Chain Reaction

by Gillian White

  ‘What a wheeze, though,’ says Jamie in the best of spirits, his nose rather red at the tip and his words slightly slurred. One of the worst criticisms of himself he had ever read was when some stupid columnist said he had a schoolboy humour, for Jamie prides himself on his humour and wit. ‘To do the real thing and then follow up with an out-take of me and Peaches… so wonderfully vulgar.’

  ‘The sad thing is that the little idiot would probably believe it was true!’ roars Walter, highly amused by this new thought. ‘She wouldn’t have the nous to know the thing was a set-up, a stunt!’

  ‘It would be mildly amusing,’ smiles the Prince, glancing with glazed eyes at his elder brother, defying him to interfere with his hard-won independence. In his fuddled, alcohol-fuming mind he senses that his pride is at stake and his vanity is wounded. ‘But far too risky. And anyway, she probably wouldn’t have the right sort of clothes to wear.’

  He has said enough. So Walter smiles to himself and leaves the topic alone.

  ‘You’re married, Belle, and I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘But only so I can take him for all he’s got when we divorce.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve always been a cynic, and now you’re going the same way. No longer the sweet and biddable Peaches and I don’t know if I can take the change. It’s far too extreme.’

  ‘These are extreme times,’ says Peaches. ‘You only have to read the papers.’

  ‘But can we do it? Are we strong enough to do as we promised? Walter was absolutely right, you know. We have both been used abominably, although we both went begging for it. This would be the perfect revenge. I can see his point, but oh God, it’s so cruel. And I never thought of myself as cruel.’

  ‘Think of the fun we’re going to have after it’s all over. Just keep your mind fixed on that. Back to the flat with Mags and Charlie until we can find somewhere bigger and posher, and I don’t think that’s going to take too long. We’ll be richer than we ever dreamed! And we’ll be together in the marquee, we won’t have to brave it alone, that long walk under the roses with the cameras flashing and the music playing. Jamie and Jacy think life’s a game and people exist to be used and dumped when they feel like it. They deserve all they’re going to get, both of them. Walter is quite right.’

  ‘You’re more determined than me!’ says Belle, bewildered by the sudden change in the gentle, kindly Peaches, no longer cowering in the closet but pulling out all the stops in preparation for her wedding day. And she looks nothing short of a princess, Walter has seen to that, in a magical dress like that of the Disney Cinderella, as outrageous and as over-the-top and as classic as her lover’s disgraceful behaviour.

  ‘Can you blame me? After hearing that the man I love is prepared to take me down the aisle for a joke?’

  ‘Poor Peaches.’

  ‘No, I’m not Poor Peaches,’ she says, settling the sparkling tiara in her hair and adding the final touches to her glamorous appearance. ‘Not any more, not ever again. And that’s exactly why I’m perfectly happy to do it. At least the child will be recognised. There’s no way the randy idiot is going to get out of that!’

  Belle, already dressed for what she now regards as the sacrifice, watches Peaches fiddling around with her curls, and sighs. ‘By the time my ordeal is over, I bet you’ll have changed your mind. I bet you don’t follow on down the aisle like Walter says you should, arm in arm with the Prince of your dreams. I bet you collapse in tears at his feet before the ceremony even begins.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait and see then, won’t you.’

  ‘I’m longing to see Jamie’s face when he realises that the marriage certificate is perfectly legal.’

  ‘What about his mother’s face, then? And Sir Hugh’s, and Dougal’s, and the whole damn lot of them!’

  ‘Trust Walter to find a willing priest. Trust him to cut straight through all the red tape. If you want anything done in your life, Walter’s your man. He’ll do it.’

  ‘He must have had one hell of a grievance against that slimy Sir Hugh.’

  ‘He did. That terrible man fouled up his whole time at school, poisoned his entire adolescence.’

  It’s a scene straight from a magical setting. The world’s cameras follow the progress of Jacy, lead singer of Haze, and his enchanting bride, two beautiful people both decked in bridal white as they glide towards the dreamy altar.

