Queen Camilla

by Sue Townsend

  Freddie pushed past Camilla and, after watching the chasing dogs for a few moments, growled, ‘Look at the fools, have they nothing better to do?’

  Camilla patted the top of his head and said, ‘Go on, boy. Go and play.’

  Charles was in their front garden digging a hole in the lawn for his bird table. When he finished he said, ‘Darling, could you help me put it in place?’

  Camilla said, ‘No, darling. I can’t leave the house, can I?’ She thought, there are some advantages to being under house arrest.

  Charles said, ‘Sorry, darling. It’s absolutely absurd, banning you from your own garden.’

  He hefted the bird table into the hole and replaced the turf around the base, then stepped back to look at the effect it made. He said, with a frown, ‘You don’t think it’s too… er… dominant, do you? It does loom somewhat.’

  ‘It’s certainly imposing,’ said Camilla, looking at the seven-foot-high construction with its multi-ledges, tables and roosting boxes. ‘But I’m sure the birds will be terribly appreciative.’ She watched him fondly as he attached a piece of coconut on a string and hung it from a nail, then placed nuts and seeds on to the various surfaces. She said, ‘Look at our lovely bird table, Freddie. Isn’t Charles clever?’

  Freddie waddled over to the bird table, cocked his leg and urinated over the base.

  Charles shouted, ‘You horrid little beast!’

  Freddie scrambled through a hole in the low privet hedge and ran out into the close and down to the barrier, where he barked, ‘Let me through, I’ve got an appointment in Slapper Alley.’

  Judge barked back, ‘Try to leave this close, you short-arsed fleabag, and I’ll rip your bleedin’ throat out.’

  The gang of dogs stopped their chasing game and lay flat on the ground, panting and watching the altercation at the barrier.

  Emperor barked, ‘And that goes for all you Hell Close low-life scum. You’re all forbidden to leave the close.’

  Princess Anne was looking out of her front-room window. She said, ‘Spig, what’s that tower thing Charles has just put up in his front garden?’

  Spiggy looked out of the window and said glumly, ‘Christ knows. Give me a clue.’ Spiggy was in a bad mood, he had people to see and things to do on the estate today, and now, because of his sister-in-law, he couldn’t do anything. He said, ‘I’ll go stir-crazy stuck in the bleedin’ ’ouse.’

  Anne said, ‘You can do something about those bloody scaffolding poles. I’ve been living with them for ten years and I’m sick of manoeuvring round them, it’s like the bloody slalom course at Klosters.’

  It didn’t suit Spiggy to be confined; it was like living in an open prison, and he knew what that was like. He’d spent seven months at North Sea Camp for a tarmacking scam. He had, for three of those months, worked in the prison kitchens with Jeffrey Archer, who had encouraged Spiggy to tell him his life story. The great man had subsequently published his prison diaries and Spiggy had featured in them, under the alias of a Russian mafia hit man.

  Spiggy said, ‘There ain’t no point in doing the house up, is there? We could be out of ’ere in six weeks if the New Cons win the election.’ He threw himself down on the mock-leather sofa and propped his head in his hands.

  Anne said, ‘You don’t sound delighted at the prospect. What’s wrong, Spig?’ She cuffed him round the head playfully.

  Spiggy said, gloomily, ‘You’re not goin’ to want me if you go back into the outside world, are you?’

  Anne said, ‘So, who will I want?’

  ‘Some bloody posho with no chin,’ said Spiggy.

  Anne said, ‘I’ve had two of those, and neither of them was half the man you are, Spig.’

  But Spiggy was wallowing in his misery. ‘I’ll ’ave to wear a suit,’ he said, ‘an’ eat artichokes.’

  Anne laughed and said, ‘Come on, Spig. What’s really up with you?’

  Spiggy said, ‘I’ve run out of fags and I can’t go to the bleedin’ shops to buy some because your brother’s wife fancied a stroll outside.’

  Anne said, ‘If you help me with the housework, I’ll ask Camilla if she’s got a few fags to spare.’

  Spiggy could turn his hand to anything, but the mysterious arts of cooking, laundering and cleaning continued to keep their secrets from him. He had never used a lavatory brush in his life, and he felt nothing but contempt for any man that would.

