by David Graham
“Chief Scanlon said the bottled water shortage in London is over,” Steve continued, trying to sound tactful.
The Thames House incident hadn’t been Dale’s finest hour, all things considered. MI5 had concluded that the acid in the water was an inside job. The restroom they’d used catered for both sexes, so anyone on the top floor could have been the target. From what Steve had been reading about the British Secret Service, backstabbing went with the territory.
Dale went red-faced. “Yeah, but it’s not easy distinguishing one bottle from another.”
“So, the Prime Minister was never in any real danger?”
“Nope. Someone had been trying to save money by refilling them with tap water, so the seals were broken. I guess that’s what Ma Bell picked up on. So I don’t think I’ll be getting a knighthood anytime soon.” Dale stood up, his packing completed. “Okay, I’m done.”
“Any premonitions I should know about before we head for the airport? No saving the world from nuclear Armageddon on anything like that?”
Dale looked thoughtful.
“Please, dude, don’t tell me you’re gonna have a Final Destination moment in the airport lounge!”
Dale scrunched up his eyes. “No, all clear at the moment,” he said. The doorbell rang. He grabbed his travel bag and suit carrier. “Last one downstairs picks up the tab.”
Steve took his time, checking they had everything they needed for the flight. They wouldn’t be taking any shortcuts on this occasion. Perhaps he’d even get a photo of them with the Queen. That should convince his folks he’d done something meaningful with his life.
Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor pulled herself up to her full height of five feet four inches, give or take an inch. She’d developed a slight stoop over the years. ‘Curvature of the spine’ was how one of her personal physicians had put it. At least that sounded kinder than ‘dowager’s hump’. A touch of osteoporosis was probably the cause, so she had to be careful where she put her feet. Plenty of milk was advised, too. Staircases were a particular hazard, especially when they were attached to aircraft and buffeted by crosswinds.
She’d decided a long time ago that she wouldn’t use a stick. Her sister had done that and it hadn’t suited her at all. Mind you, Margaret’s unsteadiness was more because of her predilection for G&Ts. She’d never been the same following scalding her feet when making tea. Brewing a nice pot of Earl Grey was still one of life’s simple pleasures, but it was best avoided when one was tipsy.
Looking at herself in a full-length mirror was so different to seeing a photograph. She wasn’t vain, but imperfections seemed more obvious when the image moved. Bits of oneself did tend to bulge. In the early days, she’d kept a scrapbook of all the photographs taken of her and Philip, but then some Palace official had interfered by appointing a press secretary. Still, the internet had brought some of the old excitement back; all she’d had to do was enter her name in a search engine and, within a blink of an eye, she could view thousands of photos taken over her reign. Some of the pictures were even of people dressed up to look like her. Helen Mirren was terribly good. There were even some women who made a living by impersonating her. Such cheek!
What she found most difficult was not to look like how people expected. Everything she wore officially was basically the same shape: not too fitted and with a pleasing fall to the fabric to help her appear taller and slimmer. Her hats followed the pattern, too, and she had an awful lot of them. She did have more informal clothes, but the standard combination of a gilet and headscarf had become just as much a uniform – and instantly recognisable. Many years ago, when Margaret wasn’t wooing some young man, they used to go out on the town for cocktails and didn’t bother about a disguise. Nowadays, with those unpleasant paparazzi people around, it was almost impossible to slip out incognito. Of course, the rot had set in with Diana who only had herself to blame for attracting the wrong sort.
On this occasion, it was imperative that she disappeared into the background. She didn’t want to upstage the two young people getting married. Her name would be on the guest list, but she’d be listed as ‘Mrs Lilibet Sinword’. Her disguise would be subtle but effective. A soft, low-brimmed hat of the sort worn by Greta Garbo would take care of her candyfloss hair and she’d foregone any make-up. The long charcoal grey skirt and high-buttoned jacket had been a couturier’s experiment that she’d kept for a rainy day. The complementing shawl, draped loosely over her shoulders, was another break from tradition. There definitely wouldn’t be anything tartan in sight. She’d left her customary white gloves in the drawer. It would be rather pleasant going out without an oversized handbag draped over her left arm. A silver clutch bag would be much more convenient. She’d fastened a small, silver broach to her right shoulder, but it would be hidden by the shawl. Softly tinted sunglasses had completed the transformation.
