by Ray Timms
Listening to this and feeling guilty, the author of ScottiLeak, the fictitious email that brought the UK and Scotland to the brink of war, Terry Beaumont suggested.
‘How about we offer the Scots greater devolution.’
The PM looked around at his SA and considered the idea.
‘Like what? I don’t see what else we can offer them. They virtually run the show up there anyway.’ Then after a little more thought he said.
‘I suppose we could give them control of them elderly chaps, the ones with the silly lollipop signs that are used to beat on the roofs of the cars that fail to stop.’
‘I’m not sure that’s what they do with those Sir Roger,’ Interjected Chief of the Civil Service, Sir William Barminster. ‘Besides, the Scot’s already manage those people.’
‘Do they by God!’ Sir Roger said taken by surprise. (Being taken by surprise was now a fairly common occurrence.) Having exhausted himself by having two thoughts in one morning, the Prime Minster enquired of Lord Soper.
‘Please tell me you have spies inside Holyrood Palace keeping an eye on this Essex upstart.’
‘Indeed we do,’ said, Lord Soper. ‘I have people inside the Palace and inside the Scottish Government. The Scots can’t sneeze without me hearing about it.’
‘Good.’ Sir Roger nodded, happy with that. The PM looked at his watch. They’d been at it now for fourteen minutes. ‘That’s enough for now he said getting up from his chair.’ He was wondering if Kittikins was busy? He guessed that she wouldn’t be. He didn’t employ her to be busy.
*
Eliza Nutter, Personal Assistant to Katie Murrell the Home Secretary, had been looking everywhere for Sir Roger Bottomley. She guessed the PM was trying to avoid her. Finally, after her persistent knocking on the door to his private study, Charlotte Sweetwater, looking a little flushed unlocked the door and stepped aside to let her in.
‘What is it Eliza? The PM said, gruffly, moving the bottle of whiskey off his desk and placing it down on the floor out of her sight.
Eliza watched Charlotte retreat to a chair in the corner of the room. With her legs crossed at the knees, having magically conjured up a writing pad and a pen, the way that her skirt was pulled up to show off her thighs she could never pass off as a proper secretary. The woman was a flirt and a hussy. Eliza was a proper, PA. Turning to the PM she said.
‘The Home Secretary has asked me to come and speak with you regarding the Scottish Problem. I have a few suggestions that will greatly reduce the current tensions between the UK and the Scottish Governments.’
Oh God! Sir Roger was thinking.
‘First off, you need to ask the Queen to begin conciliatory talks with King Robert. The talks should focus on convincing the King to abdicate.’
‘That wont work, Eliza,’ the PM said tiredly, ready to debunk any of her suggestions before he’d even heard them. ‘Her Majesty is not a happy bunny right now. I think she may be suffering from PMT, or some such?’
Eliza’s eyes widened. ‘Sir Roger, you cant say that, PMT! Surely you mean PTSD? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?’
Sir Roger shrugged. ‘I was referring to the thing that some people get where they become a bit morose. Go off their food so to speak. Can’t blame the old girl. My God what must that have been like, one minute she was nestled up to the Duke having an afternoon nap and the next thing she knows a damn great shell brings the celling down on her head. She blames me of course. She says it’s entirely my fault that the Scots are upset. And she doesn’t see why she should she have to pay to get her roof fixed. I told her not to worry, that it wont cost her a penny because Mary Dewar will pay for the repairs. I mean dash it all, Eliza, it was her bloody troops that shot a damn great hole in the roof.’
‘Quite, but the attack was with our tanks.’ Eliza, sniffily reminded the PM. ‘I still think that we should request an audience with her Majesty. I don’t mind doing the talking. I am thinking that maybe speaking woman to woman, I can get her to agree to assist in the setting up of reconciliation talks?’
Sir Roger regarded Eliza Nutter as one of those infuriating people who when she wanted to drive home her point of view she was like a dog with a bone. Dammit he was not going to talk to the Scots. They started it. Declaring Independence was outrageous and downright illegal and he was not going to start talks with that odious, Mary Dewar, who needed putting in her place.