  Spiggy said, ‘No, don’t bother, Maddo Clarke owes me a few favours.’

  Harris and Susan were lying on the end of the Queen’s bed, watching her sleep. Harris said, ‘She’s never slept this late before. It’s nearly midday.’

  Susan whimpered, ‘I’m dying for a pee. We’ll have to wake her soon.’

  Harris tramped along the silk coverlet and began to lick the Queen’s face. The Queen woke and said, ‘Hello, boy.’ She glanced at the little carriage clock on the bedside table; it was 11.54 a.m.

  Susan ran to the bedroom door and barked, ‘I’m hungry and thirsty and I want a pee.’

  The Queen said, sleepily, ‘Yes, I hear you.’

  Violet Toby shouted from downstairs, ‘Where are you, Liz?’

  The Queen shouted back, ‘I’m upstairs. Come up.’

  She heard Violet wheezing on the stairs, then the bedroom door opened, and Violet said, ‘Are you poorly?’

  Violet had been in the Queen’s bedroom on only a few occasions. Each time she had been almost overwhelmed by the loveliness of the furniture and accoutrements. The room was like the inside of the Fabergé egg that the Queen kept on her dressing table. It was lustrous and mirrored; objects seemed to shimmer above the surfaces on which they were placed. The room reminded Violet that her friend and neighbour had once been the Queen of England and the Commonwealth, and had been fabulously wealthy.

  The Queen sat up and put her glasses on. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m perfectly well. I’ve been lying in bed listening to the radio. Did you hear the Prime Minister’s announcement?’

  Violet said, ‘I seen it on the telly. That poor little kiddie.’

  ‘Yes, dreadful,’ said the Queen.

  ‘If the Government don’t get back in,’ said Violet, ‘you’ll be leaving ’ere.’

  ‘If the New Cons keep their promise,’ said the Queen.

  Violet said, straightening the silken coverlet, ‘I won’t know what to do with myself if you leave here and go back to your palace.’

  The Queen picked at a loose thread on the monogrammed sheet and said, ‘I’ll miss you, Violet. Would you consider coming with me?’

  Violet said, ‘I’d love to, but I couldn’t leave our Barry.’

  The Queen was tempted to say that Barry would be welcome to live in one of the royal palaces, but instead she said, ‘Yes, family comes first.’

  Violet said, ‘I’ve come round to borrow a tin of dog food. My poor Micky will be chewing his own leg off if he don’t get fed soon.’

  Harris and Susan barked in protest. Harris growled, ‘Away with you, woman. Let the mangy moron eat his own leg. He’s nae having my food.’

  The Queen started to get out of bed.

  Violet said, ‘Stay there, I’ll make you a cup of tea, and let the dogs out, shall I?’

  When Violet and the dogs had gone downstairs, the Queen lay back on her pillows, remembering how agreeable it had been in the old days to have people helping her with the bothersome necessities of everyday life. There was the sound of a dogfight in the back garden. She heard Freddie, Susan and Micky snarling and snapping, then Violet’s voice screaming, ‘Leave our Micky alone, you nasty little bleeders.’

  The Queen got out of bed and looked out of the window and saw Violet laying into the dogs with a sweeping brush. When the dogs had gone their separate ways and run out of the garden, the Queen got back into bed. She felt a little guilty, but she thought, I am eighty years old, and I have been up most of the night.

  Violet stomped up the stairs again; this time she carried a tray of tea and hot buttered toast.<
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  Violet said, ‘You must be right pissed off with Camilla.’

  The Queen sipped at her tea and said, ‘Yes, I am rather. I’m absolutely furious with her, putting us all to a great deal of trouble. I won’t be able to visit Philip.’

  Violet said, ‘And I’m running out of my blood pressure pills. If I have a stroke, it’ll be Camilla what killed me.’

  The Queen said, ‘She really should have thought about the consequences before she went AWOL.’

  ‘She’s a bit of a loose cannon, though, ain’t she?’ said Violet. ‘I mean, tell me if I’m speaking out of order, but I’m not sure she’s queen material.’

