The Queen's Corgi

by David Michie

  So this was how socialists operated? Well, I would show it! I wasn’t going to be cowed by its stings and arrows. I was in the service of Her Majesty the Queen and my valour was needed every bit as much as any knight of the realm. Stout of heart and with implacable resolve, I planted both front paws on the threatening beast and tore into it even more vigorously. Growling and chewing, I was beginning to dominate the wretch—at least it hadn’t responded with any further barbed tentacles—when Her Majesty strode into the room.

  ‘Nelson!’ she shouted, not in horror or shared outrage at the threat to our way of life, but in wrath. I looked up. ‘Get down here at once!’ She pointed to the floor. Bewildered, I slunk off the bed and cowered. I had rarely seen her so angry and never before with me.

  Moments later, Tara appeared in her doorway and looked towards the bed. ‘Your hat!’

  Aghast, the two of them stared at the scattered plumage and torn remnants. I could hardly believe my ears. Surely that wasn’t all it had been? The Queen was looking at a clock. ‘It’s not the hat itself that concerns me,’ said the Queen. ‘There are people outside who have been looking forward to this afternoon for months. I don’t wish to be late.’

  I noticed that Her Majesty was wearing a summery dress with red blossoms, precisely the same shade as the item I had just destroyed. Was I a dog who had mistaken a hat for a socialist?

  The Queen and her lady-in-waiting hurried to the dressing room where they sought out first one hat, then another. What Her Majesty wears is always carefully considered and usually decided well before. Intricate planning goes into her outfit for every event and she has access to unlimited variations of dresses and hats. Getting the right match for each occasion is a task she usually delegates to her dressers, merely confirming their choice or requesting a change a day or two in advance, when the items are brought out of storage. But she had already let her dresser go that afternoon. And finding a suitable hat at last minute from the limited options available wasn’t easy.

  ‘Plain yellow?’ I heard Tara offer a suggestion.

  ‘It’s a bit windy today for that one. Last time I wore it, it almost blew off. What do you think of this?’

  ‘Not an ideal match for the red.’

  ‘No.’

  The two of them spent time trying out a number of variations—none of them anywhere near the perfect match which I had so misguidedly destroyed. Then I heard the Queen say, ‘Fifteen minutes. I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer. I shall simply go hatless.’

  ‘That would be unusual.’

  ‘Indeed.’ There was resolve in Her Majesty’s voice, along with a strong sense of duty. ‘But what of it?’

  As the two of them walked from the dressing room and out of the Queen’s private rooms she continued, ‘It’s my own fault. I should have realised that it would be a temptation, leaving it where I did.’

  Winston, roused from his slumbers, was trotting behind the two of them. If he was surprised by Her Majesty’s lack of a hat, he didn’t mention it. I held back somewhat, ears drooping. I had never felt so mortified. We made our way along a corridor to the staircase and down several flights of steps before reaching the public rooms. About to make our appearance, the Queen turned to the two of us. ‘Now, best behaviour, little ones!’ she said in a kindly voice. I knew she meant it for me, which made me feel all the more undeserving.

  There was a curious atmosphere when we walked onto the lawn. I was by now quite used to royal entrances. As one of Her Majesty’s representatives—albeit of the hat-eating kind—I had some experience of how people responded when coming face to face with their monarch.

  The mood that afternoon was different. There was strangely brittle laughter when we first arrived, along with an undercurrent of embarrassment. Huchens, who usually kept within short distance of the Queen, but rarely right beside her, accompanied Her Majesty from the moment she made her entrance. His face seemed even more pink than usual.

  After the initial awkwardness, things settled down. The mere presence of the Queen and other family members prompted an outpouring of warmth and excitement, as well as that powerful sense of benevolent expectation that accompanied her wherever she went. Yes, today was an occasion of celebration and lightness, a rare chance to engage with one of the most famous beings on planet Earth. But for many it would also prove to be an unexpected encounter with the Queen’s radiant expectations.

