Two Weeks with the Queen

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘. . . be a good boy for Uncle Bob and Aunty Iris,’ Mum was saying through her tears, ‘and have a wonderful time. We’ll be thinking of you.’

  No you won’t, thought Colin, you’ll be thinking about Luke, as well as being with him night and day, and playing with him, and buying him things, and spoiling him rotten.

  Until I get back that is.

  Colin saw himself arriving back in The Best Doctor In The World’s private Lear jet, being whisked by helicopter to the hospital, where The Best Doctor In The World would operate immediately, Luke would be cured, and Mum and Dad would spend the rest of their lives trying to express their gratitude to Colin, probably starting with a small statue in the front yard.

  ‘. . . and be sure to thank Uncle Bob and Aunty Iris very very much for having you,’ Mum was saying, ‘and give them our love. This is for you.’

  Colin looked down and saw that she’d pushed into his hand three strange-looking brown banknotes.

  ‘English money,’ said Mum. ‘It’s not much, I’m afraid, but we didn’t have much left after buying your air ticket.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Colin, ‘I won’t need much.’

  Mum folded the money up and tucked it into the plastic wallet with his air ticket and the passport they’d spent the last two days rushing around Sydney getting.

  ‘This is the best way,’ said Mum, starting to cry again. ‘Once you’re over there it won’t be so painful for you and we’ll send for you when It’s all . . . when it’s all’. . .’

  Colin watched her trying to say ‘over’. He was about to grab her and yell ‘watch my lips’ and tell her that Luke wasn’t going to die when Dad arrived with the Qantas lady.

  During the flight Colin worked out the details of his plan.

  The flight attendants were very nice to him, bringing him meals before anyone. else and asking him every half an hour if he wanted another orange juice and listening patiently to his suggestions about improving the plane.

  Colin told them that if they moved all the seats over a bit there’d be room down one side for a really good in-flight cricket pitch. They nodded thoughtfully and said they’d pass that on to the captain.

  The businessman sitting next to Colin didn’t seem so friendly. Over Indonesia he cleared his throat and Colin thought he was going to say something, but he went back to reading his magazine.

  Over India he went to the toilet. As he sat back down in his seat he gave a grunt of pain.

  Colin decided that with another eleven and a half hours to go, he should probably start a conversation.

  The businessman shifted in his seat and gave another grunt of pain.

  ‘Is that a bit of cancer?’ asked Colin.

  The businessman stared at him.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Cancer,’ said Colin, ‘it’s where cells start growing too fast inside your body and your whole system can go bung.’

  ‘I know what it is,’ snapped the businessman, ‘I just don’t particularly want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Because it’s not a very pleasant topic,’ said the businessman, sounding just like Mr Blair when Arnie Strachan asked why sick had bits in it.

  ‘If you’ve got it I’d get it seen to,’ said Colin.

  ‘I haven’t got it,’ snapped the businessman, wriggling in his seat. ‘I’ve got indigestion.’

  ‘Mum’s always warning us about getting that,’ said Colin. ‘Did you go out and climb a tree straight after a meal?’

  The businessman didn’t answer. He closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.

  Indigestion, thought Colin. Maybe Luke’s just got indigestion.

  No, he thought, even doctors with the most serious car problem in the world, like dropping the keys down the toilet and not knowing which toilet, wouldn’t make a mistake like that.

  Over Yugoslavia the whole plane was asleep except for Colin, who was deep in thought.

  ‘Dear Luke,’ he wrote in his head, ‘flight over was very pleasant with free lemonade, orange juice and Coke. Did you have a choice of drinks on the air-ambulance? Probably not, as you don’t get the same standard of service on the smaller airlines . . .’

  He was interrupted by a flight attendant tapping him on the shoulder and asking him if he’d like to go up front and meet the captain.

  Must want to talk about the in-flight cricket pitch, thought Colin as he followed the attendant towards the front of the plane.

  On the flight deck were more dials, gauges, knobs, switches, levers and screens than Colin had ever seen in one place before. The whole cabin pulsed with the quiet throb of incredibly complicated machinery.

  ‘So,’ said the captain shaking hands with Colin, ‘we’re travelling to London by ourselves.’