  The Queen said, ‘My own sentiments entirely, Violet. She’s been well enough brought up, but she hasn’t had the training. I had the spontaneity knocked out of me at an early age. The only impulsive thing I ever did in my whole life was to fall in love with Philip at first sight. He’ll be pining for me.’

  Violet said, ‘I can’t tell our Chantelle to look out for ’im either. She tried to go to work this morning, but the police turned ’er back. So I’ve got ’er and Chanel moping round the ’ouse, an’ Barry talkin’ to ’imself in ’is bedroom. They’re as wound up as a milkman’s alarm clock.’

  The Queen said, ‘Stay here, Violet. We’ll have some lunch and watch the afternoon film.’

  Violet said, ‘With a bit of luck, it’ll be in black and white.’

  Both women believed that films had deteriorated since colour was introduced.

  26

  Panic broke out among the residents when the Grice grocery van pulled into Hell Close. Earlier that morning a rumour had swept from house to house that there would not be enough food to go round. Beverley Threadgold claimed she had heard on the grapevine that the residents were to be given British army rations earmarked for Afghanistan. She had told Maddo Clarke, who had in turn passed it on to Chantelle Toby, that they were expected to live on dehydration salts and dry biscuits.

  Grice security police, in riot gear, had bellowed at the residents to form a queue. But panicked by the thought of going hungry, several people, including Prince Andrew, pushed to the front and were beaten back with batons. Camilla watched from the doorstep as Charles was pushed further and further back until he was at the very end of the agitated queue.

  When Princess Anne walked by with a cardboard box full of groceries, she said, ‘Camilla, if I were you I’d go inside and close the door. People are blaming you for this and things could turn nasty.’

  Camilla took Anne’s advice.

  The Hell Close dogs were also in a state of agitation; examination of the first food box carried away by Barry Toby revealed that there was no dog food among the tins, packets and bottles.

  Micky said to Leo, ‘It’s gonna be dog eat dog,’ as he followed Barry back to the house.

  When Charles finally arrived home, he and Camilla unpacked the groceries on to the kitchen table. They were far from being army rations, which are meticulously assembled for nutritional and calorific value. These foods were devoid of minerals, vitamins, fibre, goodness and taste. Most of them had been processed from dubious ingredients in eastern European industrial units.

  Camilla said, ‘We’ve run out of loo roll and there’s none here.’

  Grice’s groceries included a tin of pink sausages in brine, two ‘Mexican-style’ pot noodles, a box of economy tea bags, a chicken and mushroom pie (three days past its sell-by date), a tin of spam, a tin of grey mince, two tired leeks, a bag of defrosted oven chips, a block of margarine and one of lard, a white sliced loaf, a pot of Slovenian jam, a two-pound bag of granulated sugar, and surprisingly, in the bottom of the box, under a packet of Vesta chow mein, an envelope bearing the House of Commons portcullis.

  Dwayne Lockhart had lifted the visor on his helmet as he handed Charles his provisions, and whispered, ‘There’s a bit of a treat for you in the bottom of the box.’

  Charles opened the envelope and read:

  Sir Nicholas Soames

  House of Commons

  Westminster

  To His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales

  c/o PC Dwayne Lockhart

  Flat 31, The Old Abattoir

  Leicester

  East Midlands Region

  My Dearest Charles,

  How could you think that I would desert you in your hour of need? I confess myself hurt that you think me capable of such calumny.

  I was knocked sideways when my man brought your letter to me in bed this morning. I recognized your distinctive hand and almost choked on my Cumberland sausage.

  I am somewhat baffled myself as to why you have not received my numerous letters. I curse myself now for not having made copies; mes belles lettres would have transmogrified into a decent little book, ‘Letters to a Prince in Exile’. What do you think, eh?

  I managed to get some shooting in at Buffy Haight-Fernemore’s place in Northampton – a couple of dozen brace of partridge and, as a special request from Buffy’s Mallorcan cook, a dozen larks for a pie.

  Did you see the television footage of our illustrious Prime Minister, Mr Barker, stepping into the dog poo? It was priceless. Goofy Guggenheim, who was there at the Abbey in an aisle seat, said the smell was so foul that he almost retched into his top hat.

