by Sue Townsend
Camilla was waiting to listen to The Archers – there had been another suicide in Ambridge due to an organic sausage business failure – but before the familiar music played, she shouted from the back doorstep, ‘I’ve just heard the seven o’clock news. Avian flu has been found along the M1 corridor; we have to bring the poultry indoors.’
‘Indoors?’ queried Charles. ‘Are you sure, darling?’
‘Quite sure,’ she said. ‘The minister from the Department of the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs said quite explicitly that all poultry are to be brought indoors.’
It seemed to take forever to capture the two hens. Eccles escaped from Charles’s hands and flew on to the Threadgolds’ fence, causing Vince Threadgold to shout from his back door that, ‘If me or Bev gets avian flu, I’ll torch your house and destroy your family, fair enough?’
Charles said, ‘Certainly, fair enough.’ Eventually he managed to grab both of the hens and throw them into the kitchen.
With dogs and hens milling around their feet, Camilla said, ‘They’re going to make a dreadful mess.’
Charles said, ‘Darling, it’s a peasant tradition to share one’s living quarters with animals.’
Camilla said, with more vehemence than she’d intended, ‘But we are not peasants, Charles. You’re certainly not; you listen to the Reith Lectures and own a pair of black velvet evening slippers.’ She went into the sitting room, closing the kitchen door firmly behind her.
Charles began to clean the floor of hen droppings. Freddie stood by the pantry door, assessing the contents, and thought, by my estimation the dog food will run out by tomorrow evening. He growled and snapped at the hens, who were already pecking at the few remaining crumbs of biscuits in the three dog-feeding bowls. The hens fluttered up to the draining board, giving Freddie the opportunity to inspect them more carefully. He reckoned that, of the two, Moriarty would provide the better meal.
Later that night, after listening more carefully to the news, a shamefaced Charles rounded up the hens and took them back to their coop and locked them inside their nesting shed. On his return, he said to Camilla, ‘They’re going to miss their freedom dreadfully.’
Camilla said, ‘I know exactly how they feel.’
Dwayne kept his eye on Paris Butterworth by watching her on CCTV. He was delighted when she finally picked up Nineteen Eighty-Four. He didn’t mind that she moved her lips when she read; it proved to him that she was a diligent reader. He was immensely proud of her when, only a few days later, she reached the notoriously difficult middle section of the book, where Orwell lectures the reader about the nature of totalitarianism. Dwayne had skipped a few of the more impenetrable passages, but Paris had ploughed on through the scholarly text, stopping only to look up a few words in the dictionary she had borrowed from school and never taken back. Sometimes, when Fifty-cents was fretful and tired of the television, Paris turned his pushchair around to face her and read aloud to him from the book. Fifty-cents seemed to be entertained by Nineteen Eighty-Four, though Dwayne suspected that it was his mother’s attention he really enjoyed.
Dwayne couldn’t wait to see Paris again and have a literary discussion. The last time he had talked about books to his colleagues, it had resulted in them calling him Dorky Dwayne. Afterwards, Inspector Lancer had taken him aside and confided in him that he, himself, had read several books in the fifteen years since leaving school and had ‘quite enjoyed them’. Dwayne was preoccupied with how he could visit Paris without it being noticed. It was not only that he wanted to talk about Nineteen Eighty-Four. He suspected that the strange ache he had around his heart might be caused by love. He was too young for it to be angina.
27
There was an atmosphere of barely controlled hysteria in the chamber of the House of Commons as the elected members waited for the entrance of the Prime Minister. Boy English, flanked by a handsome black woman, the Member for Grimsby North, and the famously flamboyant gay Member for Shropshire South, was looking happy and relaxed in his ‘man of the people’ Marks and Spencer’s dark-blue ‘Italian’ suit, white shirt and pink tie.
