their bodies, sort of like they were covered in glass. Protected, like. Spiggy’s body was an illustrated map: accidents at work, fights, neglect, poverty, all had left visible reminders that Spiggy had lived. He grabbed the cup with his right hand and drank the meagre contents. Not enough in one of these to wash a gnat’s hat, he grumbled to himself, replacing the little cup on the saucer.

Prince Charles pushed his way out through the small crowd that had gathered outside the Queen Mother’s front gate. A youth with a shaved head stood hunched and shivering in the icy wind. He approached Charles.

“You need a video, don’t you?”

Charles said, “Actually, we do rather, that is, my wife does. We left ours behind, didn’t think in the, er … but … aren’t they awfully, er … well … expensive?”

“
Normal
, yeah, they are, but I can get ’em for fifty quid.”

“Fifty quid?”

“Yeah, I know this bloke, see, what gets ’em.”

“A philanthropist, is he?”

Warren Deacon stared uncomprehendingly at Charles. “He’s just a bloke.”

“And they, er … that is … these video machines, do they … er …
work
?”

“’Course. They’re from good ’omes,” Warren said, indignantly.

Something was puzzling Charles. How did this rodent-faced youth know that they had no video? He asked Warren.

“I walked by your ’ouse las’ night. Looked in the winder. No red light. You should draw the curtains. You got some good stuff in there; them candlesticks are the business.”

Charles thanked Warren for the compliment. The youth obviously had a strong aesthetic sense. It really didn’t do to judge people too quickly. Charles said, “They’re exquisite, aren’t they? William III. He er … that is, William started his collection in …”

“Solid silver?” enquired Warren.

“Oh yes,” assured Charles. “Made by Andrew Moore.”

“Oh yeah?” said Warren, as though he was conversant with most of the silversmiths of the seventeenth century.

“’Spect they’d fetch a bit then, eh?”

“Probably,” Charles conceded. “But, as you er … may know, we … that is … my family … we aren’t allowed to er … actually … sell any of our er …”

“Stuff?” Warren was getting sick of waiting for Charles to finish his sentences. What a dork! And this bloke was lined up to be King and rule over Warren?

“Yes, stuff.”

“So really, you shoulda lef’ the candlesticks be’ind and bought the video?”

“
Brought
the video, yes,” said Charles, pedantically.

“So, you want one?” Warren felt it was time to close the deal.

Charles felt in the pockets of his trousers. He had a fifty pound note somewhere. He found it and handed it over to Warren Deacon. He knew neither Warren’s name nor where he lived, but he thought, a boy who is interested in historical artefacts is worth cultivating. He had a vision of showing Warren his small art collection and perhaps encouraging the youth to take up painting …

Charles climbed into the back of the box van and picked up a carton marked “shoes”, but shoes didn’t chink and neither did they take a huge effort to lift. Charles opened the lid of the carton and saw twenty-four bottles of Gordon’s gin nestling amongst sheets of green tissue paper. He struggled through the small crowd, holding the carton to his chest, sweating with the effort. He wished that Beverley could see him now, carrying such a weight – doing a man’s work. When he got to the front door without dropping his heavy burden, the small crowd of women and pushchaired toddlers cheered ironically and Charles, flushed and proud, nodded to acknowledge the cheers, something he had been taught to do since he was three years old.

He staggered into the kitchen with his burden and found his mother washing up at the sink. She was using one hand. Princess Margaret was leaning against the tiny formica table, watching the Queen. Her own household was in chaos. She had nothing suitable to wear. The trunk containing her daytime casual wear had been left in London. Her entire Hell Close wardrobe consisted of six cocktail suits, suitable for show business award ceremonies, but nothing else. She had her furs with her, of course, but this morning a girl with a spider tattooed on her neck had hissed, “Cowin’ animal killer” as they had passed on the pavement outside her new home.

The Queen wanted her out of her mother’s kitchen. She was blocking the light and taking up valuable space. There was work to be done.

Spiggy put his head round the door and spoke to Princess Margaret. “Need any carpets fittin’? I can squeeze you in ’s afternoon.”

“Thanks awfully, but no,” she drawled. “It’s hardly worth it, I won’t be stopping.”

“Please yourself, Maggie,” said Spiggy, trying to be friendly.

“Maggie?” She pulled herself up to her full height. “How
dare
you speak to me in that tone. I am Princess Margaret to you.” He thought she was going to hit him. She pulled back a beautifully tailored Karl Lagerfeld sleeve and showed him her fist, but she withdrew it and contented herself with shouting, “You horrid little fat man,” as she ran back to her Hell Close home.

