by David Michie
Tara frowned. ‘I just found him irritating.’
‘Like how?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t say. Well, everything, really! He has this awful ring tone on his mobile that sets my teeth on edge every time it goes off.’
‘I knew it!’ Sophia’s eyes blazed triumphantly. ‘Just the same as the last guy. You didn’t like the way he did his tie.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a Windsor knot!’
‘And the man before, the soldier from Kent—what was that all about?’
‘Yes, I know.’ Tara grimaced. ‘Hector halitosis.’
‘You don’t think that you’re being just a little bit too picky?’ asked Sophia.
‘How can you kiss a man with breath like smoked haddock?’ she demanded, before turning her attention very deliberately back to the post.
A short while later, she had taken a greatly reduced pile of correspondence through to the Queen.
‘This is my favourite for the day,’ she said, handing over a copy of the latest edition of Racing News.
‘Ah, the magazine I was given the other week from . . .’ Her Majesty waved her hand vaguely towards the back of the palace.
‘Rajeev Sharma,’ confirmed Tara. ‘He’s written a note with this one. Something along the lines that seeing you were so interested in the last issue of the magazine, it would be his honour to offer you a free annual subscription.’
‘I see.’
The Queen glanced over to where Huchens was overseeing a routine bug-sweep of the offices. A subversive gleam appeared in her eye. ‘Well,’ she said, more loudly than she needed, ‘that’s kind of him, but I can’t accept. Perhaps the two of us should pay him a visit. It’s such a lovely afternoon. We can pay for the subscription.’
Huchens cleared his throat importantly. ‘I would strongly advise against that, ma’am,’ he rumbled, approaching where the Queen was sitting. ‘We have no idea who this Sharma fellow is—if that’s his real name. There’s been no ID clearance. No premises check.’
‘We could take the puppy,’ proposed Tara, playing along with Her Majesty. ‘I’m sure he’ll be better behaved this time.’
Huchens colour was rapidly deepening.
‘Good idea!’ the Queen chimed in.
‘I’m sorry, but for security reasons I can’t allow it!’ Huchens’ anguish at having to veto Her Majesty’s plans was evident in his crimson cheeks. ‘The consequences,’ he declared, ‘could be catastrophic!’
CHAPTER 4
A question may well have arisen in your mind over the previous three chapters. Having established at the outset that my name is Nelson and that the Queen had me rescued as a puppy, you may be wondering how exactly I was assigned that name. And why?
Am I named after that heroic figure of British naval history, Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, who stands to this day atop a column in London’s Trafalgar Square, just down the Mall from Buckingham Palace? Did Her Majesty detect in me qualities of inspiring leadership or strategic insight that made her think instantly of one of the most illustrious figures in British history? Or was there some other reason?
I could tell you that the reason I have been holding out on this particular tale is for reasons of chronological accuracy. It did take some months for me to be named, the feeling in the royal household being that doing things well is generally more important than doing things quickly. But chronological accuracy wasn’t the only or most important reason for waiting until now.
When I think about what I’ve told you so far, I realise that my story is something of a catalogue of failure—urinating on the floorboards of Buckingham Palace; breaking free of Her Majesty’s security detachment thereby putting the Queen’s very safety at risk. How would you like to be the subject of such embarrassing admissions?
Sadly, those tales are innocuous compared to the one I am about to relate. As a puppy—or, in your case, as a child—you are forgiven for the occasional indiscretion or lapse of judgment. You are still finding your way in the world. As an adolescent, however, you are expected to know better. You are supposed to show a bit of control and, in royal circles, decorum. Your hormones may be kicking in, but that’s no excuse to behave like some crazed, rutting beast.
In my defence, I had no idea who Charles’ visitor was that day. It shouldn’t matter, of course, but in this case it did. If that all sounds somewhat cryptic, my fellow subject, read on!
It was a weekend when Charles was corgi-sitting all three of us at Highgrove, his personal home in Gloucestershire, while the Queen was making a brief trip to Europe. Highgrove was always a treat for we three, given its open access to gardens brimming with unfamiliar scents and astir with life.