  And after that is all over there’s a breathless pause as Prince James takes his intended Princess on his arm and bows low, if unsteadily, before proceeding down the golden carpet of flowers towards the floral cross.

  Smiling broadly and winking to his knowing friends.

  You could almost believe the priest was a real one, with his ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,’ and with all his genuflections. He reads the service so beautifully, like an expert, not merely some old actor who has found himself on the glitzy American circuit. Choristers from the Cathedral, crystalline and sugary as if off a Christmas cake, sing with their sweetly-cold little-boy voices; not a wrong note is struck.

  Two perfect weddings. Two perfect brides.

  Almost before the two new wives have left the stage, shrieking with laughter and heading, still in their outlandish gowns, straight for the helipad where a jubilant Walter is waiting, the priceless pictures of the day’s events are well on their way to Fleet Street.

  FORTY

  No fixed abode

  MISS BENSON CAN HARDLY speak for excitement and jubilation. ‘She’s on her way, my dear, I just heard the news two minutes ago and thought I ought to give you due warning so you could spruce yourself up, choose something special to wear.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Benson,’ cries Irene, flabbergasted. ‘I have to admit I never truly believed any of this would come to pass. My hair is a mess, I can’t reach to do it myself…’

  ‘Just push it all up under a net and it’ll be fine. And why don’t you wear that blue dress with the daisies, the one you wore at the Shire Horse Centre. It suits you so well—and don’t bother with any makeup, Mrs Peacock, you really do look so much better without.’

  ‘Just a touch of powder perhaps,’ calls Irene, now in a total panic, wondering if she’ll even manage to dress herself at all she is so overwrought. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘The official announcement was made this morning and apparently She is flying down from Scotland as we speak.’

  ‘Miss Benson, answer me truthfully. Have I done the right thing, causing all this dreadful trouble?’

  Should Miss Benson share her suspicions, and the suspicions of the very well-informed people around her, busily faxing and mumbling into their phones, that the reason the Queen has agreed to do this is more to do with desperate measures than any personal empathy she might feel towards the old lady? The incredible pictures of the Prince’s shotgun marriage have been flashed all over the world and nobody’s talking about anything else. In Mustique, his former fiancée, the stalwart Lady Frances Loughborough, is stiffening her large upper lip and saying nothing. Nothing that could possibly be reported. Her humiliation might well be horrendous but it is a transitory thing, and her short engagement to the Queen’s youngest son will do her prospects nothing but good in the long run. Her parents rush to her side in order to console her, and one of the Queen’s best friends, the Countess of Loughborough, is a friend no more. Sad—but there we are. Such is life.

  The general and immediate view is, ‘Gawd blessim, he’s done the right thing.’ Agony Aunts from across the land are rushed into television studios to give their opinions of the likely success, or otherwise, of the unexpected union. Is throwing yourself at the feet of the man you love a sensible and profitable course of action, bearing in mind that it certainly worked for Arabella Brightly-Smythe, now elevated to the position of Princess of the Royal House? There are mixed opinions on the subject, lack of pride being the main objection, but others speak up and say to hell with pride w
hen you’ve got a kid to bring up on your own, and if you’re madly in love why not go for it?

  Staunch monarchists hold a different view. They see the outcome of this as pandering to blackmail and media pressure. After all, Arabella’s family, while perfectly respectable middle-class people are certainly not out of the top drawer. Hell, not even titled. Although, of course, they soon will be.

  The thing that really sticks in the craw, is the tasteless type of ceremony, and the sight of the Prince, his curls springing under his feathered hat like a latterday Robin Hood, in that ridiculous outfit! That, and his secrecy, and the fact that this ‘Royal Wedding’ followed on behind a hyped-up piece of advertising for a degenerate trio of pop musicians, Jacy Smedley of Haze getting hitched to his artful piece. A Midsummer Night’s Dream my foot. The affair was a pretentious sham, held in the gardens of some country house in the middle of Lancashire, not a cathedral spire in sight, not one tasselled robe, just a congregation of publicity-seekers and a questionable old priest to lead the service.

