Mrs. Queen Takes the Train

by William Kuhn

  [© SWNS.com]

  The Queen kept being drawn back to what had been bothering her even though her whole purpose in coming to Britannia was to think of happier days. “Let’s see, where did we go after Florida?” The Queen thought they went to Mustique to see Princess Margaret for a night or two. Not too long, as her sister had a way of getting on her nerves, but she was curious to see what kind of life she had down there. Margaret had built a house which had been decorated with about thirty varieties of bamboo. Someone had snapped The Queen’s picture on the beach. In a straw hat. Wearing trousers! Almost as outlandish as the private secretary in his shirtsleeves. She remembered the photo, and, yes, she had been happy then. The dogs hadn’t liked it, though. Sand too fine for their paws, and being at sea often disagreed with them. She was forever cleaning up after their seasickness in a way she rarely had to do elsewhere. But this also made her feel useful.

  She’d read antimonarchist articles in the paper that called her “useless,” and even constitutional experts tended to agree. She was an ornament and by definition useless. She was there to lend a sense of occasion, and to provide the official seal of approval to all sorts of business that had been negotiated elsewhere. All different words for “useless” really, she thought, pulling off her pearl earrings.

  “Is this all there is?” The Queen thought to herself. She’d begun her adventure in such high spirits and now she sat next to a sign directing visitors to the gift shop on her decommissioned yacht where once had stood an ebonized side table. Possibly it had been Uncle David’s from Fort Belvedere. She believed his wife went in for that sort of thing. Where it was now, she didn’t know.

  She realized that despite all the ship’s happy memories, she wasn’t as confident as she once had been about whether she’d done any good. Or was doing any good. When she was young, all she had to do was smile, and stand through the presentation of troops, and listen to anthems. That seemed to be enough to swell people with pride. Perhaps she was having children and that’s what people liked about her. Yes, they’d liked the two late little boys. But it had not recently been the same. She hadn’t changed, but she saw that things had changed around her. People were usually polite; but even republicans had ceased to attack her. It distressed her that she’d let this weigh on her mind. She’d prided herself for so long on keeping her chin up and going right through with the programme assigned to her in all weathers, feeling well or not, that it surprised her to be so powerlessly unable to deal with her feelings of disappointment.

  [Courtesy of Oona Räisänen]

  She thought, perhaps a cup of tea. She wandered down to the galley, found a light switch by the door and an electric kettle on one of the counters. She went over to the sink to fill it up and found it full of dirty bowls, tea mugs, spoons, glasses, and smeared plates.

  “What’s this?” she thought, rather annoyed. What sort of staff had they that they would leave such a mess behind? Instinctively she switched on the hot tap to fill the sink and pulled on some rubber gloves she noticed on the rim of a bucket in the cupboard. In a moment her mood had changed from elderly hopelessness to grim determination. She was happy.

  When they arrived at the airport in Edinburgh, Anne took charge. She found a taxi and told the driver they were going to Britannia berthed in Leith. She also said they might need him to drive them onwards after that. She admitted right away she didn’t know where. She said all this in a tone of voice that brooked no objections, and made it evident she would accept no questions. Shirley had to do nothing but sit back in her seat. Her passion was looking after The Queen, but here, for the first time in a palace career of many decades, she was being looked after herself. There was nothing she had to do. Anne attended to all the details.

  “I don’t expect any of this looks familiar,” said Anne surveying the side of the highway leading away from the airport. It was an acknowledgment that Shirley, though born in Scotland, would regard Edinburgh as foreign.

  “No, no, it’s not familiar. I’m a country girl, really. Born near Ballater. My grandmother was in service, as you know. So was my mother. When Mum went south, well, she was very young, and she left me with Granny.”

  “I believe they have some cottages for the retirees round Balmoral somewhere.”

  “Well, this was before the Jubilee Cottages were built, but yes, there were some places. Not that Granny spent much time at home. She was always up at the Castle, helping with the laundry, keeping things up, you know. Even at home, in the evenings, she mended sheets. Some of them went back to Queen Victoria’s time. Proper linen sheets.”

  “Don’t bring it up. Sleeping on that linen is no fun. I have fabric burn on my legs if I don’t dress properly for bed there.”

  This made Shirley angry. She couldn’t forget Letitia d’Arlancourt, or forgive her, either. “Oh, how difficult your life is, isn’t it, Anne?” she remarked bitterly.

  “I’m not saying I haven’t been lucky.”

  “What are you saying, then?”

  “Just that sleeping on plain cotton sheets from the British Home Stores is sometimes more comfortable than on Queen Victoria’s linens.”

  With a sniff of disapproval, Shirley said, “There are many who would change places with the likes of you.”

  “ ‘Likes of me. Likes of me’? I thought we were working together? And might even be friends. Eventually.”

  “It’s not for me to offer the hand of friendship.”

  “Well, that’s just because you and I have lived in or near the palace all our lives. It has warped us. Such as us are seldom friends, no, inside the palace; but outside the palace, women like us have no trouble setting up shop, mucking in together. The world outside the palace has moved on, Shirley. And one day you’ll want to retire. Under the new rules from the Privy Purse, they won’t automatically give you a cottage anymore, and you’re going to have to move in that world.”