  No we’re not, thought Colin, looking at the other uniformed men sitting in the cabin.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said.

  ‘What are you going to do in London?’ asked the captain. ‘British Museum? Trafalgar Square? Ride in a red bus?’

  ‘Buckingham Palace,’ said Colin.

  ‘Ah,’ said the captain. ‘Changing of the Guard, eh?’

  ‘No,’ said Colin, ‘I’m going to see the Queen.’

  The other men in the cabin grinned at each other.

  ‘See the Queen?’ said the captain, winking at one of them. ‘Going to drop in for tea are you?’

  ‘No,’ said Colin. ‘I’m going to ask her to help cure my brother’s cancer.’

  In the long silence that followed, Colin took a closer look at the equipment humming and blinking all around him.

  If modern technology could do this, he thought, keep a plane bigger than Bayliss’s Department Store up in the air sixty thousand feet over Dubrovnik, it could cure cancer standing on its head.

  Chapter Six

  Will I tell them or won’t I, wondered Colin as he wheeled his luggage trolley down the airport corridor behind the London Qantas lady.

  He tested out telling them in his head. ‘Nice to meet you, Uncle Bob and Aunty Iris, but I’ve really come to London to see the Queen.’

  ‘Oh, is that right, young man? Well if our hot meals and spare bed aren’t good enough for you, you can rack off.’

  He followed the London Qantas lady out into the Heathrow Arrivals Hall. Thousands of English faces peered at him to see if he was their cousin from Buenos Aires or their uncle from Karachi.

  It’d be an easier decision to make if he’d met Uncle Bob and Aunty Iris before, but he’d only seen a photo and that’d had a fly spot on it.

  What if they turned out to be good friends of the Queen? He knew Uncle Bob worked for the local council. Perhaps the Queen dropped by sometimes to see how the roadworks were going. If he didn’t tell them, they might never say.

  He still hadn’t decided what to do when he saw Aunty Iris lunging towards him, arms outstretched.

  And there was Uncle Bob behind her. He didn’t look much like Mum’s brother. For a start her mouth curved up at the corners and his curved down.

  Next to Uncle Bob was the whitest kid Colin had ever seen. And huge. Colin was sure Mum had said cousin Alistair was only thirteen but he was built like a brick dunny and was taller than Uncle Bob.

  After the hugging and kissing and shaking hands and questions about Mum and Dad and the food on the plane, they all stood looking at each other.

  Except for Aunty Iris, who was looking at Alistair.

  ‘Don’t stand like that, love, you’ll damage your spine.’

  Alistair straightened up half a millimetre.

  ‘You heard what your mother said,’ said Uncle Bob. ‘I’m not paying for you to have your posture straightened.’

  ‘Sorry: said Alistair.

  ‘Well,’ said Aunty Iris, smiling, ‘we might as well be off then.’

  ‘Less time in that car-park the better,’ said Uncle Bob. ‘It’s a disgrace, charging like that to park a car.’

  Colin noticed the larg
e mole next to Uncle Bob’s nose. It hadn’t been a fly spot on the photo after all.

  They moved off towards the car-park.

  No one had mentioned Luke.

  Colin huddled into the back seat of the little car as it sped along the motorway. He’d never been so cold, and that was with the car heater on.

  In the airport car-park the cold had hit him like a kick in the guts and sent him burrowing inside his suitcase for more clothes.

  ‘There’s Windsor Castle,’ said Aunty Iris, pointing.

  Uncle Bob gave a snort and put his foot down.

  Colin turned round to look. It wasn’t easy as he was wearing all four of the jumpers he’d brought with him.

  Through the rain-spattered car window all he could see was fog. Then a big truck roared past and sprayed the window with dirty, half-melted slush and he couldn’t even see the fog.

  ‘Are you hoping to see some of the sights while you’re here?’ asked Aunty Iris. ‘Alistair, don’t pick your scalp, you’ll get scabs.’

  Colin decided to risk it.

  ‘I want to go to Buckingham Palace,’ he said.

  Uncle Bob gave another snort.

