by David Michie
‘But ma’am . . .’
‘It’s a nice morning. I enjoyed the air and the exercise.’
Huchens glanced out the window, taking in the blue skies and balmy weather, but he clearly failed to derive any joy in what he saw.
‘I do hope you’re not going to be crotchety with me.’
‘No, ma’am. Of course not, ma’am.’
‘Very good.’ She nodded dismissively, turning back to her paper.
While it is true that the Queen is passionate about horses, there was a particular reason why that headline had caught her eye. That very day she was hosting a lunch for her racing adviser and several trainers. She was doing so not in her capacity as Head of State, but as one of the country’s most enthusiastic thoroughbred breeders and racers.
Within days of joining the royal family, I’d become aware of Her Majesty’s keen involvement in every aspect of her racehorses’ lives. She owned many and her racing colours, inherited from her father, King George VI, and great grandfather, King Edward VII, were a purple and scarlet jacket with gold braiding and a black cap. Her horses have won hundreds of races, including most of the British Classics.
The Queen isn’t a gambler; her fascination is with bloodlines and breeding. The horses that she breeds are foaled at the Royal Stud on her Sandringham estate. She follows the progress of each one of these and, while I had yet to accompany her on one of those visits, Winston and Margaret told me they were always enjoyable. This was because Her Majesty was always so happy to return to the equine world, where she wasn’t automatically the centre of attention, in the company of beings who didn’t pay her any deference because she was the Queen.
That day’s lunch with the racing fraternity was one of easy informality. The guests were all longstanding friends and colleagues and, from the moment they arrived, there was a convivial buzz. Her Majesty took obvious pleasure from the banter that went on around the table. I was allowed to be present in the Queen’s own dining room because this was a private occasion—a more intimate affair than those held in the grand chambers on state occasions. An Indian rug by the window was the perfect spot from which to follow everything that went on. Begging for titbits from Her Majesty’s guests would, I intuited, result in my instant banishment.
The forthcoming season’s calendar was discussed, focusing on the health and training performance of the various horses. There were anecdotes from Sandringham, stories about other owners and trainers and mention of a visit the Queen had made years ago to leading Bluegrass horse farms in Kentucky.
Talk turned to jockeys and who was being considered for some of the key races. One jockey was said to be struggling with his weight. The confidence of another was said to have suffered, after he’d taken a tumble the year before. Athletic fitness and horsemanship were also mentioned.
‘So much to consider,’ the Queen mused at one point. ‘I wonder what you might say is the most important factor for success?’
‘The most?’ repeated Cameron, her racing adviser and a lofty, distinguished-looking man who was, every inch of him, an aristocrat.
‘For my money,’ ventured one of Her Majesty’s trainers, the tweed-clad Ross from Hampshire, ‘it would have to be impulse control.’
There was a pause while the others digested his reply, before a few nodded around the table.
‘I’d agree,’ concurred Armstrong, a large, jolly man who was another of Her Majesty’s trainers. ‘When you consider all that’s required—the training for physical strength; the high level of fitness; the very strict diet to keep weight down; then the actual training with horses—all of those demand exceptional self-discipline.’
‘Emotional intelligence, I believe they call it these days, ma’am,’ said Cameron.
‘They do?’
‘Apparently it’s a more accurate predictor of success in later life than straightforward intelligence. Having a high IQ is no guarantee of later fulfilment. But the ability to defer short-term gratification for the sake of a much greater prize seems to be what separates the sheep from the goats, so to speak.’
‘How interesting.’
I was to learn that even though Her Majesty spoke plainly, her tone of voice communicated a hundred different nuances of meaning. ‘How interesting’ was a phrase she often used, but depending how she said it, it could mean anything from ‘do, please, tell me more’ to ‘you are boring me to tears, I do wish you would shut up’. In this particular case, both voice and bright-eyed enquiry communicated keen interest.
‘The theory came about when some faculty staff at Harvard University did a study on their own children. A group of them were given marshmallows by their teacher. They were told that the teacher was leaving the room. Any child who hadn’t eaten the marshmallow when the teacher returned would be rewarded with a second. Some kids ate their marshmallow immediately.’ There were chuckles around the table. ‘Some folded their arms and resolutely waited till the teacher got back. Others agonised, picking up the marshmallows, sniffing them, trying their hardest to resist temptation.
‘Where things got interesting was that, several decades later, a researcher found the results of the experiment and decided to follow up on the children, who were by then well into adulthood. What they found was that the children who had been better able to resist temptation went on to achieve far more with their lives than those who hadn’t. This backs up Mr Ross’ point about impulse control.’
‘Hmm.’ The Queen glanced over to where I was sitting, face between my front paws and my two back legs stretched back behind me, listening to the conversation. I wondered where her thoughts were leading. Was it to the moment when my atavistic urges had got the better of me that morning and I’d tugged free of Detective Lewis, desperate to herd the ducks into the pond? Or to the moment when she had paused outside Palace Newsagency to discover what, precisely, had caused the equestrian world to be reduced to a state of shock? ‘I think I might have eaten one of those marshmallows,’ she admitted. ‘Only this morning, we were reminded how difficult it is to reign in our impulses.’