  As Her Majesty began to be introduced to people, we corgis made our own way across the gardens. I noticed that Margaret was being admired by a group of Chelsea pensioners in their immaculate red uniforms. Winston made his way towards a group of younger people. Within moments, mini pizzas were falling to the grass. I followed quickly in his wake, the two us wolfing down the food appreciatively.

  ‘So, what was that all about upstairs?’ Winston asked, after we had ensured that not a single crumb of pastry or wisp of cheese remained on the lawn. We were both feeling replete and conversational. I told him about the red thing I’d seen on Her Majesty’s bed and how its feathers trembled in the breeze. I explained that it had seemed to be a sinister presence, in light of what Margaret had said about reds under beds, and how I had leapt up and torn it to shreds in a trice—yes, I did exaggerate a little—before the Queen had arrived. And how she was not amused.

  Winston, however, was greatly amused. ‘Go on!’ He nudged me playfully with his snout. ‘You didn’t!’ In a rare burst of energy, he ran across the lawn, tumbling in front of a flowerbed, stubby legs poking into the air, snorting and chortling at what I’d told him. ‘You didn’t! You didn’t!’

  ‘I’m afraid I did, Winston,’ I admitted ruefully.

  He was doing it again, the mischievous energy of that afternoon prompting him to make another short burst across the lawn. Some of Her Majesty’s guests were turning to watch, laughing at our playfulness.

  ‘You didn’t! You didn’t!’

  ‘But I did!’

  Eventually he’d settled down enough to say, ‘You didn’t realise that reds under beds is just a figure of speech?’

  ‘You’re not saying . . .’

  ‘A turn of phrase? A metaphor?’

  I knew about metaphors. ‘No, I didn’t.’ I was defensive. ‘How am I supposed to know what a socialist looks like?’

  ‘Well, not like a hat!’ Winston was still snuffling with mirth. ‘Sorry, Nelson! It’s just too funny!’ He regarded my downhearted expression carefully before asking, ‘What?’

  I had to look away for a moment before replying, ‘It’s just that you’re always talking about the importance of the Golden Rule.’

  ‘As you sow, so shall you reap. Do unto others. Cause and effect. Taught by all the great spiritual leaders.’

  ‘Does it mean I will experience terrible things, because I destroyed the Queen’s hat?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ replied Winston, before cocking his head. ‘Your motivation was to protect and defend, not to destroy. Intention is key. Besides, the Queen has a way of drawing something good even from the bad. Call it alchemy.’

  I sighed. ‘I just wish that beings would say what they mean sometimes.’

  ‘Ah! Words and the meaning of words. A timeless quest. If you knew the meaning of the phrase reds under beds you wouldn’t have destroyed the Queen’s hat.’

  We stood contemplating the truth of this, as we surveyed the Buckingham Palace gardens on what was turning out to be a balmy afternoon. ‘If only I knew what every word meant,’ I mused. ‘That would make me the wisest dog in the land.’

  ‘Not the wisest, Nelson. The most knowledgeable perhaps, but not the wisest.’

  I looked at him, enquiringly.

  Winston fixed me with an expression of the deepest significance. ‘Knowing the meaning of words is mere knowledge,’ he intoned. ‘Experiencing the meaning of words is wisdom.’

  Sensing my uncertainty, he continued. ‘Wisdom is what happens when our understanding of a thing deepens to the point that it changes our behaviour.’
>
  He raised his snout and sniffed the air for a few moments. Take the words stop and smell the roses.’

  I cocked my head. ‘A metaphor.’

  ‘What do the words mean?’

  Winston had gone profound on me. ‘Meaning . . .’ I tried to think of an explanation. ‘Don’t be in so much of a hurry all of the time that you ignore the things that can make you happy.’ My stump twitched in anticipation.

  ‘Many beings know what the words mean,’ said Winston, implying that I had answered him correctly. ‘But how many act like they do?’