‘I will of course consider your suggestions Mizz Nutter, but would you please leave us now because I already have a plan and it is one that doesn’t involve bothering Her Majesty. Charlotte and I … I mean Mizz Sweetwater and I, have certain matters that require our urgent attention. Good day Eliza.’
As if there was a bad smell under her nose Eliza cast her eyes up and down Charlotte. Eliza Nutter’s almost imperceptible lips, more of a thin gash beneath her pointed nose, turned down at the corners. The office tramp smiled back, all perfect white teeth.
In a pointed reminder, one that was certain to further antagonise the PM, Eliza said.
‘I certainly hope your plan is a little more practical than your scheme to erect two hundred wind turbines on a council estate in Clapham that were subsequently stolen by scrap metal thieves.’
‘You done?’ The PM said flatly.
‘No. I am worried about King Robert who I have recently learned is putting together a team of legal experts to help him draft a series of new laws designed to wrench power out of our hands. I hear he has converted the basement of Holyrood Palace into a suite of offices, and if that isn’t enough, the King is now having talks with the Russians about a possible arms deal.’
Sir Roger’s florid face went crimson, and then blue before settling down to a chalky white.
‘The blighter!’ Sir Roger stormed reaching for his cigar box and clamping a thick Havana between his teeth.
‘Please refrain from lighting that disgusting thing in my presence.’ Eliza Nutter said icily.
It was like being married to her, all that nagging. It was like being in the same room as Dame Edith. His wife was an insufferable anti-smoking, teetotal, women’s rights activist and a member of a bloody interfering anti- foxhunting rabble. It suited him that his wife spent most of time with her Spanish keep- fit trainer, Jose, or whatever the blasted foreigner’s name was!
‘Then you had better leave, ‘Sir Roger said stiffly.’ Because I need to smoke.’
‘I haven’t quite finished,’ Eliza snapped. ‘I would like to know what checks have been made to ascertain that King Robert is who he say he is. The man could be a fraud?’
‘I am not entirely stupid Eliza. I had his credentials checked out. His DNA was analysed by the top genealogists in Strathclyde University. My sources assure me there is no question the man is a direct descendent of Robert The Bruce. I have also had our finest legal brains look at a facsimile of the scroll. They have studied the smallest print in the ancient statutes, and there is absolutely no doubt the man has a right to claim the throne and that the Charter in his possession legally entitles him to pass whatever laws he chooses.’
‘In that case, ‘Eliza said, ‘you had better stop your foolish dallying with that strumpet you claim to be your PA and come up with a plan to end this madness.’
Sir Roger lit the cigar. He waited for Eliza to cough and then storm out.
‘And close the door behind you.’ He yelled to her retreating figure.
*
It was the following day. Upon hearing the faint tap on the door to his private study, in no mood for visitors, Sir Roger closed the lid on his red despatch box. His lips formed a smile when he saw that it was Charlotte.
‘Charlotte, do come in.’ Sir Roger enthused.
Charlotte placed a tray down on his desk. It had a pot of tea an Eccles cake. Today she had on a blousy yellow top and a black pencil skirt that ended just above the knee. Around her neck on a gold chain hung a jade and amethyst pendant. When she leant over his desk she saw where his eyes settled.
‘Are you
admiring my necklace Sir Roger,’ she said, with a wicked grin, ‘or are you having those naughty thoughts again?’
He was having those naughty thoughts again.
With her long blonde hair and her alluring blue eyes you would have thought by the age of thirty-seven Charlotte Sweetwater, vivacious, attractive, would be happily married, or at the very least, settled into a long-term relationship. Over the years she’d had many male admirers and had been on countless dates. However, these brief but intense love affairs inevitably ended abruptly when her suitors, one by one, were driven away by her insatiable need to mother them.
‘Ah, poor you,’ Charlotte said placing one hand to his cheek. When the PM’s hand shot out, Charlotte’s back arched leaving his groping hand clutching at thin air.
‘Uh uh,’ Charlotte admonished the PM. ‘Darling we agreed there was to be no touching.’ Charlotte sat on the edge of his desk and sighed deeply. ‘Sweet thing, you know how desperately I hunger for you to take me. But we must both be resolute my angel. We can take comfort from knowing how much sweeter our lovemaking will be when we are free to do it within the sanctity of marriage.’