  Anne was right. She was no longer owed a place in retirement as her grandmother and mother had been. The retirement allowances hadn’t been overgenerous in previous generations, but at least you had a place to stay. In the current reign, the accountants had taken over The Queen’s finances. There was more supervision from the Government, and the older arrangements had been cancelled. She would have a somewhat larger pension than her mother and grandmother when they retired, but she would have no place to stay. She could participate in a lottery to stay in one of the cottages at Balmoral for several weeks in the off-season, when The Queen wasn’t there, but she still had to pay for it. This rankled. But there was little she could do. None of the Household ever walked out on strike or set up pickets in front of the palace railing.

  “Well, I expect it’s fine for the daughter of a lord. Your nephew must have half a dozen houses to give you.”

  “Pardon me, but if you don’t think my nephew runs the estate on exactly the same lines as the Privy Purse you’re quite mistaken. I have my London flat and a tiny widow’s pension from my husband. It’s a place to hang my hat, but I can’t afford to pay a cleaner anymore. Why do you think I still do these waitings? For two weeks at a time I save on the food bills. There’s a clothing allowance. And there’s some travel money, which I’m going to use to pay for this taxi, thank you very much. It’s not what I imagined for myself at age seventy. You might be able to retire soon, but I can’t. As for my nephew, I’m only invited at Christmas, and that’s all. He gave us our aeroplane tickets because he’s on the board and he gets a certain number of free flights during the year.”

  Shirley was used to overhearing rich people complaining about being poor, but there was something about Anne’s quiet urgency that made her sense that what she’d just been told was the truth. Her instinct was to change the subject. In the old-fashioned system to which they both still belonged, raw displays of resentment were not allowed.

  “Oh, well, as long as you’ve got that flat, you could do a bit of bed-and-
breakfast, couldn’t you?”

  Both women burst out laughing. The sodium glow of the lights over the motorway cast their unnatural light on the taxi’s passengers, who began to feel that the prospects for their journey were not as dismal as they’d once imagined.

  Having finished the washing up, The Queen saw no point in hanging about. She was used to doing one thing and then going on to another in rapid succession. She knew she was off her schedule, but not out of her mind. Visiting Britannia had certainly reminded her of happier days, but it had also convinced her there was no point in going back.

  Returning to London was another question altogether. As it was now late, she doubted there were any more buses. There was nothing for it but to hitch a lift. She knew people had done this all the time in the last war and never got into trouble. She’d also seen people with signs saying where they were going standing by the side of the motorway when she was on her way to engagements. They seemed, generally speaking, cheerful. She thought this was the only way back to Waverley station.

  She came down the gangplank, waved at the young man in the security kiosk when he waved at her—it was instinct, really—and then wandered out to the main road where the bus had dropped her off. Not much traffic this time of night. Several cars passed by her at great speed. They didn’t seem to pay the least attention, or even to have seen her by the side of the road. She didn’t know if they didn’t wave back when she waved at them because they hated the monarchy, or because they couldn’t see her. At this she reached into her handbag and squeezed the rabbit’s foot. “Now hang on, Little Bit. It’s nothing to do with the Crown. It’s dark and they can’t see you, darling.” She felt better when she called herself “darling.” It meant she was on better terms with her conscience. Eventually she took off the scarf she had on over her head under the hoodie and began waving it at the next motor that came along the road.

  Success. It was a young woman who pulled to the side. She opened the passenger side door, and in the flurry of getting in, The Queen dropped her scarf. Its luxurious silk folds carried it off in a cold gust of wind along the gutter. The Queen didn’t notice. She was happy to have a ride. The driver immediately began taxing her, though in affectionate tones, for being out so late. “Have you any idea what time it is? Not a time to be wandering the streets, my dear.”

  The Queen felt safe to be with a young woman who called her “my dear.” She cleared her throat. “I expect you’re right.”

  “No buses at this hour, my love.”

  “Yes, I thought that might be so.” The Queen felt the ghost of a maternal pang herself. “And you, young lady . . . aren’t you out rather late yourself?”

  “Right you are,” said the young woman, laughing. “Got me there. Well, I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

  “All right,” said The Queen.

  “And where are you headed, then? Home and a warm bed, I expect.”

  “Well, ultimately, yes. But first Waverley railway station.”

  “I’m sure the last trains have gone as well.”

  “Oh, I expect there will be a milk train, or something like that, quite early.”

  “Milk train? I don’t think they have those anymore.”

  “Well, you mustn’t worry on my behalf. You’re very generous to have stopped for me in the first place. If you can take me to Waverley, I’m quite sure all will be well.”

  The young woman driving the car was a social worker who dealt with all kinds of people on behalf of the Edinburgh town council: victims of crime, people leaving prison and attempting to rejoin the community, the homeless, old people abandoned by their children. She knew better than to argue with one of her clients and she immediately regarded the old woman whom she’d just picked up as someone who was in line to become one of her clients. Instead, she said smoothly, “Ah, I see. You live outside of Edinburgh, then?”

