by William Kuhn
“Rebecca,” said The Queen.
“God, do you know her?”
“Well, there can’t be many flame-haired girls who look after horses in London, can there be? I think I know the one you mean.”
“Rebecca is her name right enough,” said Rajiv, still amazed.
“Rinaldi. Yes, well she’s at the Mews.”
“Oh, well, she wouldn’t tell me where she worked.”
“Good girl.”
“Yes, I expect she has to keep it confidential.”
“Oh, you can’t imagine. If anyone so much as finds Queen Victoria’s nail file at a car boot sale, they all run to the papers with it right away. You can’t come near the palace these days without signing fourteen legal forms. Fees to lawyers are the biggest claim on the Privy Purse. Costs us much more than Princess Michael of Kent.”
Rajiv was uncomfortably aware that he’d twice in recent months submitted his photographs to a newspaper and been paid handsomely for them. So he started in a little defensively, “Well, Ma’am, don’t you think that as long as there’s curiosity, as long as people still want to know about what goes on inside the palace, that, well, basically the monarchy generates interest. And that must be a good thing. Wouldn’t apathy be worse?”
“A little apathy might be welcome now and again,” said The Queen quickly. “Would certainly lead to a quieter life,” she said, snorting. “But you see that interest, ‘curiosity’ I think you called it, can easily turn to its opposite. Just as extreme love, in a marriage, for example, can turn to hate. They’re the same coin, just different sides.”
Rajiv had no direct, firsthand experience of either love or marriage. These were big, unexplored continents for him, though he did hope to go there one day himself, soon if possible. He was aware that the woman for whom he’d felt such sympathy when she walked in the door had experience of all these big countries, not only love and marriage, but the monarchy, popularity, and getting up every day not to write a poem, or come to work on Jermyn Street, but to be sovereign. To embody the state. He took a step backward, and addressed her a touch more deferentially. “I see what you mean.”
“Oh, but the papers, now, they’re not all bad, are they?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Free speech. It’s what a democracy’s all about, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“And one of them, I can’t remember which one, well, when Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands was here in the autumn, published some pictures, quite illegally, of the state banquet.” The Queen looked angry for a moment.
Rajiv immediately looked away in embarrassment. It had never occurred to him that The Queen herself would be looking at his photos. Did he now have to confess that he’d been smuggled into the palace by one of the under chefs? For the second time since she’d walked in the shop, he felt badly confused.
The Queen’s look of annoyance passed off as she remembered something brighter. “Some of those cheeses at the banquet might have been sent over from here, mightn’t they? And the carvings were so clever. Queen Beatrix loved them. All the Dutch tradesmen were so jealous. They’re so proud of their cheese export, you know. We quite showed them up. Score one for Britain, eh? Holland, nil,” said The Queen, chuckling.
The Queen paused and once again seemed to drift away from the conversation into some reverie that it would have been rude to interrupt. The trouble was that Rajiv didn’t really want to tell her how he’d also taken her picture in the rain in the Lake District, even though he thought that too was a very good picture. He’d recognized her, but she hadn’t recognized him. She was more smiling then, he noticed. So to prevent her reverting to photography he circled back to why she’d come in the first place. “I expect you’d like some cheese, Ma’am. Particularly cheddar that appeals to horses?”
“Yes, please,” said The Queen, returning to earth. “I expect if Rebecca were in here before, you know the one I want.”
“I do, Ma’am,” and Rajiv then proceeded to show The Queen the orange round and to ask her how much she’d like. That she left to him, so he cut her a generous wedge, wrapped it up, and offered to have it sent over to the Mews for her.
“Oh no, it’s not entirely for them,” said The Queen quickly. “Some’s for me. If Elizabeth pulls a little better with a taste of that cheese, I thought it might work for me too, you see.”
Rajiv was a little shocked, but he disguised this as well as he could. “Of course, Ma’am. And shall I have it put on your account?” He wasn’t sure if the palace had an account, but he wasn’t going to ask her to hand over a banknote or a credit card.
“Yes, please,” said The Queen, taking the parcel into her hands. “Now, is there a bus to King’s Cross from here?” she asked him.
For the first time Rajiv felt genuine alarm on her behalf. It’s true she had come in alone, but he somehow expected that there must be security people, or a car, outside the door. Now it was clear she was entirely on her own and planning to head for one of London’s busiest railway stations at the moment the evening rush was about to get under way.
“Well, I think there’s the number 38 on Piccadilly that will take you to the Angel, but then you’d have to take another bus from there to King’s Cross. Or the Victoria Line from Green Park would probably be faster.
“I see. Number 38. Then change at the Angel. Don’t like the Tube,” said The Queen, holding her parcel of cheddar in both hands, and looking as if she ought to be accompanied by two or three burly policemen at the very least.
“Look, Ma’am, why don’t I shut up the shop and come with you to King’s Cross? I could show you the way.”
“But you’re meant to be open much later, aren’t you? You can’t just go against the rules,” she said with a semi-guilty twinge that she was doing just that herself.
“Well, my colleagues will be back from their breaks shortly. I’ll just run you over in a taxi, shall I, and then pop right back here?”