The Queen checked her watch: there was three-quarters of an hour to go and it would take her 15 minutes to walk to St James’s Church in Piccadilly. She’d had a word in the right ear so that the wedding fees were waived. The Privy Purse had paid for the flowers, too.
St James’s was a large church and she wondered how many guests would be in the congregation. At least it would be easy for her to slip in and out unnoticed. She’d never attended a wedding where the bride couldn’t speak. She would like to have attended the reception, but that would have been too complicated. She’d invite the couple to tea instead. But definitely not for Dubonnet and gins! David had been in enough scrapes already this year.
The Queen pulled down her hat, smiled at the mirror and reached for a catch hidden in the frame’s ornate decoration. The mirror swung opened smoothly with barely a squeak. She touched the initials that she and Margaret had scratched into the woodwork when they were teenagers. She reached for the rope to switch on the light. Her sister’s sign, which read ‘Pull me at your peril’, was still there after all these years. She doubted that the dusty light bulb had been replaced since her coronation. She walked cautiously down the wooden stairs, keeping a lookout for rotten steps. A few of the bulbs had failed and she made a mental note to have them changed. On second thought, she’d exchange them herself; it would be tiresome having to disclose her secret after so many years.
The bottom of the stairs opened onto a Clapham Junction of choices. She’d used the leftmost corridor only recently, but Charles was none too happy when she’d arrived unannounced in Clarence House via the servants’ toilet in the basement. She’d been fortunate it wasn’t occupied at the time. “Mother, that is simply not acceptable,” he’d said. She thought it entirely reasonable for mothers to want to drop in on their children every now and again. They were close neighbours, after all. Anyway, he should have been keeping an eye on her after the stroke. The doctors at the Royal Infirmary had informed her that she’d have died without David’s intervention. She hadn’t let on what he had done, or, indeed, what she’d been attempting to do, sitting on the bench. That would have to remain a secret like the Palace’s tunnels.
The best part was emerging from the exit in St James’s Park. It was one of the few original telephone kiosks left in London and had a touch of stealth technology so that it merged into the background. It also helped that the telephone was permanently out of order. Climbing out of the tunnel felt like her escape from Colditz. She could have taken a more direct route along The Mall, but she’d have had to contend with coachloads of tourists taking selfies, with her home as an ostentatious backdrop for postings on social media. She stood for a moment to watch the ducks bobbing for fish in the lake. She heard rustlings from her right as someone fumbled with what sounded like a bag of breadcrumbs.
“It’s so peaceful here, isn’t it?” the stranger said.
The Queen huffed to herself, but turned to examine the unwelcome intruder on her privacy nonetheless. The woman looked about ten years younger and her appearance was a little shabby. Her grey hair hung lankly around a pale face and she had dark rings around her eyes. Sh
e was the kind of person who hung around the back of crowds searching for someone to share memories with. The Queen warmed to her, although she wasn’t certain why. “Yes, it is. Have you come to feed the ducks?”
The woman nodded. “It gets me out of the house.” She sighed deeply. “It’s been difficult since my Jack died.” She stared across the lake and then turned back, mistyeyed. “What about you, then? Do you live nearby?”
“Yes, we – ” the Queen caught herself, “ – I do. Quite near, in fact.”
The woman paused, staring open-mouthed. “Oh, I’m sorry, love, have you lost someone, too?”
“Not exactly,” the Queen said. “My husband doesn’t get out much these days. It’s the flu, you know.”
“Oh, I know, love,” the woman said. “My GP is always trying to get me to have the jab, but ... well, I can’t see the point, really ...” Her voice trailed off and she resumed her watery gazing. “Sometimes I think there’s no point in ...”