At midmorning, a visitor appeared with his own dog, a pretty little white poodle called Mitzy. Charles and the visitor headed straight outside to walk through the sunlit gardens with an ease of familiarity that suggested this was something of an established routine. All three of us corgis initially accompanied the men. But like Mitzy, we were soon embarking on our own adventures, distracted by powerful aromas beckoning from the flowerbeds; chasing each other down tunnels of sweet peas; scrambling excitedly at the sight of a distant rabbit.
I was quite some distance from the two men when I first noticed Mitzy, really noticed her. I was already earning a reputation for sociability, having befriended Football the cat while on holiday at Balmoral and forming a close affection for one of the Queen’s Sandringham horses, who would bend down to greet me with a gentle nuzzle, something Her Majesty had remarked upon warmly.
However, the attraction I felt towards Mitzy was of an altogether different kind. Admiring her fluffy rump, the way the saucy little minx thrust her hindquarters in the air while snuffling in the undergrowth, I was suddenly and powerfully overwhelmed by a new instinct: I had to have her!
Mitzy reacted to my brazen mounting with surprise at first, then with apparent willingness, before turning for no apparent reason and nipping me. Yelping, I leapt from her, much to the droll amusement of Winston nearby. Fortunately, Margaret was still in relentless, if futile, pursuit of the trespassing hare.
Why did I attempt a second, third and even fourth mounting? I cannot say, without blaming hormones. And it was only the quite severe bite and cautioning bark that followed, that saw me off. Mitzy headed back towards her owner. Reacting to the bark, the two men looked over at the approaching dogs.
‘The new pup’s probably taking liberties,’ observed Charles, more accurately than he could have realised. The two men chuckled.
Deciding that she’d be safest staying close to her owner, Mitzy remained almost to heel as we made our way into the Carpet Garden, a beautiful courtyard centred on a fountain, surrounded by cypresses, vines, oaks and orange trees in bloom. ‘Quite, quite beautiful!’ exclaimed Charles’s visitor.
He was a middle-aged man, slight of build, with a receding hairline and a bespectacled, intelligent-looking face. There was a sparkle in his eyes as he took in the surroundings. ‘To feed the soil, warm the heart and delight the eye. Wasn’t that your objective for Highgrove Gardens?’ he asked.
Charles nodded. ‘In this particular spot, we’ve tried to capture the Mediterranean ideal of the garden as heaven on earth.’
The visitor stood, taking everything in. ‘Most people would feel much more harmony and peace if they could connect with the natural world more often. All those years I spent in corporate offices, I used to think how cut off we were.’
‘From nature?’
‘Yes.’ Then, after a pause, ‘But not only from that. Many people had long commutes that meant they were pretty cut off from their family for a lot of the week. The relentless grind of it all would leave them exhausted by the weekend. There wouldn’t be much time to recover, then the whole cycle would start all over again.’
As I nosed around the visitor, I wondered who he was. Could he be some high-flying business leader? Nothing in the scent of his walking shoes or freshly-pressed trousers provided a clue. Mitzy remained very
close to him—but always on the other side of his legs from me.
‘It does seem that many people are having to work longer hours than ever before,’ said Charles. ‘And the impact of mobile devices . . .’
‘Terrible!’ The visitor was shaking his head. ‘You no longer leave work at the office. It’s in your pocket. Work time and personal time have become blurred.’
‘And one often has the feeling that people are only half paying attention these days. Even when they put their phones onto silent, you see them react to the vibration in their pockets or handbags. They get distracted. You can tell that their thoughts have gone elsewhere.’
‘It seems to me that there’s a great paradox,’ said the visitor. ‘People have never communicated so much with each other by phone and social media. But at the same time, we seem to be going backwards in our ability to be really present to each other.’