The colour of the tie had been the subject of an acrimonious row between Boy’s media adviser and his team of stylists. Baby blue had been rejected by some because it ‘lacked gravitas’, olive green because it was ‘militaristic’; red was ‘bolshie’, maroon ‘old fart’, silver ‘bride’s father’; brown could signify ‘depression’; yellow indicated ‘cowardice’; lilac, purple and lime green were considered by some as ‘opportunistic’; royal blue was rejected as being ‘a bit Harold Macmillanish’. Eventually, as the clock ticked remorselessly towards noon, the choice came down to baby pink – non-threatening, women love pink, pink is optimistic and fun – or pistachio green, a colour that many people painted their walls. With five minutes to go, Boy chose the pink and, pausing only to allow a stylist to tease a curly lock of hair over his forehead, he left his office.
When the Prime Minister entered and took his place on the Government Front Bench, there were cries and laughter from the New Cons opposite: ‘Poo, poo, poo, what’s that on your shoe?’
This jibe reduced some Opposition MPs to tears of laughter. The Prime Minister allowed himself a wintry smile. Jack had not enjoyed his schooldays. Whenever his name had been called out in registration it was inevitably followed by some wag muttering ‘woof-woof ’. Sometimes, if the teacher was unable to keep discipline, the whole class would bark in unison. Jack would grin at his classmates to show that he didn’t care, but when he was thirteen he had looked up ‘deed poll’ in the dictionary and considered changing his name.
The first few questions were more or less a formality, asked by tame MPs who had to pretend that they were interested in the Prime Minister’s appointments for the day. Then Boy English stood up and congratulated the Prime Minister on his daughter’s marriage. Once again, there were cries of, ‘Poo, poo, poo, what’s that on your shoe?’
Hysteria broke out again, which was mostly halted by the Speaker shouting, ‘Order! Order!’ A few MPs remained convulsed.
Boy rose and said, ‘Prime Minister, can you confirm that according to figures released today by the Home Office, there are now six million, five hundred thousand and eighty-two persons currently living in Exclusion Zones?’
Jack stood up and said, ‘The honourable gentleman is correct: six million, five hundred thousand plus antisocial criminals, suspected terrorists, drug addicts and social incompetents have been taken off the streets and are now living in restricted areas, enabling stakeholders and decent hard-working families to get on with their lives in peace.’ There were loud Government cheers as Jack sat down.
Boy stood up again, ‘Prime Minister, these figures are rising at an alarming rate. How long will it be before there are more people inside the Exclusion Zones than there are outside?’ There was loud laughter, during which the Speaker called for order.
The Prime Minister rose and jabbed his finger at Boy across the Dispatch Box. ‘The courts decide who is excluded from our society. Does the honourable gentleman question the probity of our legal system?’
Boy stood up and said, ‘I do question the impartiality of our present system of justice, yes! Since all magistrates and judges are now appointed by your Government, I ask you this: Are you aware that a constituent of mine, a Mrs Lucinda Haddock, was sentenced by a Guildford magistrates court to three years in an Exclusion Zone for the heinous crime of posting a letter without a stamp?’
There were shouts of, ‘Disgraceful! Shame!’ A few Government backbenchers shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Jack rose and read from the folder in front of him, ‘Post Office fraud is a very serious crime, one that this Government takes very seriously. Such fraud deprives the Post Office of hundreds of millions of pounds each year. Revenue that could go towards life-saving equipment for cancer patients.’
There were some half-hearted cheers and a few muted ‘hear, hear’s.
Boy fingered his pink tie and lick
ed his lips, relishing his next question, ‘Prime Minister, are you aware that Mrs Haddock is suffering from a virulent form of cancer herself, and that the prognosis for her survival is poor?’
The House fell quiet. Jack glanced at the folder, but there was no help there, and it was some time before his instinctive political acumen took over. ‘I deplore the honourable gentleman’s naked opportunism in seeking to exploit Mrs Haddock’s tragic medical condition. I wish Mrs Haddock and her family well and would seek to reassure them that excellent palliative care is available to all English citizens, whatever their circumstances.’
Government backbenchers released their tension with prolonged cheering until quietened by the Speaker. A Government backbencher stood and asked, ‘Does the Prime Minister agree with me that this is the finest Government of all time?’
Jack agreed.
A New Con backbencher, the member for Windsor Central, asked, ‘Does the Government have any plans to release the Royal Family from exile, bearing in mind that a recent opinion poll concluded that seventy per cent of the English public supported the reinstatement of the monarchy?’