That was the other reason why her male admirers didn’t hang around too long.
It was Sir Roger’s turn to sigh deeply. Right now, Sir Roger was thinking how much sweeter it would be if she didn’t keep swatting at his hand. It’d be nice if they ever got to actually make love before he actually died. She was a good thirty years younger than him and as for marriage! That was out of the question. Edith would never agree to a divorce. My God what would her friends in the W.I say?’
He watched Charlotte’s bosom heave and her tongue moisten her lips.
Charlotte was thinking: The poor man, why, he can hardly keep his hands from tearing off my clothes, laying me back on his desk and having his wicked way with me. If only I wasn’t so chaste, if only I could bring myself to… Be strong! Her inner voice demanded. He is a mere man and a slave to his urges. You are not that weak!
Charlotte could get so angry thinking about how Dame Edith neglected the basic needs of this poor man. She’d seen Marcel DuPont, Dame Edith’s greasy personal trainer drive off with her on the back of his powerful motorcycle… him wearing those tight-fitting leather pants… him showing off his tight butt, and his muscly thighs… and his rippling chest… and his… his… She couldn’t understand what Dame Edith saw in him? Dashing from her mind images of the Frenchman, Charlotte said, wistfully.
‘If I was your wife Sir Roger.’ ‘Why, I would cook for you every day. I would darn your socks, I would iron your underpants, I would have your slippers warming by the hearth, I would have your pipe ready and I would put on a little makeup and brush my hair minutes before you came home from work. Just imagine how sweet that would be.’
Sir Roger said. ‘You forgot to mention sex!’
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ Charlotte said, hurriedly, waggling her hands in front of her face. ‘Tell me about your day.’
Chapter Twenty-three
IRIS
Iris Brewson’s obsession with anything to do with ghosts and the supernatural was about to get into serious trouble.
Her son had told her that she wasn’t to leave the Palace without an armed police guard. Which in her view was ridiculous. He had banned her from attending her regular Ghost Hunters meetings saying, it wasn’t something that the mother of the King should be doing. But then he was never a fan of the supernatural.
When the maid, Flora Butters came across the King’s mother slipping out the back door about to get into a cab. She asked her what she was doing going out on her own.
Iris held a finger to her lips. ‘I’m going to one of my Ghost Hunters’ meetings, Iris said, ‘don’t ell my son. I shan’t be gone long.’
The Ghost Hunters Group met weekly at lunchtimes in a room above the Kings Head pub. There were usually around thirty or so Ghost Hunters, present.
At the end of the meeting, Iris was helping herself to a cup of tea when a man, quite tall, and well built, wearing a long black coat came over to introduce himself. He had quite an accent.
‘Please’a madam, I am Mario Pantanello, da foremost ghost hunter in Milano?’
‘Oh,’ Iris said, smiling coyly and having to arch her neck to look up at the man. ‘Yes, I do believe I have heard of you.’ She lied.
Mario leant and whispered in her ear. ‘All of’a dese’a people in here,’ Mario said, casting his eyes round the other people busy chatting and drinking tea or coffee, ‘are amateurs. But straightaway, I could’a tell’a dat you have been blessed with da ability to make’a contact’a with da other side.’
‘Oh,’ Iris blushed. ‘I don’t like to boast about it.’
‘I can’a see dat Iris.’ Mario said, and leant in closer. ‘How would’a you like to go from here to a place, just around the corner, where a famous ghost’a lives? I happen’a to know he would love to encounter a person with’a your exquisite’a abilities.’
Iris’s eyes widened. ‘A famous ghost you say?’ Then crestfallen, she said. ‘I couldn’t possibly; you see I am the mother of the King and I am not even supposed to be here. I sneaked out.’
‘It is just around’a da corner.’ Mario said with a motion of his hand. ‘I am talking about’a the ghost of Deacon Brodie, who escaped’a death by hanging, when da steel collar that he invented, concealed under his shirt saved his life. Did you know da authorities finally caught up with him and this time he did’a not escape’a da hang’a mans noose.’