“All right,” said The Queen, thinking that’s just what she’d do too. Run up to Scotland and pop right back. But then she heard what he’d just said. “A taxi? That would be very extravagant,” she protested.
“Well, we don’t often have sleet in London, do we? And if you catch cold, you’ll have to cancel engagements for days. A taxi will be a savings.”
The Queen hated to cancel engagements. It made her feel more ill than flu or a head cold. “Perhaps you have a point there.”
“I’ll just grab my jacket and be with you in a moment.”
Rajiv put on an East German army jacket he’d bought in the Camden Market. He came around the counter and bent over to offer his elbow to The Queen. She reached up to hold the crook of his arm and together they stepped out into the evening.
As soon as Luke dismissed her, Rebecca was on her feet again. She ran out through the iron gates, and ignored the zebra crossing where The Queen had carefully crossed. Instead, Rebecca plunged heedlessly into the traffic and tore off up the Mall toward St James’s Palace. If The Queen had disappeared, the only clue she could think of was the cheese. She’d just seen him earlier in the afternoon, and Rajiv would probably still be in the shop. She could maybe warn him that someone in a hoodie might turn up. Or, he could tell her if anyone fitting that description had come in. As it was an emergency, and as she was an impulsive young woman, she thought she’d better see Rajiv rather than telephone him. She ran up the road between St James’s Palace and Marlborough House, past the draped female figure, put up as a memorial to Queen Alexandra by Saint-Gaudens. Rebecca didn’t know who it was, or its sculptor, but she remembered it because the hard bronze looked like soft melted wax and the woman was very beautiful. She had no idea that she was running in pursuit of Queen Alexandra’s great-granddaughter. She ducked into a passageway that went from Pall Mall into King Street, which itself ran down to the right toward Christie’s. She didn’
t care about expensive auctioneers, but she loved London’s pedestrian passageways that could take you as a runner right away from the traffic. She then pounded up Duke Street toward the Cavendish Hotel, and at the shop on the corner that sold seventeenth-century tapestries, strange cartoonish geese on perfectly modulated grounds of blue and green, she turned the corner into Jermyn Street. Now she knew Paxton & Whitfield was straight ahead, so she could stop running.
Just as she paused to catch her breath, however, she saw a taxi drawing to a halt in the narrow street. There was Rajiv, wearing the same military jacket she’d seen him wearing only a couple of hours before, helping a small figure in a blue hood into the back of the cab. To her surprise, he not only helped her in, supporting her arm until she was all the way into the back, but then nimbly hopped in the back himself. The taxi then turned off its yellow light, to indicate that it was engaged, and accelerated toward her, standing on the pavement outside the tapestry shop. As it drew even with her, she looked into the back, but the windows were streaming with rain, and fogged up from a previous passenger. It proceeded through the light and down Jermyn Street toward St James’s.
She noticed an empty taxi coming down Jermyn Street behind it. She instinctively flagged it down and jumped in the back. “Follow that taxi!”
The driver, a middle-aged man with a smoker’s voice, twisted around in his seat and slid open the Plexiglas partition. “What is this? Is it a film we’re in, then, young lady?”
“No, we haven’t time. Just go. Follow that cab just ahead going toward St James’s.”
“Who’s in it, then?” said the driver as he accelerated away from the tapestry shop.
Rebecca thought to herself “My boyfriend and The Queen of England.” However, neither of those were things she wished to disclose. One wasn’t true, and it would have been the second time that day she’d lied about having a boyfriend. The other was top secret. She decided the best thing was to say nothing.
“What’s a nice young girl like you doing following taxis through the streets on a December afternoon, eh?”
Suddenly Rebecca was aware that she was being looked at in the rearview mirror. The taxi driver was winking at her when she looked up. Rebecca took a closer look at the driver’s reflection in the mirror. He was wearing an Arsenal football shirt, also printed with advertising for a Middle Eastern airline, “Fly Emirates.” He had the ability to steer the taxi skillfully in and out of heavy traffic while keeping his dancing eyes on his fare in the backseat. “I will pay you for this,” said Rebecca.
“Damned right you will,” said the driver with a coarse laugh. “But I’m not sure all this cops and robbers is good for you, love. Your cheeks are all red.”
“Well, I was running just before I found you.”
“You don’t have on your trainers. I thought you had on riding boots when I pulled up to the curb. Caught my attention, they did.”
There was now no question that the driver was showing an interest in her. It was the last thing she wanted. “Look, it’s my boyfriend up there in that other cab we’re following now.”
“Is it, now? And if things were well and good between you, would you be following him in a taxi? Make more sense to go wherever together, now, I would have thought.” He gave another laugh that smelled of smoke.
Rebecca smoked occasionally herself, but she wasn’t proud of it, and hated the smell of tobacco on others. She ceased sitting on the edge of the rear banquette and leaned back, to remove herself a bit further from the smoke and insinuations. She thought an angry silence was the best response.
There was a pause as they swerved around two buses, stopped to let a group of women in burqas cross the street, and then drew up at a light, the other taxi still in front of them. At the next light, however, the taxi in front streamed through while they got caught at the signal. Then another taxi pulled in front of them and stopped to let out its fare. The taxi they’d been following disappeared up Kingsway just in front of the London School of Economics.