There was long and sustained cheering from the Opposition benches.
Jack shouted, ‘The survey the honourable gentleman is quoting has been discredited by all political analysts. The questions in this specious questionnaire were, and I quote,’ Jack put on the horn-rimmed glasses that he only ever wore at Prime Minister’s Questions, and read, ‘who would you rather see as head of state? a) Sir Elton John, b) Dame Judi Dench, or c) the Queen?’ To loud Government laughter, he went on, ‘Fifteen per cent voted for Sir Elton John, fifteen per cent for Dame Judi, seventy per cent for the Queen, but… but fifty per cent of those polled did not understand the meaning of the word “prefer”.’
Tom Bass, the Minister for Education, frowned. If it were true that half of those surveyed did not understand the meaning of the word ‘prefer’, it reflected badly on him and his department. He scribbled a note in his diary to have the words, prefer, preferred, preferring and preferment added to the National Curriculum.
A few mundane questions followed: the Member of Parliament for the Isle of Wight West asked if the Prime Minister would join him in congratulating the Needles Academy for their achievement in gaining several bronze medals in the Isle of Wight non-competitive sports challenge.
Jack did.
Another, the Member for Chelsea, asked, ‘Is the Prime Minister aware that three of my constituents have fallen from stepladders during the last financial year, at a cost of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds to the National Health Service, and can he confirm that the Stepladder Bill will be made law before the dissolution of this parliament?’
Jack confirmed that it would.
Then, in the final few minutes, a New Con MP, the Member for Cheltenham East, Marjorie Coddington, rose to her sensibly shod feet and said, ‘Is it true that the Government is proposing to rush through new legislation reintroducing dog licences, and is planning to charge dog owners five hundred pounds a year…?’
There were cries of dismay from both sides of the House. The Chancellor stared down at his pinstriped trousers and removed several of Mitzie’s hairs. He had brushed her coat earlier that morning.
After the Speaker had intervened, Mrs Coddington continued, saying, ‘…and will the Prime Minister confirm that only one dog is to be allowed per household?’
Jack glanced quickly along the row of Cabinet Ministers. Some bastard has been talking, he thought. The details of the proposed dog legislation were meant to be a secret. The Queen, watching at home with Harris and Susan, waited anxiously for the Prime Minister’s reply. Harris and Susan nuzzled closer to their mistress.
Jack thought, in the seconds before he answered Mrs Coddington’s question, thank God, I’ll soon be out of here, out of office and out of politics. ‘Yes,’ he said.
The Queen looked from Harris to Susan and back. How could she possibly choose between them?
Harris whimpered, ‘She’ll keep me, I’m her favourite.’
Susan said, ‘I’m her mother’s dog, she promised to look after me.’
The Queen looked away from the dogs and stared down at her hands resting on her lap. She was unable to look either dog in the eye.
28
Graham found Prince Charles’s letter on the coconut-fibre doormat when he arrived home from his work as a health and safety officer. Gin and Tonic, having very little to do all day, had been speculating since the post had been delivered that morning about the contents of the letter.
‘The envelope is cheap,’ said Tonic.
‘But the pen used is a Mont Blanc,’ said Gin. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, the ink is Quink, India black.’
‘The handwriting belongs to somebody confident and of high status,’ said Tonic. ‘Although the down strokes indicate that the confidence is only skin-deep.’
The dogs waited impatiently for Graham to put his umbrella in the stand by the back door, take off his anorak and hang it on a coat hanger in the cloakroom.
Gin said, ‘Let’s fetch his slippers.’
Tonic said, ‘Sod him, let him fetch his own slippers. He leaves us here all day with bugger all to do. Not even a squeaky toy to lighten our futile existence.’
Gin said, ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re in one of your nihilistic moods.’