  Buffy tells me that Boy English is so confident of winning the election that he has already contracted Colefax and Fowler to do up Number Ten. He also advised me to put money on it. Apparently the odds are extremely favourable on him winning. It will be simply marvellous to have you back in London.

  I consulted the top chap at Burke’s Peerage and there is no sound constitutional reason why Camilla cannot be your queen. The public are a little lukewarm, but they could, I think, be made to learn to love Camilla as you and I do. Anyway, that’s far into the future, as your mama will undoubtedly live to be a hundred!!!

  Must dash, I’m speaking against the Stepladder Bill in twenty minutes but I wanted to get back to you asap.

  Love to Camilla and your mother, Her Majesty, of course.

  Yours, as always

  Nick

  Charles passed the letter to Camilla and said, ‘Fatty seems to think we could be back in London in only six weeks. It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it, darling?’

  Camilla said, faintly, ‘Yes, terribly,’ and turned away from him as she began to put the groceries away.

  Charles asked, ‘Is anything wrong, darling? You seem a little, er… distracted.’

  Camilla said, ‘It’s nothing. I’m worried about the loo paper. How will I blow my nose?’

  Charles said, ‘It’s not like you to let a small problem, such as a lack of loo paper, get you down. What is it, darling?’

  ‘The people hate me,’ she burst out. ‘I don’t want to be queen.’

  Charles said, ‘How could anybody hate you? You’re utterly adorable.’

  Camilla said, sadly, ‘There are three people in our marriage, Charlie. She’s still around in people’s memories. They loved her because she was beautiful.’

  Charles said, comfortingly, ‘At a certain angle, in a flattering light, with professional make-up and an expert hairdresser, I admit she could sometimes look beautiful.’

  Camilla shouted. ‘What do they expect? I’m fifteen years older than her.’

  ‘But, I think you’re beautiful,’ said Charles.

  Camilla shouted back, ‘Have you any idea how insulting that is?’ She opened the back door and was about to run down the garden when she remembered that she was under house arrest.

  Beverley Threadgold shouted through the party wall, ‘Ay oop, Camilla, I’ll swap you a toilet roll for a bag of sugar. And don’t beat yourself up about ’is first wife, she would only have got ’ard-faced, running around wi’ them Eurotrash gangsters.’

  Later that evening, Charles went out to talk to the hens. He explained to them that food was in short supply and that he would be awfully grateful if they could manage to produce a few eggs. The creatures did not seemi
ngly pay any attention to his entreaties; they continued to cluck and scratch at the earth inside their wire compound. At the bottom of the garden the fox had scrambled through the narrow gap it had burrowed under the wire fence and stood quite brazenly watching Charles. It was some time before Charles saw the pair of glittering eyes that appeared to be assessing him.

  The fox said, ‘We have a family connection, Your Royal Highness. You, together with your wife and friends, hunted down and tore apart my great-great-great-grandmother in a copse in Leicestershire. Family legend has it that the hounds followed her scent for miles across the Vale of Belvoir.

  ‘At dusk, exhausted and terrified, she ran from the fields into a private garden to seek sanctuary from a sympathetic householder. The hounds maddened and encouraged by the humans following on horseback, jumped over the garden fence and corralled my ancestor, forcing her through the open door of a greenhouse. A witness reported that my great-great-great-grandmother begged the hounds for mercy, telling them that she had cubs at home that needed her milk. She cried that if the hounds killed her, they would also kill her cubs, who would die slowly and painfully of starvation.

  ‘She appealed to them, saying, “You and I are the same species, we owe allegiance to each other, not to humankind.” But the hounds were baying with bloodlust and few heard her appeal. Before the first dog could sink his teeth into her fur and flesh, her heart burst. Again, legend has it that in the few moments remaining of her life, my great-great-great-grandmother cursed you and your kind, and predicted that there would be great tragedy in your life. I am here now to witness events as you and your family tear yourselves apart.’

  As Charles and the fox stared into each other’s eyes, Charles had a terrible sense of foreboding and shouted, ‘Be away with you.’ But the fox stood his ground. Charles picked up a terracotta flowerpot and threw it at the fox, but before it landed the fox had disappeared.