  So far there has been no comment from The Palace.

  So far no statement has been made by either the Prince or his bride. In fact, there is a rumour that the new Princess left in a hurry straight after the ceremony, roaring with laughter. In spite of early attempts to trace her, and vast offers of money in exchange for a tip-off, Peaches’ whereabouts remain a mystifying secret.

  Although most people seem to think the Prince was right to marry the mother of his unborn child, the opinion polls are still giving the Royals their worst showing ever.

  Under these circumstances it is obvious that the Queen’s advisers will feel a public response to the Siege of Swallowbridge is the necessary, indeed the only move to make. Thus the official announcement that Her Majesty is on her way. Thus the confused excitement of the old woman at the centre of the whole controversy. Irene Peacock’s liver-spotted hand shakes as she struggles to put her teeth in. She cannot possibly meet her Sovereign with grinning pink gums.

  ‘Sir, your mother is absolutely livid.’

  ‘I know, Hugh, I know. No need to rub it in.’

  ‘What on earth did you think you were playing at?’ the other man groaned.

  ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time. Quite a jolly jape, actually. How was I to know that the whole bally thing was a set-up—and all because you bullied some wretched toady at school, instead of venting your spleen at me, perhaps it would be better if you wised up to a few simple facts. Wouldn’t it have been sensible to quiz this character, Mathews, before opening your heart to him? Didn’t that even occur to you? Had you forgotten about the time you hung the poor fellow over the school parapet minus his trousers?’

  ‘I had forgotten about that, actually,’ confesses the broken Sir Hugh.

  ‘Well, he hadn’t, unfortunately for us,’ says Jamie, enjoying the upper hand for once, but with angry flecks of amber sparking round the pupils of his eyes.

  ‘I have to inform you that your mother now knows all the ghastly ins and outs surrounding the whole affair. She has decided to continue with the purchase of The Grange rather than cause unnecessary inconvenience to all those innocent people involved in the chain.’

  ‘Come on—she’s no need to do that!’

  ‘She has her reasons, but is not prepared to discuss them with us.’

  ‘I didn’t like the house anyway,’ Jamie sulks.

  ‘That is beside the point. The main problem facing us now is how to extricate yourself from this latest mess. A message has already been received from the Princess to say that she wants an instant divorce. The only reason she married you was to legitimise her child.’

  ‘Bitch from hell.’

  Sir Hugh cannot but agree. ‘It has been decided by those in authority over you that you must make every attempt to change the Princess’ mind. Now the business has come to this, eventually the public will accept it, and this instant divorce she is demanding would be quite unacceptable to anyone.’

  ‘Peaches has us over a barrel.’

  ‘You could well put it like that.’

  ‘So what must I do?’ Prince James must indeed be suffering to display such abject obedience.

  ‘You must court her, sir, in a gentlemanly manner, surreptitiously, of course, and try to get her to agree to move into your apartments at Kensington Palace.’

  ‘She’d laugh in my face. Just as she did straight after the wedding.’

  ‘Nevertheless, somehow this attitude must be overcome. And no more gadding about and whoring. Arabella is clearly not another Lady Frances. She has her pride.’

  Jamie is not quite so self-confident this morning. He answers with a new and rather attractive humility. ‘And if this course of action fails?’

  ‘It must not fail, sir. You must pull yourself together and try to behave like a gentleman. Already you have made a public spectacle of yourself and the spin-off has fatally tainted the reputation of The Family. Matters are at their direst for years. Your poor mother is doing her best by flying down south to sort out another unpleasant little matter, and while she’s away it is up to you to play your part unless you want to be greeted with jeers and brickbats wherever you go.’ And although glory lies no longer in the downward path of Sir Hugh, he is an Englishman after all and determined to do his best and not end his career parked in some Palace corridor.

  Poor Dougal has already been demoted and will soon be selling wickedly expensive cardboard clocks and picture frames four months a year at the Palace gift shop.

  ‘Look at this! Read this! Granny is going to be meeting The Queen!’

  ‘Lucky old Granny.’

