by SJ Bennett
‘Cameron may have messed up the country,’ she said to Philip over a barbecue, ‘but at least he was a joiner-inner. I have a feeling the new one won’t be.’
Philip nodded his agreement through a fug of sausage smoke. ‘I always liked Samantha. Very easy on the eye. Excellent manners, too. And she was always game for a laugh. What do you do with a PM whose biggest party trick is wearing leopard-print shoes?’
The Queen looked at him with a perfectly straight expression. ‘Strip poker?’
He laughed so hard he had a coughing fit.
But the problem remained. The United Kingdom’s second female prime minister, much like the first, did not shoot, fish or display any particular fondness for animals. She was not renowned for her sparkling repartee, nor her dancing. She was most famous for her colourful footwear, being tough on the police and saying ‘Brexit means Brexit’ ad nauseam – which meant nothing at all. Sir Simon had mentioned that she was fond of walking. One would simply have to take her on a lot of walks.
*
After four weeks at Balmoral, Rozie was replaced at the Queen’s side by Sir Simon. Though single, Rozie did not live life as a hermit, and one of the royal equerries had become a friend with benefits, one of which turned out to be a family cottage in the Caribbean. She spent a happy fortnight soaking up the tropical warmth, sipping pina coladas at a beachside bar and listening to live music under the stars.
Back at work, she spent her weekends in the country houses of various political grandees, eating salmon en croute with junior ministers and going on duck shoots with government advisers, gleaning what she could about the plans for a post-Brexit world. She duly reported back her findings to Sir Simon up in Scotland, but the more she learned, the less she understood. The one thing that was clear was that nobody really knew, but everyone was happy to argue about it with anyone who could bear to raise the subject.
She spoke to various people around the Palace about the Britannia painting, but made little progress. Her much greater concern was the mental health of Mary van Renen, who was still working out her notice – Sir James Ellington had said he couldn’t do without her – and who was a shadow of her former self. The notes in her clothes had stopped, but only, Mary thought, because she made sure she was never alone. Friends had formed a rota to travel to work with her and she rarely went out. She couldn’t imagine socialising for pleasure now.
Keeping out of the way of the half a million paying visitors who trooped through the State Apartments over the summer, Rozie and Mary swam regularly in the Palace pool in the early evenings. Rozie had suggested the idea. She had seen how much her friend was suffering and this was the best way she could think of to help. The two women usually chatted for the first few lengths, doing a leisurely breaststroke together, then Mary watched from a rattan chair as Rozie sped up and down at her normal pace, her long limbs carving through the water as she chased her personal best. Occasionally, one of the male staff members would offer to take her on in a quick competition. They usually regretted it. Rozie enjoyed it very much.
*
‘I’m glad to see you’re not in kitten heels,’ Philip joked, as they piled out of the Land Rovers and started off up the hill.
Theresa May gave him a tight smile. Every politician needs a gimmick and, to start with, she had been rather proud of her footwear which, as Home Secretary, had often guaranteed a front-page picture when the contents of her speech could not. The shoes played well in the Tory heartlands, but there was more to her than a kitten heel, and the way the Duke said it led her to suspect jokes had been made on the subject of which she would not approve.
‘I thought about it,’ she said, game as ever. ‘But they didn’t go with my Barbour.’
He barked a laugh and gave her a friendlier look. They set off together up the path between the pines and larches, past a couple of cairns built of stones to honour the marriages of Queen Victoria’s children. There is only so much you can say about a neatly arranged mound of stones, and the Prime Minister said it, but she was relieved to find that what they were really heading for was the view from the ridge.
This was something she could genuinely admire. Ahead of them, clouds scudded across a wide blue September sky and below, grassy slopes alternated with jagged trees all the way to the distant hills, which faded from bottle green to midnight blue against the horizon. The bright patches of soft grass nearby reminded her of Alpine meadows and, with a brief sense of being Maria in The Sound of Music, she was tempted to spread her arms and run through them all.
‘You must love coming here,’ she said to the Duke beside her. However, when she didn’t get a reply she turned to find empty air. He was a few paces back, talking to a ghillie. She caught the last two words.
‘Really? Bugger.’
‘Is there a problem?’ she called.
He gestured past her. ‘Change in the weather. Rain. Coming in fast. We’d better get going.’
She looked to the east, where he was pointing – and sure enough, dark grey columns of cloud were moving in from the direction of the North Sea. The air was changing; there was an edge to it now. The Duke was impressively sprightly as he led the way back down the path towards the Land Rovers, where the Queen was waiting with the dogs. But they were not quite in time. Theresa felt one fat raindrop land on her nose, and another on her cheek, before the heavens opened.
‘Oh dear! You look quite bedraggled!’ the Queen said, laughing, as they finally reached her.
This was not how Mrs May had imagined spending her early days as Prime Minister, shaking herself down like a wet Labrador before climbing into the passenger seat beside the sovereign in borrowed wellies and a waxed jacket. However, none of the days so far had been what she’d imagined. Picturing this life had been quite pointless, she realised: you never knew what it would hold, and it was impossible to guess.
The Queen, meanwhile, was enjoying herself. The Mays were not the life and soul of the party, it was true, but they meant well and tried hard and, really, what more could one ask? The Prime Minister had talked through her plans for the next few months. She had a busy schedule of talks ahead with the European Union, and had ruled out a snap General Election after her appointment by the party, which was a relief. The country had had enough shocks recently. It was time for a steady hand.