Her Majesty’s guests didn’t know quite what to make of this enigmatic statement, but that was hardly surprising. I had no doubt she was saying it for my benefit.
‘Is this impulse control something one develops early on?’ she wanted to know.
‘Mostly,’ said Cameron. ‘The encouraging thing is that EQ, or willpower, can be developed at any time in life. But one needs a strong sense of motivation. Some would say you need to be goal driven.’
Her Majesty wrinkled her nose momentarily. ‘Such an ugly phrase,’ she said. ‘It seems a little desperate and quite self-centred. One thinks of the brave people who fight against the odds for wider causes.’
A faraway look came into the Queen’s eyes. ‘Like one’s father, for instance. His stammer. Overcoming that required a great deal of effort.’
There were murmurs of sympathetic agreement from around the table.
‘Perhaps a better phrase,’ she continued, ‘might be a sense of purpose.’
‘Indeed, ma’am!’ Cameron was enthusiastic.
‘A strong sense of purpose is what inspires one to strive to overcome obstacles and reach a particular objective.’
Although the conversation had started on the subject of jockeys, it had broadened considerably. And there could be little doubt that Her Majesty wasn’t speaking in hypothetical terms alone. Rather she was offering a rare, personal insight.
‘The great challenge,’ said Armstrong, ‘is discovering what that personal purpose might be. Most people are so caught up in their busy lives that they never give the matter much thought.’
‘It’s not something that someone else can tell you,’ observed Cameron to general agreement. ‘You have to work it out for yourself.’
‘I’d even say,’ continued Armstrong, ‘that many people don’t believe there is any purpose to life, beyond taking pleasure wherever you can find it.’
‘Another day, another dollar,’ said ano
ther trainer.
‘He who dies with the most toys wins,’ wisecracked Ross.
The pathos of the conversation was reflected on the Queen’s face. ‘One of the great privileges of my position is knowing that wealth or toys are not an enduring source of contentment. Some of the most miserable people I know are among the most wealthy and powerful in the world. It’s a great pity when people find themselves distracted by things that don’t have any real meaning, when the things that could give their lives real purpose pass them by.’
‘But would you agree, ma’am,’ asked Cameron, ‘that purpose is something for each one of us to find? That there’s no ready-made formula?’
‘Only up to a point.’ Her Majesty was firm. ‘We all have our own temperaments and interests. Our natural abilities are all quite different. What matters is what we do with them. I have learnt over the years that the most fulfilled and purposeful people are those who have turned their abilities to a cause that’s greater than themselves. Whether it is a brilliant research scientist seeking a cure for an illness, or an elderly pensioner working in a charity mailing room, there is always the same application of energy for the greater good.’
Around the table, there wasn’t so much a murmur as a clamour of agreement.
‘I would like to hear you say that on TV,’ said Cameron.
‘Your next Christmas message?’ offered Ross.
Her Majesty smiled. ‘I don’t know. People don’t like being lectured to. More important to show by actions rather than words, don’t you think? Better to lead by example.’
Household staff arrived to clear empty plates. Sorbets were produced as palate cleansers. The Queen turned to Cameron. ‘Returning to impulse control, what exactly can be done to develop more of it? It seems to me this would be very useful and not only for our jockeys.’
‘Indeed, ma’am. There are a number of things that support strong impulse control. Having plenty of sleep is one of them—when people are tired, they’re more vulnerable to temptation. Nutrition is another. When we’re hungry, our will is weakened.’
‘That’s why diets never work!’ offered the portly Armstrong to general merriment. ‘I speak from experience!’
‘There is great truth in that,’ concurred Cameron. ‘It is also said that order is contagious. If we live and work in an orderly way, it becomes easier to take control of more and more elements of our life. The opposite is also true. Chaos, stress and having demands constantly made on us cloud our focus and make impulse control much less likely.’
‘The constant ringing of mobile phones,’ said Ross.
There were groans of recognition from around the table. Once again, Her Majesty looked over in my direction; yes, we both knew about the impact of a mobile phone ringing at the wrong moment.
‘It’s troubling how much time people spend on them,’ observed the Queen. ‘Especially the young ones.’
‘They are degrading people’s attention spans,’ agreed Armstrong, emphatically. ‘Heavy users are less able to recall things and are more easily distracted.’
There was a discussion about the stress created by mobile devices; how the boundary between work and leisure time had become blurred and how people’s peace of mind was directly affected.
‘Technology is supposed to be for our benefit, not the other way around,’ observed Cameron. ‘If there was ever a case of the tail wagging the dog, this has to be it.’
‘Better the dog had no tail,’ agreed Her Majesty, as her lunch guests joined her in turning to look at me. Leaping up, I hurried over to where she was sitting, my stump twitching with vigour.
The lunch guests had departed and the Queen was returning upstairs when she heard a muffled sob echo down the corridor. I followed on her heels as she headed in the direction of the noise. Around a corner, we discovered Detective Lewis standing forlornly outside Huchens’ office.
As soon as Her Majesty came into view, the policewoman snapped to a more upright posture, hurriedly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the Queen.