The Queen put the kettle on. She thought that Mr Spiggy deserved a nice cup of tea. “I’m so sorry. We’re all rather overwrought.”

“’S all right,” said Spiggy. “I
do
need to lose a bit of weight.” Thas’ another thing, he thought. None of ’em are fat. Whereas all his relations were fat. The women got fat after they had their kids and the men got fat ’cause of the beer. At Christmas his family could hardly squeeze into their living room. The Queen hummed a tune as they waited for the kettle to boil and Spiggy caught the melody and whistled as he worked on the hall carpet.

“Wa’s it called?” he asked the Queen as they came to the end of their impromptu duet.

“
Born Free
,” she replied. “I saw the film in 1966. A Royal British Film Performance.”

“Free tickets, eh?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “and no queuing at the box office.”

“Funny though, going to the pictures with a crown on yer ’ead.”

The Queen laughed. “A tiara! One wouldn’t wear a crown; it wouldn’t be fair on the person sitting behind.”

Spiggy laughed his booming laugh and Philomena Toussaint banged on the wall and shouted, “Stop the noise, me head is full of it.”

Philomena was hungry and cold and her head hurt. She was jealous. Her kitchen had been full of laughter once, when the children were at home: Fitzroy, Troy and her baby Jethroe. The food those boys ate! She really needed a bulldozer to fill their mouths: always coming to and from the market she was. She could remember the weight of the basket and the smell of the flat iron as she pressed their damp white shirts for school every morning.

She dragged a chair towards the high cupboard where she kept her packets and tins. She climbed onto the chair and put the cornflakes packet on the top of the cupboard. While she was there, at eye level, she touched and rearranged her tins and packets. Bringing this soup forward, that cereal back, until, satisfied with the adjustments, she lowered herself down from the chair.

“Never had the police at me door,” she said aloud to the empty kitchen. “And I always got tins in me cupboard,” she said to the hall. “And there’s a place for me in heaven,” she said to the bedroom as she took her coat off and got into bed to keep warm.

By late afternoon, quite a crowd had gathered round the box van, hoping to see the Queen Mother. Inspector Holyland sent a young policeman to move them on. PC Isiah Ludlow would rather have been sent to guard a decomposing corpse than have to face these hard-faced Hell Close women and their malevolent-looking toddlers.

“C’mon now, ladies. Move along, please.” He clapped his big leather police gloves together and that, together with his wispy moustache, gave him the appearance of an eager seal about to be thrown a ball. He repeated his order. None of the women moved.

“You’re blocking the thoroughfare.”

None of the women knew for sure what a thoroughfare was. Was it the same as a pavement? A woman, whose pregnant belly strained against her anorak, said, “We’re guardin’ the van for the Queen Mother.”

“Well, you can go home now, can’t you? I’m here, I’ll guard the van.”

The pregnant woman laughed scornfully. “I wun’t trust the police to guard a lump of shit.”

PC Ludlow bridled at this slur on his professional integrity, but he remembered what he had been taught at Hendon. Stay calm, don’t let the public get the upper hand. Stay in control.

“It’s cos a you my ’usband’s doin’ two year in Pentonville,” the woman went on.

PC Ludlow should have ignored her remarks but, being young and inexperienced, he said, “So, he’s innocent of any crime, is he?” He’d tried to get a sceptical tone in his voice, but it hadn’t quite worked.

The pregnant woman took it as a genuine question. PC Ludlow saw with horror that tears were now dripping down her round, flushed cheeks. Was this what his instructors had called a dialogue with the public?

“They said ’e’d stripped the church roof of all its lead, but it were a bleedin’ lie.” The other women gathered around, patting and stroking the sobbing woman. “’E were frit of heights. It were me ’oo ’ad to stand on a chair to change the light bulbs.”

As Charles emerged from the bungalow, eager to empty the van of its final contents, he heard a woman’s voice crying plaintively, “Les! Les! I want my Les!”

He saw a small group of women surrounding a young policeman. The policeman’s helmet fell to the ground and was picked up by a toddler wearing an earring, who put it on his own small head and ran away down the Close.

PC Ludlow tried to explain to the hysterical woman that, though he knew about stitch-ups in the locker room, he had never been a party to one himself. “Now look here,” he said. He touched the sleeve of her anorak.

The small group moved as one, blocking Charles’s entrance to the back of the van. What he now saw was a policeman gripping the arm of a hugely-pregnant young woman who was struggling to be free. He had read accounts of police brutality. Could they possibly be true?