by William Kuhn
[© Stephen McKay]
Luke quickly made it clear, in response to William’s repeated appeals, that he was not authorizing telling anyone else about The Queen’s movements. The women would care for her in Edinburgh. There was nothing to do until they had a further bulletin either from Rebecca or Mrs MacDonald and Lady Anne. William saw there was no arguing with Luke on this. He was unreasonable about it. William could only stick with him and make sure nothing more foolish was undertaken.
There was some unease between them. They weren’t friends exactly. Too much divided them. And yet here, outside the palace, beyond their normal roles, something of the gap between them seemed to be reduced. Although Luke was the younger of the two, his instinct from his palace position was to try and kindle a conversation, to keep it going. He also knew, though he’d insisted on the plan of their telling no one else, that there was a chance he was wrong about this. He was prisoner to what he himself could recognize was the less rational half of his brain. The only thing for it was to seek some forgiveness from this older man who had, after all, expressed an interest in keeping an eye on him. The best way he could think of seeking forgiveness was by getting William to talk a bit about himself. Everyone liked talking about themselves. It was the only thing he had to offer his traveling companion.
“So you think you’ll be at the palace long after me, do you?”
“I don’t think. I know. The equerries serve for two or three years at the outside.”
“Well, um, not if they get appointed to the private office, or the Privy Purse, or um, as racing managers, now?”
William laughed shortly through his nose. “I’d wager you don’t know the first thing about racing. And even the private secretaries serve for a limited spell. They tend to have a few more qualifications than you, my darling.” This was meant as a truthful tease, and William added the “my darling” as a way of indicating it was a tease, though an affectionate one.
“And why are you content to remain there with so many temporaries about, brilliantly qualified though they may be?”
“Well, I was born in a dreary little place. The people I went to school with, when they left, if they finished, went off to live dull lives, without much color, certainly without any style. I always wanted something better than that. The palace isn’t perfection. Plenty of rivalry, politics.” William paused for a moment and thought of one of his colleagues, Reginald Brown, a butler who was senior to him at the palace. They called him “Le Brun,” or “Brunello,” or plain “Bruno” behind his back. As a tease someone told The Queen that he actually liked being called “Bruno,” so she started calling him that too. Bruno was furious and blamed William for it. One day last week Bruno had sneered into William’s ear, “I hear you’re friendly with the new equerry. Watch your step, young William. Careful you don’t trip.” William had heard the threat distinctly, though he pretended not to understand. If anyone knew how to trip him up, Bruno did.
William quickly decided that he couldn’t tell any of this to Luke. So he continued, “The pay’s not good. But the standard of service is high. And they appreciate it, as a kind of art, you know. How to appear at the elbow and disappear behind the curtain. It’s a bit like being onstage, but the best performance is the one that gets noticed the least.”
It had never occurred to Luke before to see a butler in this light. In a dozen luncheons and dinners with The Queen he could never recall having seen what precisely they were doing. Maybe this was their art.
“Everyone thinks of being a waiter, or, worse, a butler, as humiliating. They think of the butler in, what was that film? The Remains of the Day. He’s pathetic. Gives his whole life to serve a Nazi. The audience loves to think of what we do as sad. They all want to be on the sofa in front of the telly, serving themselves. They think we should all be out making money or a name for ourselves. But, actually, you see, service is something that takes time and effort to do well. It takes self-denial to do it right. It’s like knowing the rules of a wedding ceremony. Or how a cab driver memorizes all the backstreets of London. I know what fork goes out for oysters, where it’s placed, and which wine goes with it. Coming by that knowledge, doing it properly, all those are worthwhile things.”
“And does The Queen appreciate it?”
“She does. She performs the same sort of act, goes through similar rituals every day. If anyone knows the order of a ceremony, she does. And even if she didn’t appreciate it, even if, say, whoever’s king or queen after her doesn’t appreciate what we do, it would still be worth doing, because it’s part of life at the palace. It’s the gilt on the ceiling, the Gainsborough in the frame, the brocade on the sofa. It’s not about putting a tea bag in a mug, mate.”