The Queen looked at her watch. “Goodness, I must go. We are due at a wedding.”
“Oh,” the woman said. She seemed taken aback. Going to a wedding must have seemed an unlikely excuse considering where they were in London.
“Maybe we will bump into each other again,” the Queen said, holding out her hand.
The woman smiled sadly, but eagerly accepted the Queen’s gesture. “That would be nice. I’m here this time most days.” She froze, staring at the Queen’s hand. “Goodness! That looks valuable!”
The Queen reddened. The one thing she couldn’t disguise was Philip’s wedding gift bracelet. She should have taken it off, of course, but she’d become such a creature of habit. “Thank you, my dear. They’re synthetic, of course. The original is kept with the Crown Jewels. One can’t be too careful these days.”
The woman laughed. “That’s a good one. I suppose you’re going to tell me you live in that place next.” She pointed at the Palace, but forgot that she was holding the bag of breadcrumbs, which promptly emptied onto the ground at the Queen’s feet. “Oops, silly me. Jack always said I was a clumsy so-and-so. Anyhow, love, what’s your name?”
“El ... er, Lilibet,” the Queen said. She should have practised it some more.
“Lilibet?” the woman said. “That’s unusual. A nice, old-fashioned name. Not like the silly names people use nowadays. I’m Emily, by the way.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dai was already waiting in St James’s Church, chewing his nails, wondering whether he’d got his tie right and generally trying to avoid thinking about everything that could go wrong. At least Sandra didn’t need to be concerned about her voice drying up.
“Are you nervous?” went Dai’s thought, delicately placed inside Sandra’s head, assuming he’d got the layout of the church right.
“Not really,” she responded in kind. Dai wondered how many feet of stone their communication had to pass through. Sandra had been rehearsing the vows and responses with the sign language interpreter. Telepathy would have been so much easier.
“Well, I am,” Dai sent back. “Going to church always reminds me of funerals.”
“Me too,” she replied. Dai thought he detected a change in tone to Sandra’s thoughts. Perhaps she hadn’t been permitted to attend her parents’ funeral. “I wasn’t,” she added. Dai did his best to groan inwardly. He was still rubbish at using thought boxes.
“What are you doing at the moment?” Dai asked, hoping that he’d be on safer ground.
“Practising signing,” Sandra responded. “It isn’t easy.” “Any sign of the Queen?”
“Not yet. Dr Jones is keeping a look out for her. Will she be in an official car?”
“Dunno. Perhaps she’ll walk here. It’s not far from the Palace. Oh ... the music’s started.”
“I can hear it.”
“Walk carefully, darling. Don’t trip on the train.”
Dai heard something like a giggle inside his head. Petros nudged him. “Was that the bride?”
Dai jumped. “How did you know?”
“Oh, you go all spaced out when you’re on the receiving end of telepathy. It’s just like me and chocolate.”
The Queen walked the rest of the way with a spring in her step. She couldn’t recall when she last spoke with someone just as one person talking to another. Even Balmoral didn’t afford her that anonymity. Perhaps she would pay St James’s Park a further visit in the hope of having a longer chat.
The streets were busier than she had expected, so she was relieved to see the church spire ahead of her as she turned off St James’s Square. She wasn’t pleased to be sworn at by an unpleasant young man in a white van as she crossed at the junction. He had St George’s Cross flags sticking out of the windows, too. Apart from that, no one had paid her much attention, which is exactly how she had wanted it, although she appreciated why widowers like Emily complained of feeling abandoned.
She was surprised to see a street market underway in the church courtyard. A young woman called out something to her. She smiled back and wondered whether she should buy something that was old and blue to give to the bride. Then she remembered she didn’t carry any money. She laughed to herself. Superstitions such as the Evil Eye would be irrelevant with David around to protect his bride.
“Good afternoon, madam. Bride or groom?” the usher asked abruptly as she entered the church discreetly through a side entrance. He handed her the order of service.