  My immediate thoughts were of the people who constantly streamed through nearby St James’s Park, where there were often the most beautiful flourishes of verdant flowers. Many of the commuters were deeply engrossed in important conversations on their mobile phones. Or else they seemed intent on hurrying to their destination. From somewhere in my earliest memories came an actual bed of roses, gorgeous and perfumed, not far from The Crown, where the Grimsleys had spent many a Saturday evening. I couldn’t remember them stopping once to admire it or even remarking on the display.

  Of course, you can never tell what goes through the mind of another being. But if outward behaviour was any clue, I realised, Winston was absolutely right: knowledge is commonplace. Wisdom, on the other hand, is rare.

  I looked over to where Margaret was trotting briskly about the legs of the guests Her Majesty was about to meet. I doubted a single mini pizza had passed her lips this afternoon.

  ‘Sometimes I think you are the wisest dog in the land, Winston,’ I told him.

  ‘Very good of you to say so.’ There was genuine warmth in his gravelly voice. ‘But you know, wisdom in someone else is only so good as long as that someone else is around. One needs to cultivate it oneself.’ Then as he followed my glance, ‘And don’t be too hard on those who will probably never find it. Most beings are not on the same path as you and me. At least, not in this lifetime.’

  I looked over at Winston with profound gratitude. Although his remark was typically mysterious, I knew enough to gather that he was saying we had something in common.

  ‘Does that make us special?’ I ventured, hesitantly.

  ‘Indeed, dear boy,’ said he.

  We three corgis returned indoors with the Queen at the end of the garden party, accompanied by the rest of the royal family, and also by Huchens. The event was deemed a success by Her Majesty and her senior staff, with all comers seeming to enjoy themselves. But she did have a question.

  ‘Come on Huchens, out with it,’ she demanded, once the two of them had left the public area of the palace and were behind closed doors. ‘You’ve followed me like a shadow all afternoon.’

  A puce colour had returned to the cheeks of her security chief. ‘We had an incident earlier.’

  ‘Nothing serious, obviously?’ queried Her Majesty.

  ‘It may have been. It revealed a lapse in our defences.’

  ‘What happened, exactly?’

  ‘You don’t need to be concerned with the specifics . . .’

  ‘Huchens!’ It was rare for the Queen to be so imperious.

  ‘Very well, ma’am. We had a streaker.’

  Her Majesty paused for just a moment. ‘Good heavens! At the garden party?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I hope he didn’t upset anyone.’

  ‘None of the guests, so far as I’m aware. But he upset me.’ Huchens was stern. ‘He . . . flaunted himself at the exact moment when you were supposed to make your appearance. Had you not been uncharacteristically delayed, it would have been profoundly embarrassing.’

  ‘Well,’ said the Queen, ‘we have Nelson to thank, then. He took it into his head to dismember my hat. In so doing, it seems that he prevented a more serious calamity.’

  ‘He did.’ Huchens glanced at me only to indulge Her Majesty. I had the sense that the former SAS warrior had no truck with happy coincidences, especially those involving destructive corgis.

  ‘Was he good-looking then, this streaker?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘I—I—I mean to say, ma’am . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  There was a pause while he formulated an answer. ‘That falls completely outside my area of professional expertise.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud, Huchens.’ The Queen flicked her handbag against the side of her leg. ‘One is simply curious.’

  ‘Well, if you really want to know . . .’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘He was a thirty-something Caucasian male. Lanky. Tattooed. Needed a decent haircut. And from what I could see nothing about him was unusual or impressive.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ said the Queen with just the hint of a mischief. ‘We wouldn’t want to have missed out on anything . . . impressive.’

  But it wasn’t until the following day that the full impact of my ignorant attack on Her Majesty’s hat became clear. Next morning, Lady Tara was browsing through that day’s media cuttings, which were always waiting for her by the time she arrived. Several newspapers had reported on the garden party—large, colour photographs of some of the more interesting or well-dressed guests. All the royal correspondents noted the fact that the Queen hadn’t been wearing a hat. What was the significance of this departure from normal royal protocol, they wondered? Was there a deeper meaning to it? Did it mark a new and refreshing informality? Milliners, hair stylists and non-verbal communication experts had all been canvassed for their views. No mention at all was made of the possibility that one of her corgis had been responsible for savaging the red menace.