“No, I see that. And what about Emma Thompson? What was she called? Miss Kenton or something? Or is it impossible to serve The Queen and have a life outside too?”
“Not impossible, no. But I haven’t put as much effort into finding my own Anthony Hopkins as I have into learning the drill. Surely it’s obvious that Emma Thompson is not really my type.”
Luke was alarmed. The conversation seemed to have taken a dangerous turn toward declaring sexual preference. Luke himself had never had a proper girlfriend, or a boyfriend either, for that matter. Confessing that lack, that total absence in his life, seemed a more damaging admission just then than saying that he was either straight or gay. Still, it also seemed rather churlish, cowardly even, to clam up at such a moment. “Well, being in the army, it means moving from place to place every few years. There’s no time for settling down with anyone. Maybe it’s been like that with you too. You’re always travelling with Her Majesty. Away from London for what must add up to some months every year, I guess, year in and year out.”
“True,” said William simply. He was aware of having volunteered quite a lot about his own life already. He wanted to hear what Luke’s life was like, but he wanted him to tell it of his own accord.
Luke had been taught to abhor a silence at The Queen’s table, or over cocktails in anterooms of the palace. It was his job to make sure that no one felt ill at ease. Mixed with that social instinct, however, was his postwar tendency not to have entire control of his emotions and to sleep too much. He was always restraining himself from blurting out something that was more personal than the rules of palace social conduct generally allowed. So now he rushed forward, just as William hoped he would. “I mean, I’ve been in the army practically since school. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Just mates. I guess you must think that sounds pretty bizarre.”
“Not necessarily,” said William evenly. “You’re the one who matters. What do you think about it?”
“Well, I don’t really know how it feels to be otherwise. When you’re serving abroad, it’s nice to have mates you can laugh with, whom you can count on.” He looked out the window. “If they don’t let you down.” He had rushed forward with one confession, now he seemed to be teetering on the edge of another.
William thought about what Luke had said for several minutes before he said, “And did one of them let you down?”
Luke said nothing for a long time. Then he said quietly, “Well, I think I might have let him down.”
William knew that what he’d just heard was a tremendous disclosure. He thought it more tactful to pretend as if he’d fallen asleep. It would save Luke embarrassment. He closed his eyes and began breathing regularly. Luke looked over and saw William sleeping. He didn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved that the older man had not heard what he said.
The Queen and the blind couple and the man with piercings made their way to the restaurant, which was one half of a carriage. The dining half had a row of tables, draped with white cloths, set for four persons each. They found an empty table, and a waiter dressed in a red waistcoat came to take their orders for drinks as he passed around menus. The blind man was aware that his new train acquaintance had what he regarded as a highbr
ow accent out of a Nancy Mitford novel, so as he took his seat, he began by apologizing. “It’s a bit early for supper, isn’t it? Perhaps we should regard it as a meat tea?”
“No, no!” said The Queen. “Hohenzollern is starving, aren’t you, darling?” The Queen was pleasant to everyone at the table, but also held them at arm’s length with practiced politeness. Her replies were her shield. The dog she addressed with real warmth.
“Now, madam,” the blind man said, bowing in what he took to be her general direction, “what shall our railway waiter bring you to drink?”
“A martini, please,” said The Queen, smiling to herself.
“A martini?” said the waiter, thinking that she wanted a Manhattan-style cocktail made with a silver shaker. There was no way he could produce this in his minuscule kitchen.
“No, not an American one. An old-fashioned English martini: two parts Dubonnet, two parts gin, and a bit of lemon peel. All mixed up together. On ice.”
“I’m sorry, Madam, there is no space for a shaker. We don’t have one.”
“Well, bring me the bottles and a glass of ice and lemon and I’ll put it together. It doesn’t have to be shaken in the air to do the trick.”