The thrill of her having an encounter with the ghost of Deacon Brodie, the notorious public dignitary, part-time cabinetmaker and burglar was too much of a temptation.
*
It was now after two in the afternoon and Gavin hadn’t seen his Mother since breakfast. He had already had everyone search the palace and the grounds looking for her. She wasn’t supposed to leave the Palace without an armed guard but where else could she be? She must have slipped out. His fears were to become even more real when he quizzed Flora Butters who admitted that she had seen his Mother climbing into a taxi. Flora confessed that she knew his mother had been sneaking out regularly to attend her ghost hunters meetings.
Gavin knew where these meetings took place. He called Henry on his mobile. The Houseman was still searching the Palace grounds.
‘My Mother took a taxi to the King’s Head pub,’ Gavin explained. ‘The Ghost Hunters meet there but she should have left shortly after one o’ clock. Maybe I am being a little overprotective but I sense something is wrong. Can you go to the pub and see if you can find her there? And in case she comes home I will stay here.’
Looking out of the lounge facing west Gavin had an unobstructed view of the Palace gates. Every time he saw a taxi pull up outside he would hold his breath and pray his mother would climb out. When she got home he was going to have a stern word with her. This time he wasn’t hearing any arguments from her, she was to have a mobile phone.
He spun around when he heard the house phone ring. Hoping it was his Mother Gavin raced out to the hall and snatched up the receiver.
‘Hello?’ He said.
A heavily accented male voice on the other end said.
‘I have’a kidnapped’a your mudder. She’s a’gonna speak’a to you. You ever wanna see her alive again you will do exactly as I say.’
Before he could reply Gavin heard his Mother speak.
‘Gavin. I’m so sorry. I have been a silly old woman. Please don’t shout at me. This horrible man says he will kill me if you don’t do as he says, but don’t you take any notice of him. You tell him…’
The man came back on the phone.
‘At six o’ clock you will go into da parliament’a building and announce’a your abdication’a. When I see this on da TV, I will release’a your mudder unharmed. And if you call’a da police, you will regret it. You comprende?’
Stunned by the call, Gavin wasn’t going to argue. He would do exactly what the man said. His Mother’s
life was at stake here so him staying on, as King no longer mattered. He would gladly hand back the crown to have his Mother back safe and well.
‘Please, I will do everything that you ask,’ Gavin pleaded. ‘Six ‘clock I promise I will abdicate and you needn’t worry because after this we will leave Scotland. Just please, don’t hurt her.’
Click the line went dead.
Glaring at the phone, Gavin was pretty sure who was behind this. Who was it that tried to trick him into signing the annulment of the Royal Assent law? Who was it tried to bribe him into abdicating? If anything happened to his mother he would take Mary Dewar by the throat and wring the truth out of her. Worrying him was, should he tell someone? Who? Fiona, Henry? Penny – quite possibly? Then why take the risk? No. He was going to do exactly what the kidnapper demanded. There would no police involvement and he would sign that damn Royal Assent bill and then announce his abdication. They would then pack their bags and move back to Marbury. The only regret he had was Mary Dewar was getting away it. That thought burned in his gut like acid. But the fight had gone from him. Feeling cheated and deflated, Gavin sensed his extraordinary Scottish adventure was about to come to an abrupt end.
*
Mario, Strangler, Pantanello, had grown tired of the old woman yelling and banging on the door. If his agent, Leplume, hadn’t insisted that she was to be kept alive, he’d have gone back inside the room and shut her up… permanently.
‘If’a you don’t’a fargin’ shaddup,’ he yelled through the wall. ‘I’m’a gonna come in there and throttle you.’
Mario wasn’t worried about anyone outside hearing her yells. They were two levels down in a basement beneath the shops on Royal Mile. He had her safely locked up in a tiny room with not a stick of furniture and not a bit of food or water. He was in an adjoining room off a set of twisted stairs. Worryingly, scaffolding held up the walls and celling. He hated the rats down here. They made him itch and someone once told him that rat fleas carried the bubonic plague.
‘My son could have you hanged for this you know,’ Iris yelled above the sound of her tiny fists hammering on the door. ‘He’s the king of Scotland.