  By far the most popular photograph of the day showed Her Majesty at the centre of the group of Chelsea pensioners, the blooms of her dress matching their jackets, as they all beamed broadly into the camera. ‘She’s a saint!’ one of the pensioners had decided, after meeting her. It was the phrase that had given the papers their headline for another entirely unforeseen reason. It just so happened that the photograph had been taken late in the afternoon, by which time the sun had moved westwards. Its lengthening rays, shining directly through the Queen’s hatless hair, produced a halo effect, so the pensioner’s words appeared self-evident. Some of the papers referred to it as ‘The Queen’s Halo’.

  ‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Tara, leaping from her seat and taking the folder of press cuttings in the direction of Her Majesty’s office. Pausing at the door she glanced over before summoning me. ‘Come, Nelson! I am sure the Queen will want to see you. It seems like you have given her the best media day so far this year!’

  Across the carpet, Winston regarded me with amusement. As I got up to follow Tara, I walked past him.

  ‘See what you mean about the Queen and alchemy.’

  Winston snorted. ‘Look sharp,’ said he.

  CHAPTER 7

  One of the highlights of life as a royal corgi happens every Friday morning, when we’re fed our weekly bone. Each of us in turn is presented with a delicious, meat-encrusted shank. We carry our treasure to a spot in the small staff garden or, if the weather is inclement, a corner of the laundry, where we give free rein to our atavistic urges, gnawing, grinding and chewing for the next hour in a state of contentment.

  You can tell something about a canine from the way he eats his bone, don’t you think? Winston would attack his with gusto, snorting and slavering with wanton abandon. No less eager, Margaret gnawed her bone with diligent rigour, removing every last scrap of meat from one end to the other. Having never seen a bone before joining the royal household, I was initially unsure what to do with it. But within a few minutes I had taken to the delights of shank chewing, relishing the tasty, marrow-mashing, tooth-sharpening joy of it.

  When the bone chewing came to an end, I observed another interesting difference between Winston and Margaret. His jaws tender from all the clenching and tugging, Winston would take his bone to the side of the garden, where small terracotta pots were stacked, and drop it beside them, next to several other bones from Fridays past.

  Margaret h
ad a very different notion of bone disposal. Making her way to the flowerbed at the back of the garden, she’d use both paws and snout to dig a hole that was deep enough to conceal what remained of her bone, before covering it up with loose soil. She’d emerge from the flowerbed, her nose and face unfamiliarly smudged with earth. But she’d have an air of quiet accomplishment about her.

  The first time I witnessed this, I felt a curious tug. Some deep-down instinct that I’d never known I possessed impelled me to do the same thing. Picking up my own bone, I made my way over to the flowerbed, placing it at the side. ‘We’re supposed to bury bones?’ I queried, as she covered up her own, all four paws flicking the soil with practised ease.

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ she said.

  I couldn’t avoid looking over to where Winston was dropping his by the flowerpots, rather casually I thought. ‘Why isn’t Winston burying his?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him,’ she replied.

  As it happened, Winston was making his way towards us. ‘An ancient canine instinct,’ he nodded towards where Margaret was making her way off the flowerbed to begin wiping her snout on the lawn. ‘Preserving food in case of future shortages.’

  I registered this with interest. ‘Have royal corgis ever gone short?’ I asked.

  ‘Never,’ he replied emphatically.

  ‘The past does not equal the future,’ observed Margaret quietly. While she didn’t hesitate to disagree with Winston from time to time, she would always do so with a genuine regard for his elder corgi status.

  ‘True,’ he agreed with equanimity.

  Wondering what to do with the bone between my front paws, I asked Winston: ‘You don’t think there will be shortages?’

  He cocked his head. ‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘but that’s not why I leave my bones above ground.’

  I could tell he was in one of his enigmatic moods, which was confirmed by what he went on to say: ‘There are many ways to hide a thing. Concealing it underground is one way. Another is to hide it in plain sight.’