“And you, young man?” said the blind man in his friendliest way to the man with piercings.
“Mine’s lager.”
“And gin and tonics for myself and the lady wife, please,” said the blind man, doing his best Rumpole imitation and hoping it was recognized.
The waiter saw right away this was going to be a difficult table. He skipped off, swaying down the aisle with the motion of the train to fetch the drinks.
“You’ll have to help us with the menus,” said the woman in spectacles to the young man with piercings. “The nice restaurants always have Braille menus, but . . .”
“But this is the Great North Eastern Railway, darling. We shall be lucky if they warm our baked beans on a ring,” put in her husband.
“These prices are outrageous,” said The Queen, examining her menu.
“I shall be beginning my talk on the Elizabethan court before long,” said the blind man jovially. “Perhaps that will take some of the sting out of the tariff of Great North Eastern Railway.”
“Not that,” said the young man with piercings.
“Oh, please, darling, no,” said the blind man’s wife, laughing, but meaning it.
“Hohenzollern and I would be very pleased with a cheese sandwich from the buffet car.” The Queen really thought the expense was getting out of hand.
“My dog is descended from the Kaiser and he does not eat in the buffet car.”
“And looks a bit like him too. Don’t you?” said The Queen, grasping the dog’s velvet ear.
“Now, tell us, please, what’s for supper, and no cheese sandwiches,” said the blind man to The Queen.
“Well, there’s a steak of Aberdeen Angus. Loch Fine salmon. Lincolnshire roast duckling. Morecambe Bay prawns in a curry sauce. And look here, Welsh rarebit too! All British. A fine menu, don’t you think?” The Queen’s voice, for the first time that evening, indicated real pride.
“Where’s the Irish coffee?” muttered the young man. The blind man’s wife heard him and chuckled.
The waiter returned with their drinks and took their orders for supper. He was stacking the menus in his hand and made ready to turn on his heel when The Queen stopped him short. “Just a moment, young man.”
“Madam?”
“Hohenzollern will be dining as well,” said The Queen, nodding to the dog, who looked up expectantly from underneath the table. “You haven’t taken his order.”
“Madam, we haven’t any way of feeding dogs on the train.”
“He’ll have some minced beef. Browned quickly. Add to it some plain white rice and a little bouillon,” said The Queen. “That’s beef broth. Put it together in a soup bowl and he’ll be happy.”
“That’s not on the menu, madam. I can’t do that. You don’t know our chef. He can produce wonders in his kitchen. But it’s not big. We haven’t the space. We can’t do special orders.”
Under the table Hohenzollern growled.
“Then I’ll have a word with Cook.” For an old woman, The Queen was out of her seat very quickly and stalking down the aisle, the waiter following her, protesting. They both disappeared into a small door from which pans clashing against one another could be heard.
Reduced to three, the conversation resumed. The young man with piercings said, “I can’t put my finger on it, but she reminds me of someone. And not Helen Mirren, neither.”
“Well, she does have an unusual voice, doesn’t she?” agreed the woman with spectacles.
“Too old for Helen Mirren, darling.”
“No, I know. Not Helen Mirren. But she reminds me of someone else. I think this young man is right,” said the woman in spectacles.
“Judi Dench perhaps? Or Prunella Scales? An actress playing a part out of Alan Bennett certainly,” said the blind man, once again proud of the fact that he could move so swiftly between history and contemporary fiction.
“I love Alan Bennett,” put in his wife.
“Yes, we have his entire oeuvre in Braille,” said the blind man, intending to send up his wife’s reading material, though in truth he quite enjoyed Alan Bennett too. “Bennett for the Blind, it is,” said he, taking a sip of his gin and chortling.
“Did you read the one about The Queen becoming a reader?” said the woman in spectacles to the young man at her side. “I did enjoy that one. So funny. And of course, being a reader myself, I liked that side of it.”
“Thought of yourself as The Queen, did you, darling?” called out the blind man, employing the kind of low blow that long-married couples sometimes give one another.