  ‘Poppy, please don’t talk about my mother in that sneering voice!’

  ‘Why not, Mum? You do.’

  ‘Not any more I don’t.’

  ‘Only because everyone hates you. They all think you are hard and horrid.’

  Yes, Frankie has to agree, that is all part of it. She thought her divorce was painful enough but never did she imagine she would have to face the fury of the whole British public, defending her decision to put her mother away. My God, the sort of spiteful twaddle they have written about her! She’d never recognise herself as the unfeeling and acquisitive cow they painted her in print. But over the last few terrible days she has been forced to rethink her position and yes, she admits, she could have been more supportive when Mother begged to stay in the flat, on those various terrible occasions when she ran away from Greylands and they dragged her back against her will. Just like a child.

  It hadn’t seemed so dreadful then; it had seemed like the only sensible option. How would they have paid for daily care when the local authority refused to help, when the experts said she should go into Greylands because of the expense? ‘I don’t need daily care,’ Frankie remembers her mother insisting. ‘Just leave me to get on with it. If I fall down and there’s no one around, so what? I’ve got to die of something, Frankie. If I set fire to myself with a fag the fire alarms will go off long before the fire can spread, and if I get burnt alive then there’s no need for you to feel guilty! If I get knocked over crossing the road, tiddly or not, then so be it. I like my gin and I’m not afraid, and whoever knocks me over can be reassured by knowing it was probably all my fault. I’ll even buy an alarm so that if I get ill all of a sudden I can contact someone and they can take me to hospital. What I want is to make my own decisions! Not have them torn out of my hands like this as if my opinion is suddenly not worth anything. There might well come a time when I need to go into a home, but let me decide, Frankie, please!’

  It’s all down to guilt in the end, because what would everyone have said if something awful had happened to Mother and Frankie had ignored the advice of the experts? They would all have blamed her, wouldn’t they, would have said she was uncaring. Hah, that’s a laugh, they’re all blaming her anyway. How can you win? How the hell can anyone win these days, whatever they do?

  She has been amazed by Irene’s courage. Mother is a far cry from the hum
ble fool Frankie thought her. Mother is a powerful and independent woman. And after her brave protest, after she’s won the support of the world, how can Frankie continue to despise her feeble relationship with Dad? Quite clearly, that was Mother’s decision. She was not betraying her independence, she probably regrets it now, now she knows she can cope without him, but at the time there was possibly no other way. We all have to cope however we can—and how can you blame anyone else for choosing a different road?

  Let’s face it, Frankie has to admit that her way hasn’t worked too well.

  Frankie, so embarrassed, so mortified at first, as if Irene had come to school wearing an outlandish hat, has gradually come to feel proud of her mother. She’s a heroine. She’s a fighter. The children, Poppy and Angus, have been infected by Frankie’s attitude. If Frankie had been less critical of Irene over the years, the children would have followed her lead as children mostly do. Now that the sale of the flat has fallen through there is the chance of starting afresh, of getting to know each other again if Mother is prepared to do so. In future the experts can say what they like; in future Frankie is determined to try and listen to Mother.

  ‘We’re going to be there when The Queen comes, we’re going to be there to support her.’

  ‘They’ll only slag you off again, Mum.’

  ‘Well, I can put up with that—if you can.’

  They pick up all the litter.

  They erect barricades. They move the crowd behind them.

  The large police presence in the small town of Swallowbridge is massively reinforced.

  They clear the rest of Albany Buildings and Miss Benson and her press associates are forced to pack up and go. ‘For security purposes.’ Miss Benson regrets that all this excitement will soon be over and life will resume its boring old routines again. Although not quite… Her expertise has been recognised by several leading charities and Animal Aid have invited her to act as their Chief Press Officer, an opportunity she cannot turn down. Think of all the good she can do. She might, in the end, even make enough money to buy her own piece of land and start a small animal sanctuary—something she has dreamed of doing since childhood. She longs to tell Mrs Peacock about that. She hopes her old friend will survive this ordeal. Miss Benson stands at the front of the crowd and keeps her small fingers firmly crossed.