Charles thoughtfully tapped a nearby stone with his foot, before saying, ‘So many paradoxes, aren’t there? Our society has never been so affluent. We’ve never had such amazing technology. We’ve never travelled so much nor had such long life expectancy. But along with all the good things is this dark underside. Depression affects one in four people. There’s an increase in single-person households and social fragmentation. On one hand, we’re materially better off than ever. On the other, it doesn’t seem to have made us any happier.’
Charles’s visitor regarded him closely. ‘I wrestle with exactly this dilemma all the time.’
Nodding, Charles began walking again, heading in the direction of the organic gardens surrounding the oak pavilion, a mysterious structure mounted with an obelisk that was nevertheless curiously in keeping with the lavish foliage and plants all around it.
‘As a society, I often feel we’re at risk of losing our way,’ said his visitor. ‘We’ve made it all about the individual—glorification of self. People feel under pressure to lead a certain lifestyle. On social media, kids feel under pressure to create fictional personas to seem cool, more enviable and to have more online friends. At the same time, there’s a recognition that it’s all pointless make-believe, which leads to profound unease.
‘When I go to poorer countries, they are preoccupied by very different things. You don’t take anything for granted, if your electricity supply is hit and miss or if you can’t always buy rice or soap or toothpaste at the shops. You barter with friends. You rely on neighbours. There’s a genuine interdependence, a sense of being connected. It brings people closer as a community. That willingness to help each other out really makes people value each other.’
‘Are you saying,’ asked Charles, ‘that our social problems have come about because people aren’t deprived enough?’
Behind his glasses, his visitor’s eyes twinkled with humour. ‘That’s a provocative question!’
‘It’s meant to be,’ chuckled the Prince of Wales.
‘I do sometimes wish I could put people on a plane to parts of Africa or South America for a few months. The change in kids who go overseas to volunteer in their gap year is usually quite remarkable.’
‘I’ve seen it myself.’
‘Gives them a completely different perspective. They come back more grounded. Resilient.’
‘The benefit of a broader perspective.’
‘Quite.’
For a while the two strolled towards the oak pavilion in silence before the visitor said, ‘Going back to your question about our social problems, a lot of them have to do with affluenza.’
‘Materialism?’
‘Believing extrinsic things are more important to our happiness than they actually are,’ agreed the visitor. ‘And, by the same token, undervaluing the importance of non-material, intrinsic things.’
There was a pause before Charles said, ‘How eloquently put. And of course, that’s not something I could ever say. Not in public, at least. People would just say, He’s being a hypocrite.’ He fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘Even though if anyone should know how little satisfaction wealth can bring, it’s me.’
Charles looked pensive for a while before he asked, ‘What should the message be? What are the intrinsic things that we should be encouraging?’ He gave a droll smile. ‘Telling people they should go to church more often?’
‘Or even at all,’ interjected his visitor with a wry chuckle. ‘Sadly, for many people any form of organised religion has become irrelevant. If you believe you are nothing more than matter, which is the materialist view, then it is rational to dismiss spirituality. Persuading people that this is a tragically diminished idea of what it means to be human is, of course, our ultimate purpose. But even those with a materialist mindset can be encouraged to review their priorities.’
‘Oh?’ Charles sounded interested.
‘For most people, what’s meaningful are the things that draw us together. What we do with the people we care about. The communities that we’re a part of are important. It’s about what connects us.’
‘Hmm,’ the Prince of Wales digested this. ‘Over the years, I’ve met a number of entrepreneurs who say the most satisfying thing they did was return to the places where they grew up, sometimes quite deprived places, to help out the local sports team or brass band, for example. It can be a deeply moving experience.’
‘Exactly.’ His visitor nodded. ‘When we make positive connections or reconnections with those who’ve helped us in the past, that’s when we find purpose and wellbeing. Wealth and status actually become irrelevant.’
The two men were approaching the veranda when Margaret appeared on the lawn ahead of us, racing from one side to the other. Winston and I scampered after her. Too apprehensive to follow, Mitzy quivered at the ankles of her master in a bewildered state.