“No, not The Queen,” said the woman in spectacles, feeling some annoyance until the right riposte occurred to her. “No more than you fancy yourself Regius Professor of History.”
The Queen reappeared at the table in the midst of this testy exchange.
“We were just discussing Alan Bennett,” said the blind man.
“Oh yes,” said The Queen reseating herself. “The Uncommon Reader.”
“That’s it!” said the woman in spectacles delightedly. “Did you love it? I did!”
“Didn’t read it,” said The Queen briefly. She was on such relatively friendly terms with her table companions that she forgot to concentrate on keeping up her disguise. Her focus once again shifted. “The private office prepared some briefing notes for me. I had to meet Mr Alan Bennett with some other writing chaps. A Foyle’s literary evening. One of those things. I gave out the prizes. Fancy making me out to be a reader. There’s imagination for you,” said The Queen, taking a sip of her drink, which she’d quickly mixed together after the waiter brought her a glass and bottles. With her other hand she tugged on Hohenzollern’s ear under the table.
The conversation ceased abruptly.
The woman in spectacles audibly drew in her breath.
The young man with piercings, who didn’t care about Alan Bennett, and was not attending to the conversation, also looked around to examine The Queen more carefully.
Only the blind man was brave enough to speak. “You? Not a reader? You gave out the prizes at Foyle’s?” And, most incredulously of all: “You met Alan Bennett?”
“Yes, I met him. Charming man. Kept smiling at me all the time. Rather tongue-tied.”
“But. Are you, then, The, um? Are you Her . . . ? Are you,” the blind man dropped his voice and said in a whisper, “You’re not The Queen?”
The Queen saw her error. Everything suddenly snapped back into a clearer focus. She now saw that these people were on the verge of identifying her.
“Oh, yes! Why, yes I am! Queen of all I survey,” and she laughed delightedly as if she were a little girl and not an octogen
arian.
The blind couple exhaled and began laughing with her. The young man with piercings was not so easily persuaded. “You do look like her.”
“People tell me that a lot.” The Queen decided to go after him as a way of keeping him quiet. “Now, you, of course. Who do you resemble? It’s as if I’ve seen your picture a thousand times.” The Queen had no idea who he looked like, but she knew enough about people’s vanity to know that he probably had an idea of some famous figure he thought he looked like.
The young man reddened. The Queen saw this and said triumphantly. “Ah, I see. You do look like him. You’ve just turned three shades of crimson. Who is it? Tell me who it is.”
“Sometimes they say I look like Johnny Depp.”
“That’s it!” said The Queen. She had no idea who Johnny whatever was. “Mr Jonathan Depth, of course!”
“But what were you doing giving out literary prizes at Foyle’s, then?” said the blind man with renewed skepticism.
“Oh, that. They wanted The Queen of course, but couldn’t get her. Went to bed early that night, she did.” The Queen threw back her head and gave a little rehearsed laugh to show them what a good time she was having. She had to do that sort of thing often enough, to calm people’s nervousness about speaking to her. “Then they wanted the Prince of Wales, but he has a thousand things to do, now The Queen is slowing down a tiny bit. Doing all his own things, plus quite a lot of hers. So they went on down the list. And settled on Princess Michael of Kent. But she wanted ‘expenses,’ you know, and an honorarium. So they couldn’t afford her. And, well, I own a few shares in the holding company. So they said, well, she must be interested in books if she has the shares. And they had to take me,” said The Queen, holding the table now, and bending over with amusement. Her body spoke a silent invitation to laugh with her. They all did, and the moment passed. The train rocked back and forth. The four of them were reflected in the window against the dark night, moving with the motion of the train, talking and taking sips from their glasses. Hohenzollern had his bowl of minced beef under the table, and The Queen looked down to confirm that all was well with him. She whispered under the table, “Und dir, Hohenzollern? Wir geht es meinem Kaiserchen? Reden wir lieber nicht vom Krieg, nicht wahr?”*