  “As it happens, I do have a place I can stay here. But I seldom spend the night there.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “Well, it would be locked now, and when they’re not expecting me, well, it would upset them if I were to turn up.” The Queen saw that clearly now, more clearly than when her unhappiness had temporarily confused her, impelled her out of Buckingham Palace and into Green Park. Holyrood would be locked and the staff would need to be telephoned in advance if she meant to spend the night there.

  “I see,” said the young woman. Inwardly she imagined this nice woman’s ungrateful children in a council flat, locking her out, and refusing her a bed, even on the sofa, if she hadn’t warned them in advance she were coming. She had seen too many similar cases. “Well, I know a nice shelter near here. Why don’t I take you there? You could go on from Waverley in the morning.”

  What The Queen heard was something like a proposal from her private secretary to extend a provincial visit. “If you wouldn’t mind, Ma’am, we could add just one more stop at some sheltered housing for the elderly. They’d be so grateful if you’d come and see what they’re doing. Acknowledge their hard work. Then we could have you back on the royal train for a cup of tea in no time.” She was used to smooth young men from the private office keeping her on her feet for thirty more minutes, adding a dozen more hands for her to shake, and—no fear—there’d be another plaque for her to unveil as well. She was willing to do what she was asked to do on most occasions, but like an old dog scenting a bitter pill in the midst of a proffered biteful of cream cheese, she sometimes set her jaw and refused to accept it. “No, thank you,” said The Queen to the young woman driving the car.

  The young woman was used to cold negatives from homeless people to whom she offered a lift to the shelter. Some of them liked it on the street, preferred it, in fact, to the loneliness of a single room. Their inner voices were quieter on the street and there was more company. “Very well,” she replied. “Waverley, then. And, you know, you’re in luck. Because the station is open twenty-four hours, so you’ll be out of the weather, won’t you? And I believe a church van comes by with cups of tea and sandwiches for whoever’s about at this hour. I mean whoever, like you, doesn’t really fancy the shelter.”

  “That will be lovely, thank you.” She smoothed down her feathers from having been unexpectedly ruffled. “And you, now? Why driving by Leith at this hour?”

  “Oh, well, I work for the council. Care for all sorts. People having a hard time. Need some help to get by from day to day. Need some encouragement if they’re not going back to prison. The kind who are usually not free from ten in the morning to six at night, if you know what I mean. Sometimes all they need is a friendly ear, someone to tell their problems to. And there’s something about the night that makes them open up. Sometimes all you need to do is listen, and to look interested.”

  “Yes, I do know,” said The Queen. That was mainly her job too. Listen and look interested. She carried on in a more reflective tone, speaking half to herself, “But do they appreciate what you do? Sometimes I wonder if they wouldn’t rather just be left alone. Is listening and looking interested enough?”

  “Well, I think so. Wouldn’t keep doing it if I didn’t. People like being looked after. Everybody had a mum once. That feeling of being protected, of being allowed to test your legs and be independent, but to be looked in on every once in a while by your mum. Even your most downcast outcast wants that,” she said, laughing. “That’s human instinct. It’s like those little geese having whoever they see after they break out of the egg imprinted on them. If they see the farmer’s wife, they’ll follow her around just as if she were mama goose.”

  Mother Goose, thought The Queen, that’s what I am. She descended once again into some self-doubting thoughts about whether or not she’d actually helped anyone in her life of ritual and routine.

  The young woman driving the car could sense that her companion was leaving her, drifting away on a wave of unpleasant reflection, so she took a chance. She reac
hed over and with her left hand, which wasn’t on the steering wheel, briefly covered The Queen’s two bare hands, which were folded together in her lap. “Come now, we’re nearly there. The church van will have a cup of tea for you. You might see some of your mates, mightn’t you?”

  The young woman’s hand, touching her skin, sent something like an electric shock through The Queen. People didn’t usually reach out to touch her at unchoreographed moments. She knew how to keep her distance when they looked like they might want to grab her hand. This woman had touched her unexpectedly and the human contact suddenly revived her. She remembered how people sometimes glowed when she reached out to shake their hands, usually with gloves on, but sometimes not. They all seemed to adore it. It was a power she had, touching people, the royal touch, a power she’d at that moment just recalled. From the Middle Ages up until Queen Anne’s time, people had believed in the royal touch as a cure for illness. The woman had given her a jolt, but not an unpleasant one.

  As they pulled into the railway station, The Queen could see a van from the side of which someone was pouring tea into Styrofoam cups. There was a rough group of people of uncertain ages, and in all their bundled clothes it was also unclear whether they were men or women. They were waiting for their white cups. “Here we are,” said the young woman. “Now come along, out you go. They’ll have a cup for you. And here’s my card. You call me if you change your mind about the shelter. I’ll come back and get you.”

  The Queen could feel the young woman’s kindness, her willingness to take trouble over strangers. “Thank you, my dear. It’s been a pleasure.” The Queen reached out with her hand this time, briefly taking the young woman’s left hand into both of hers. She looked at her from inside the warmth of her hoodie, caught the glance of her brown eyes, and gave her a military nod, an abbreviated version of what she gave at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Day. Then she gave her hand a farewell squeeze, and swung around to pull herself laboriously out of the car.