‘I’m to be interviewed about this morning’s security lapse, ma’am. I was told . . .’ her voice cracked, ‘it was the worst breach in years. I don’t know how I can begin to apologise.’
‘That’s not necessary,’ the Queen said briskly. ‘I’m still alive and well. Your bleeping phone distracted you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘An important message?’
‘No, ma’am. Not at all. Just an alert.’
‘Alert?’
‘For my next Scrabble move.’
Her Majesty frowned, ‘As in the game?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘On your phone?’
Detective Lewis removed the phone from her pocket. ‘I am playing someone in Rio de Janeiro.’
‘Gracious!’ The Queen was intrigued. ‘Do show me.’
Little did Detective Lewis appreciate that Her Majesty was keen on Scrabble. Indeed, she was not only an enthusiast, but a seasoned player. Opening the app on her device, Detective Lewis began showing the Queen the online version of the game that had proved such a distraction that morning. She pointed out the arrangement on the board so far and the tiles from which she had to create her next word. How moves were indicated to one’s remote partner by a signal, such as the one that had caused all the fuss earlier on.
She was still answering the Queen’s questions when Huchens’ door opened. ‘Your Majesty,’ he greeted her, his large and solid form filling the entrance.
‘Detective Lewis here has been explaining why her phone went off. Most interesting.’
Huchens glanced from the Queen to the plain-clothes policewoman with a poker face.
Her Majesty nodded briefly. ‘I won’t detain you,’ she said and headed towards a staircase. ‘Try equation,’ she instructed Detective Lewis.
‘Ma’am?’
‘Using the ‘Q’ on the top right-hand side. You’ve got all the letters. Double word score.’
‘Yes, ma’am!’ Detective Lewis’ voice rose in astonishment. ‘Thank you, ma’am!’
That evening, the Queen was visited by several family members. Charles, Camilla, Anne, William, Kate and Harry joined Phillip and her for dinner. As they gathered in a sitting room, I made a beeline for Harry who, typically, was sitting on the floor. Throwing myself on the ground and rolling over, I was soon rewarded with a vigorous tummy rub.
‘Had a good day, Gran?’ enquired Harry.
‘Went for a walk this morning with the puppy.’ She nodded in my direction. ‘It was such a nice morning.’
‘Not one of your excursions?’ asked Charles.
‘Yes. The gardens.’
‘Huchens would have been beside himself!’
‘He was alright to begin with. But the puppy caught sight of some ducks and the girl holding him let go of his lead. There was quite a scene. Huchens marched me away.’
Her grandsons chuckled.
‘Matters got worse, though. Huchens led me down the pavement. He was going so dreadfully slowly that I stopped to read a magazine headline on the newsagent’s stand. Something to do with a shock in the equestrian world. I wanted to find out what had happened. A nice Indian man popped out and gave it to me as a gift. He had recognised me immediately.’
‘Huchens must have been apoplectic!’ exclaimed Charles.
‘He was! When we got home he said he wanted to undertake . . .’ at this point Her Majesty’s entire being seemed to morph into the form of Huchens as she mimicked his heavily burring accent, ‘a full root and branch review!’
Everyone in the room burst out laughing. It was the first time I’d heard the Queen mimic someone else and she was hilariously convincing.
‘Did he warn you the consequences would be catastrophic,’ chuckled William, with his own Scottish riff.
‘Not on this occasion.’
‘You should have pushed him,’ grinned Harry. ‘Just that little bit more.’
The Queen went on to explain how the incident had been echoed by a discussion over lunch about impulse control. How she’d questioned her visitors about the qualities of a successful jockey, and that the idea of delaying gratification for a greater result was a theme that seemed to recur as a requirement for any form of achievement.
‘In the military it’s called G and D,’ observed Harry. ‘Guts and Determination.’
‘Focus on the big picture,’ agreed William.
‘Although even military solutions can themselves be short-lived, if they don’t deliver a solution with which people will live,’ pointed out Charles.
‘Quite,’ agreed Her Majesty. ‘It always comes back to the point that actions must accord with values, if they are to be meaningful.’
‘And that the greatest value of all,’ offered Charles, ‘is concern for the people and natural world around us.’
There was a pause while every one of us in the room contemplated this profound statement, before Anne asked, ‘By the way, Mummy, did you ever find out what it was that is shocking the equestrian world?’
‘Oh!’ the Queen was dismissive. ‘Some hoo-ha at Ascot. Just the usual sensational headline leading to nothing at all.’
Philip, who had been dozing for most of the conversation, gathered himself up in his chair, jaw quivering and eyes fierce. ‘Bloody journalists!’ he exclaimed.
About a fortnight later, Tara was going through that day’s mail.
‘How did last night go?’ Sophia asked from the other side of the office.
‘You mean with Richard at Rules?’ confirmed Tara.
‘I have high hopes this time,’ said Sophia with a smile.
Tara fixed her with a droll expression. ‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but there won’t be a weekend in Barcelona.’
‘Why ever not?’
The possibility of Tara spending a long weekend with the man she had been dating for some weeks had been a source of much excited chatter between the two.