Graham was pleasantly surprised when Gin waddled into the living room dragging one of the huge Bart Simpson novelty slippers that Graham had bought for himself as a recent birthday present. ‘Good boy, Gin,’ he said. He would have died of embarrassment if anybody had come to the door while he was wearing the slippers, but as nobody ever did come to the door, he felt fairly safe. When Gin dragged the second slipper up to him, he said, ‘You’re my best dog, Gin. Yes you are, yes you are. You’re my friend, aren’t you? My bestest friend.’
From the doorway, Tonic barked, ‘Bestest friend? If I had fingers I’d be sticking them down my throat. Why don’t you have human friends, Graham? Could it be because you’re a social pariah?’
Graham took off a Bart Simpson slipper and hurled it at Tonic’s head, shouting, ‘Shut the fuck up!’
Tonic slunk off to the kitchen to avoid being hit by the other slipper. As he passed Gin, he growled, ‘I’ll get the bastard back for that.’
Graham opened the envelope and took out the letter from his parents, Charles and Camilla. He read it with growing excitement, and at the end he said to the little dog at his feet, ‘I’m the heir to the throne, Gin, and that means that one day, you’ll be top dog.’
He went to the cupboard and pulled out a photograph album, saying to Gin, ‘They want a photograph of me. Which one should I send?’ As Graham turned the pages, he said, ‘How about the one that was on the front page of the Ruislip Trumpet, recording my third successive victory in the Ruislip Tiddlywinks Championship, captioned “The Tiddlywink King”?’
Gin looked at the photograph and remembered that even Graham’s adoring adoptive mother had said, ‘My God, Graham, I can’t put this in a frame.’ His less adoring father had looked at the newspaper and laughed.
But he did have a short video of himself filmed at the Hardtopleeze Dating Agency offices earlier in the year. In Graham’s opinion it gave an absorbing and fascinating portrait of his life and character. After editing out a few glitches (at one point Graham had nervously blurted out, ‘I usually eat serial killers for breakfast,’ when, of course, what he meant to say was ‘cereal’) he had shown the film to his parents and asked them for their opinion.
‘Be honest,’ he’d said.
His father had lowered The Daily Telegraph and watched the video without changing his expression, only saying at the end, ‘You shouldn’t have asked for somebody “bubbly”. In my experience, women who start out bubbly end up crying in public and wearing red shoes.’
Graham’s mother had said, ‘You can’t have it all, Graham. Your dream woman can’t be financially secure and like board games. The two ar
e incompatible.’
At the end of the video, Gin muttered to Tonic, ‘So that’s a mystery solved.’
Gin and Tonic had often speculated about the precise nature of Graham’s sexuality. Graham had never brought a girl home, but Gin didn’t think he was gay. Gin was sometimes allowed into Graham’s bedroom and he had seen Graham leafing through copies of Playboy, cutting out the photographs of women and pasting them into a scrapbook that he kept on the top shelf of his wardrobe, underneath a pile of winter-weight sweaters.
Tonic said, ‘So what? I’m gay, but I’m still attracted to bitches.’
Gin and Tonic had been gay lovers ever since they came to sexual maturity, at the age of eighteen months. Gin was the submissive partner; Tonic sometimes complained about that, saying, ‘You’re too bloody lazy to get up off your front legs. You just stand there and let me do all the work.’
Graham had ignored the advice of his parents and posted the video on the Net. He received two hits almost immediately, one from a lady-boy in Bangkok and the other from an 89-year-old Mantovani fan, Clarice Witherspoon of Rugby. Mrs Witherspoon had sent an attachment back to Graham at [email protected] with a photograph of herself in corsets, wearing a red fez. ‘I’m a bit of a character,’ wrote Mrs Witherspoon. ‘I’m young at heart and own my own house, love OFAH and think David Jason is a dish! You tick most of my boxes. Do I tick yours?’
Over the next few months, Graham checked his email many times a day, hoping for the right woman to appear on his screen. But the ones who described themselves as being mad about board games did not look as though they had ever washed their hair, and the bubbly ones looked slightly mad. He had replied with great excitement to a woman who was staggeringly beautiful and claimed to be a backgammon champion. However, when Graham showed the beauty’s photograph to his mother she pointed out that Graham had been hoaxed. The photograph was of Gina Lollobrigida, a film star that Graham had never heard of.