“Oh God,” sighed Rebecca, feeling hopeless.
“Never you fear, my sweet lady, they was going to King’s Cross I’ll wager.”
“How do you know that?”
“Nine out of ten fares is going to the mainline railway stations. The way they took is best for King’s Cross. Let’s carry on up that way, shall we, then?”
Rebecca sat back against the seat, holding on to one of the leather straps, as the driver sped off up the wet macadam. The equerry had mentioned Scotland. She searched her brain to try and remember which of the stations Scottish trains left from, but it was no use. Trainspotting didn’t interest her in the least, and she hadn’t any idea. And what was she going to do if she got to King’s Cross and found them? What would she say to Rajiv? She’d never seen The Queen outside the Mews. She had no idea what she’d say to her, either, but what the equerry had said had impressed her with the urgency of the situation. She thought The Queen had at any rate better come back with her to the Mews. She felt reasonably confident she could interest her in some sort of news about Elizabeth or one of the other horses. She began thinking of something she might tell The Queen that she didn’t already know, something that would necessitate The Queen’s returning with her at once to have a look for herself. Before she knew it they were pulling into the lane for dropping off passengers at King’s Cross.
“Sorry we lost them, my beautiful young lady,” said the driver cheerfully. “But if you nip in there, I have a feeling you might find them.”
Rebecca dug into the pocket of her jeans to look for her cash. The jeans were so tight she had to twist and turn on the seat, much to the driver’s amusement. She only had a five-pound note, and the fare was £6.50. She remembered that the rest of her cash was in the pocket of her hoodie. “I’ve only got this,” she said angrily handing him her note. She wouldn’t apologize to him, and she didn’t know what to do.
“Here’s my card. You can send the rest to me. You run in there and see if you can find your boyfriend, then. And if you do find him, then you just call me to say all’s well,” said the driver handing her a card through the Plexiglas divider. “Or, better still, if you don’t find him, you just call me too. Promise?” he said with a cackle.
If this was what it was like to enter fully into the world of adult flirtation, Rebecca wanted to walk firmly in the opposite direction. She did manage a brief smile, and “Thank you,” but was out the door and bounding onto the station concourse before the taxi driver could say anything more.
The station itself was a chaotic carnival of fried food for sale, crowds of people looking at the departures and arrivals board, as well as queues everywhere, some for trains soon to depart, some for the till at the newsagent’s. Rebecca happened to walk in under the station’s nineteenth-century roof near a platform where an intercity train stood with a yellow-nosed engine and passenger carriages painted midnight blue.
[© Brett Holman via airminded.org]
A guard in uniform was already blowing his whistle and the last doors were slamming to indicate the train’s immediate departure. In the carriage nearest the barrier Rebecca glimpsed Rajiv handing The Queen into the last door. He was just pulling the door closed as he stepped in after her. Rebecca took a run at the barrier and with one hand on the metal stand that read electronic tickets, she vaulted over it in a giant leap, thinking of the first horse who had taken her over a hedge when she was eleven years old. What rapture. She ran up to the last carriage just as the electronic signal was sounding from inside the train to indicate that the doors were about to lock. She tugged the handle down and, wondrously, it still opened. She climbed in and slammed the door to find the guard with an angry face outside the window, blowing his whistle at her. The electronic signal stopped. The door lock sounded audibly. Moments later, with the guard still gesticulating at her furiously, the train glided out of the station and delved into a tunnel.
; “A word, Major Thomason?” said Lady Anne popping her head into The Queen’s sitting room after a knock on the door. She was surprised to find Luke and William together bent over a computer screen. They both shot her looks as if they’d been interrupted in the midst of some private discussion. They were both also preoccupied with what they had before them on the computer screen.
“Ah, William.”
“Lady Anne,” said William simply. He wordlessly picked up a tray and headed for the other door.
“Where are you going?” said Luke to William’s back.
“I know when I’m de trop, Major. I’ll just make a few inquiries on the backstairs.”
“William, I think you’d better stay,” said Luke, but William had already disappeared quietly out the door, without even a sound of the latch.
Lady Anne glanced at Luke and raised her eyebrows for a moment, not in disapproval, but as if to say, “What was that?”
“It’s not what . . .”
“Come now, Major Thomason, we have other things to discuss.”
Luke relapsed into a distressed silence.
“I’ve just been speaking with Mrs MacDonald.”
“Yes?”
“She thinks The Queen may have gone to Leith.”
“Why ever Leith? On a Monday afternoon? With no one to take her?”
“Britannia. Tied up there. Now a tourist attraction.”
“Surely she’s seen it before without having to buy a ticket and wait in the queue?”
“Not only seen it. Lived it. Loved it. It was her life. Many golden moments on that boat, Luke.”
“But it’ll be shut up for the winter, surely. And why go by herself?”
“Well, Mrs MacDonald thinks The Queen has not been quite herself lately. A bit down. The Queen asked her to sing ‘My Favorite Things’ not so long ago, apparently.”
“Mrs MacDonald?”