  ‘Why would you want to go to that dump?’ he demanded, glaring at Colin in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Waste of taxpayers’ money, that place. Ought to be pulled down. Alistair, you heard what your mother said.’

  Colin was shocked. Buckingham Palace hadn’t looked like a dump on Mrs Widdup’s place mat. Though it had been a fairly old place mat. Perhaps they’d had problems recently, termites or something.

  ‘I’m not really that interested in the palace,’ he said. ‘It’s the Queen I want to see.’

  Colin saw Aunty Iris flinch slightly.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about the Queen,’ growled Uncle Bob. ‘You get me started on the Queen. . .’

  ‘All right, Bob,’ said Aunty Iris hastily, ‘you mind the road.’ She turned to Colin. ‘Don’t mind Uncle Bob, he’s got a bit of a thing about the Royal Family.’

  ‘Thinks they should be stuffed and put in a museum,’ said Alistair.

  ‘All right, Alistair,’ said Aunty Iris. ‘Is your seat belt done up tight enough?’ She gave it a tug, then turned back to Colin.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we don’t go into the city as a rule. Can’t hear yourself think in there. But don’t worry, we’ll be able to show you all the sights. Got them all in a lovely big book at home. What else are you planning to do while you’re here?’

  Colin decided not to tell them.

  After another hour of driving through slush, fog and heavy traffic, they arrived in Uncle Bob and Aunty Iris’s suburb.

  ‘If you’re not too tired,’ said Aunty Iris, ‘we thought we might have a bit of an afternoon out.’

  ‘Take your mind off other things,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Just a bit of fun and relaxation,’ said Aunty Iris, glaring .at Alistair. She smiled at Colin. ‘Do you good to relax after that long flight and . . . and . . .’

  ‘Other things,’ said Uncle Bob.

  He swung the wheel and they turned into a huge car-park in front of what looked to Colin like a massive warehouse. It certainly wasn’t Buckingham Palace.

  ‘No,’ said Colin wearily, ‘I’m not tired.’

  They got out of the car.

  Still no mention of Luke.

  ‘This,’ said Uncle Bob proudly, ‘is the biggest Do-It-Yourself Hardware Centre in Greater London.’

  Colin looked around. There was a lot of hardware.

  The massive warehouse building was full of it. Giant supermarket aisles stretched away as far as the eye could see, and on every shelf, hook, and rack, and in every basket, tub and storage unit, was hardware.

  ‘Pretty incredible, isn’t it?’ said Uncle Bob.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Aunty Iris. ‘Alistair, don’t play with the saws.’

  I don’t believe it, thought Colin. I’ve just flown half-way round the world to save my brother’s life and here I am staring at pre-painted bathroom panels.

  ‘It’s bigger than ours at home,’ he said.

  Uncle Bob, Aunty Iris and Alistair laughed the laugh of people who had just heard what they wanted to hear.

  ‘We were a bit worried when they first built it,’ said Uncle Bob, ‘but it’s the focal point of the district now.’

  ‘We’re very pleased with it,’ said Aunty Iris. ‘Alistair, don’t touch that.’

  ‘Do you mind if we go now?’ said Colin. ‘I’m actually finding it a bit hard to concentrate on hardware while Luke’s got cancer.’

  The silence that followed lasted long enough for Alistair to cut his finger on a wallpaper scraper.

  By the time they had been to the hospital and waited to have Alistair’s finger looked at, and Uncle Bob had had an argument with the medical supervisor about wasting the hospital’s time, and Colin had asked the medical supervisor if he knew anything about cancer, and the medical supervisor had thought Colin was being sarcastic and had ordered them all off the premises, it was teatime.

  After tea, Aunty Iris thought Alistair was looking pale and sent him to bed early.

  Colin said he needed an early night too. He lay on the lumpy bed in the spare room and stared at the ceiling. He wondered what the Queen was doing. Working on next year’s Christmas speech perhaps. Perhaps it had given her a headache and even at that moment the best doctor in the world was being rushed across London in a police motorcade.

  He wondered how quickly cancer made the body go bung. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time. He had to see her tomorrow. But first he needed some information.