The Queen hesitated briefly. “Groom,” she said, although she regretted that when she noticed how empty the left side of the church was. Both of Sandra’s parents had died under, what MI5 euphemistically termed, ‘unfortunate circumstances’. She chose a pew halfway down the nave and sat next to a square wooden column supporting the ‘upper circle’. She couldn’t remember when she last visited a cinema. The days of wholesome epics like Doctor Zhivago seemed such a long time ago. She examined the vaulted ceiling; Sir Christopher Wren must have been on first name terms with the Almighty to build something quite so magnificent. A polite cough brought her back to the present.
“I’m sorry to bother you, madam. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to move nearer the front?” the usher whispered. “As you can see, there aren’t many guests.”
The Queen took in all the empty spaces. “We are fine, thank you. We might need to – ” she pointed at the open door at the back, “ – you know ...”
“Oh, of course. My nan has the same problem,” the young man said. “Oops, sorry. That didn’t come out quite right.” He blushed and fidgeted. “Anyhow, I’d better go and rustle up a few more guests, if you don’t mind. Sorry again.” He backed off sideways, crab-like, waving apologetically. Most of her subjects tripped over their feet when they attempted that manoeuvre.
The Queen couldn’t help smiling as the young man retreated to the safety of the front entrance. That wasn’t a conversation she’d ever imagined having: a normal person talking about normal things with cack-handed informality. She looked across to the rows on the left. She hoped the pews would fill up. St Mary Magdalene Church in Sandringham could be just as quiet on a chilly winter’s day. Just then, she noticed a woman sitting at about the same level as her. Or at least, she assumed the individual was a woman, as she wore black and had a covering over her head. Of course, it could be someone finishing their prayers. St James’s had an open door policy that she approved of, even if it meant never being certain of one’s neighbour. And it didn’t comply with her government’s enhanced security measures, either.
“Impressive place,” Steve said, staring up at the vaulted ceiling of the church. “Sir Christopher Wren built it.”
“All on his own?” Dale quipped, shifting his weight on the unyielding bench. After the business class seats on the flight over, the wooden pews were like stepping back in time. He wished they’d get on with the goddamn service.
Steve gave him a playful dig in the ribs.
“Ouch!” Dale said.
“Sorry, sweets,” Steve said. “I didn�
�t mean that to hurt.”
“No, no, it’s not you.” Dale grimaced. The pain was peaking. “It’s just that – ”
“Your nuts?”
“Yeah, they’ve started up again. Great timing.” He smiled wanly and then a thought hit him like a Missouri tornado. “Jeez!” He flicked a frantic look around the church.
“What is it, Dale?”
“Something’s about to happen.”
“Of course, dude. They’re getting married.”
“Oh Christ, Steve! It’s bad!” So, too, was the tsunamilike wave of panic that was threatening to engulf him. Avoiding barfing on his shiny new shoes was the number one priority. There had to be a restroom somewhere. Dai and Dr Kyriakides were looking at him strangely. The doctor came over and placed a hand on his shoulder. It should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant? You’re looking very pale.”
Dale grasped his testicles and tried to catch his breath. He wished he’d brought his cell phone for protection. He looked helplessly at Dr Kyriakides.
“Oh my God! You’re having a premonition!” the doctor said, turning a lighter shade of tan, his beard bristling to attention.
“Yeah,” Dale spluttered. “And it’s a big one.”
“What are you getting?” Dr Kyriakides asked. Dale saw him waving at Deborah Jenkins to attract her over. He mouthed something Dale couldn’t make out.
Dale grasped his head. “It’s weird. It’s like blackness turning into a blinding light.” He tried shaking his head to sort his thoughts. “It keeps repeating in a loop. No structures, no words, just ... Christ, perhaps it’s an explosion!”
Deborah had reached his side. She gaped at him. “You must be kidding, Lieutenant!”
Dale shrugged. “I wish ...”
“Great timing,” she muttered. “So, where and when?”
Dale concentrated. The image was cycling more frequently. “Dunno, but it’s definitely somewhere dark.” He wished he could give her more, but Ma Bell wasn’t exactly in a churchgoing mood.