It was a short while later, after Charles and his visitor had retired to a drawing room for tea, when I behaved in an unspeakable fashion. You know me well enough by now, my fellow subject, to appreciate that I am not one to sugar-coat things or to avoid an uncomfortable truth. But nor do I wish to dwell on unpleasantness, so I shall tell you what happened—but only once.
Charles was searching for a favourite book on one of his shelves, as he and his visitor continued to talk about deep and meaningful subjects. Margaret and Winston remained outside, savouring the delights of the garden. Meanwhile, following my instincts, I found myself sitting at the feet of the visitor—Mitzy having hopped up onto the sofa beside him the moment that I appeared.
I still had no idea who the visitor was. My initial view of him being a corporate leader had changed—his travels seemed more inclined to the cerebral, even the spiritual. As he and the Prince of Wales had an animated discussion about medicine in the developing world, I wondered if he was the head of one of the aid charities that Sophia talked about so often.
Even had I known who he was, I don’t suppose it would have stopped me from obeying my instincts—which I regret to say were of the basest possible kind. His trousers, which I had found to be so bland and void of interesting smells when he’d first arrived were, by now, thoroughly permeated with the scent of Mitzy. A few telltale white curls had been left behind on the fabric. Mitzy had placed herself up on the sofa, coquettish and unattainable. But the visitor’s leg was pressed to the floor in what suddenly appeared to be a most interesting angle. Overwhelmed by the spell of Mitzy—her scent, her poodleness, her beguiling, fluffy rump—I couldn’t help myself. In a trice, I had mounted the leg of the Prince of Wales’ visitor and began vigorous rubbing.
It lasted only moments. ‘Ugh!’ protested the visitor. He shook his leg and forced me off with a vigorous shove of the hand. I tumbled onto my side.
Turning around from his bookshelves, Charles instantly surmised what had happened. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed.
‘Bit frisky,’ observed the visitor.
Charles raised an arm, pointed to the door and glowered at me. ‘Out!’ he ordered. Embarrassed by my impetuousness and ashamed to have disgraced myself in front of the heir to the throne, I
made my cringing way out to the garden.
The next morning, a short while after we corgis had returned home to Windsor, Tara was attaching a lead to my collar and taking me outside. A walk in the park, I wondered? Or perhaps along the river? But what about Winston and Margaret? Were they not coming too?
Soon we were in her car and driving out the gates. The steel bars resplendent with the lion and the unicorn closed behind us, as Tara headed into Windsor. The one and only time that I’d been in her car had been when she’d rescued me from the Grimsleys. Since then I’d been on numerous car journeys, but these had always been chauffeured by a royal driver or a police detective. What on earth was happening?
It was only when we turned down a particular street, passing a hairdressing salon that generated a potent and unmistakable melange of scents that I realised where we were going. Dr. Munthe had examined me soon after I came under the care of the Queen, ensuring I’d had the required inoculations. A bearded man with a Swedish accent, he was famous for being a dog lover and I’d felt quite at ease on being taken to his surgery.
What surprised me was how, on this occasion, instead of waiting with me to go into see Dr. Munthe, Tara left me with one of his nurses. ‘I’ll collect you this afternoon, young man,’ she said, exchanging a knowing smile with a veterinary nurse.
I was taken to a back room in which there were five kennels for dogs and, along one of the sides of the room, a number of smaller enclosures occupied by cats. Of the five kennels, three were already occupied. An elderly alsatian, his leg in plaster, was sleeping in the corner kennel. Next to him was a wheezing, middle-aged labrador, who wagged her tail limply as I appeared. A King Charles spaniel was in the kennel next to the one into which I was guided—but he was in the deepest of sleeps.
The nurse crouched down and gave me a reassuring pat, ‘Won’t be long.’
I dimly remember being taken into a room where Dr. Munthe checked my temperature and gave me a quick examination. A needle must have been involved somewhere because, without even noticing, I fell into the deepest of sleeps.