  He crept into Alistair’s room. Alistair was in bed, reading a Captain America comic. On the cover Captain America was fighting about fifty slime-covered reptiles. Alistair guiltily stuffed it under his pillow until he saw it was only Colin.

  ‘Alistair,’ said Colin, ‘where exactly is Buckingham Palace?’

  ‘In town,’ said Alistair. ‘Miles away.’

  ‘How do you get there?’

  ‘Quickest way’s by tube,’ said Alistair, ‘but it’s pretty dangerous. You have to get into the same carriage as dozens of other people. You can catch a cold or flu or anything. Well, not anything. A lot of things but not, you know, anything.’

  ‘It’s OK, Alistair,’ said Colin. ‘I know you don’t catch cancer from other people.’

  Alistair looked pained.

  ‘Mum said that word isn’t to be mentioned in this house while you’re here.’

  ‘What word?’

  ‘That word.’

  ‘Cancer?’

  ‘Shhhh.’

  Colin looked at Alistair and the thought occurred to him that perhaps being an only child wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Downstairs the phone rang.

  ‘Quickly,’ Aunty Iris called up. ‘It’s your mum and dad.’

  Colin raced down.

  ‘I’ve told them you arrived OK,’ said Aunty Iris.

  Mum and Dad sounded very faint. Colin wasn’t sure if it was because they were very far away or because they were very unhappy.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he shouted into the phone, ‘everything’s going to be OK.’

  There was an echo on the line and he heard his own voice.

  ‘. . . going to be OK.’

  Chapter Seven

  Next morning it was still dark when Colin woke. Perfect, he thought. Best to make an early start when you’re going to see the Queen. You’d kick yourself if you got there late and she’d gone shopping or something.

  He dressed quickly, wrote a short note (‘Gone for a walk. Cricket training. Back later.’) and crept down the stairs, hoping to slip out of the house before anyone else was up.

  No such luck.

  ‘Morning, Colin,’ said Uncle Bob, looking over the top of his newspaper.

  ‘Morning, Colin,’ said Aunty Iris, corning out of the kitchen with a tray of breakfast things.

  ‘Morning, Colin,’ said Alista
ir, sitting at the dining-table with a mouthful of bacon.

  ‘G’day,’ said Colin, pushing the note into his pocket. ‘What time is it?’

  His watch said six-thirty but it had been running a bit crook ever since Arnie Strachan dropped it in a pineapple yoghurt.

  ‘Eight-fourteen,’ said Uncle Bob.

  ‘Why’s it so dark outside?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about dark,’ said Uncle Bob. ‘This country’s like a coal-mine in winter.’

  ‘You slept well,’ said Aunty Iris. ‘Alistair, chew your food.’

  Colin looked out the window and saw that it was just getting light. He’d have to hurry.

  ‘’Fraid we’re going to have to leave you on your own today,’ said Aunty Iris. ‘Alistair’s coming to work with me so I can take him to the doctor’s at lunchtime.’

  ‘I’m sickening for something,’ said Alistair, shovelling a whole fried egg into his mouth.

  ‘We want you to make yourself right at home,’ said Aunty Iris. ‘There’s the telly and the wireless and Uncle Bob’s Do-It-Yourself magazines. The important thing is, relax and take your mind completely off, you know, things.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Colin. ‘I’ve got heaps to keep me occupied.’

  Colin rubbed a peep-hole in the misted-up front room window and watched the little car chug away in a cloud of white exhaust.

  He counted to ten.

  Then he ran upstairs, hauled on his other three jumpers, slammed the front door behind him and sprinted down the street.

  He’d seen the underground station as they’d approached the house the evening before and he didn’t stop running till he’d reached it. He hurried down the steps, lungs raw in the icy air, and bought a ticket and a map of London.

  The train arrived and it was as crowded as Alistair had said, hundreds of people jammed into every carriage. Colin squeezed in and felt the sliding doors brush his shoulders as they closed behind him.

  At the next station even more people crushed in, and more at the next. Colin’s feet were barely touching the ground. An umbrella was sticking in his ear.

  He thought of Mum and Dad and Luke, tucked up in their beds in Australia, and wished they knew what he was going through so they could appreciate it.