They were talking about the unpleasant nature of surprises as the Land Rover pulled up outside the castle. One of the footmen was waiting for her with an umbrella.
‘You might want to come upstairs, ma’am,’ he said with some urgency. ‘They’ve got the nets out.’
‘Oh, have they? Where?’
‘Your bedroom.’
‘Goodness! Yes, of course. I’ll come straight away.’
The Prime Minister asked what the problem was. The Queen grinned, then grimaced.
‘Bats.’
It was as comical as it was frustrating. The poor creatures wanted to get out just as desperately as one wanted to move them from there, but their famous sonar seemed quite incapable of detecting a wide-open window. Usually they caused a nuisance in the white-walled Ballroom below, where the long-handled nets were kept on standby for the purpose of shooing them to freedom. It was rare for them to visit one’s bedroom, and the Queen tried not to think about the droppings that might be accumulating on the fixtures and fittings. Charles said the guano was good for the garden. Well, let the bats do it there.
Meanwhile, from a position of safety in the corridor (the Queen was not a huge fan of squeaky, unpredictable pipistrelles close up, despite appreciating them in principle), she and the Prime Minister urged the staff on as they manipulated the nets. There were only two bats, as it turned out, and they got outside eventually. She congratulated the man and woman who had done the work. They made a comical, mismatched pair; the housekeeper, small and slim, she recognised as the stalwart Mrs Harris, who always did such wonders with the Belgian Suite. They exchanged smiles as the housekeeper curtseyed. The large, balding, broad-shouldered
man in the footman’s red waistcoat was not a familiar face.
‘And you are . . .?’ the Queen asked.
‘Spike Milligan, Your Majesty.’ He bowed at the neck.
‘Oh, really?’ She grinned, but was slightly confused. Spike Milligan was a comedian. Charles had been one of his most ardent fans as an adolescent. He was also most definitely dead.
The footman blushed slightly. ‘My real name’s Robert, ma’am, but with a surname like mine . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Some bright spark at school thought it was a good idea and it stuck.’
‘Have you ever chased a bat before?’
‘Indeed I haven’t. It was quite the exercise. I think I’ve burned some calories.’
The Queen laughed, as she was meant to, but something about Spike Milligan’s voice caught her attention. ‘You don’t normally work up here at the castle, do you?’ she asked – purely to hear him talk again.
‘Not at all, ma’am. It’s my first time. I must say, I’m enjoying it very much.’
‘I’m delighted. And thank you for your help.’
He bowed again and left. The Queen glanced at her bed. That top blanket would have to go. But she was thinking about something else. She was back in the wardrobe, listening to the furtive conversation. Had that been Spike Milligan, taking the orders, somewhat unwillingly?
It had been, she was fairly certain.
What on earth had he been asked to do?
Chapter 8
T
he season turned. Patches of lush green grass in the glens baked to sullen brown. Gin was now drunk at twilight, rather than in the fullness of a bright summer evening, and one needed a padded jacket to hand at all times, as well as a warm stole for after dinner. Soon it would be time to leave the peace of Balmoral and head back to the office on the roundabout.
Alongside the selection of letters from the public that she read each day, the Queen noticed her official boxes getting fuller as the new Cabinet got into its stride. There were more briefings on the US election too. In just over a month, America would be choosing its new president, but the clashes between candidates had taken on a sour note. It seemed very likely that Hillary Clinton would step into the Oval Office. And yet . . . for each story celebrating the notion of a first female president, an ex-Secretary of State with significant government experience and a big team, there was another to criticise and cast doubt on her judgement. Mr Trump, with his tiny team and diatribes on Twitter, had achieved extraordinary results. Nothing was certain. Would one really end up entertaining an ex-reality TV star at Buckingham Palace? He certainly had some very dedicated followers, if those rallies were anything to go by.
As things stood, there might not be much of a Palace for him to visit. If the Government could be persuaded to let the Reservicing Programme go ahead, the place would be dismantled around her, many of its treasures put into storage and work done to make it more manageable for all concerned. It was ridiculous that a footman should have to walk half a mile from the kitchens to the State Dining Room, and the ceiling of that room was so dangerous it had recently been taken out of commission. The Queen only needed six rooms for her personal use, and they were all perfectly serviceable. It was the other seven hundred and seventy that needed attention.
What would they do if the Government said no? She vividly remembered the failure of the Major government to get Tony Blair’s Labour Party to agree to replace Britannia. Thank goodness there were no elections coming up to make the thing contentious. She decided to worry about that when the time came.
Meanwhile, Holly’s health did not improve. As the return to London approached, the elderly corgi deteriorated rapidly. The vet was called and she agreed that it was time to take action. The Queen felt her heart constrict, but knew what she had to do.
*
At a cottage in the grounds, Cynthia Harris prepared to return to the Palace. It had been a difficult summer. She knew she wasn’t exactly popular with the others, but there seemed to be a real campaign against her now. Several housemaids and footmen weren’t talking to her. Soon after her arrival in Balmoral, one of her uniform dresses had been ‘damaged’ in the wash (hardly accidental: someone had taken a Sharpie to it). She carried on regardless, keeping herself to herself. There had been three letters, all disgusting, written with such hate. One of them even called her a murderess. There was a scribbled image of what had looked like a kidney bean at first, but was obviously supposed to be some sort of foetus, almost scratched out in red ink. That had been nearly thirty years ago.
She had told the head housekeeper of the castle about them . . . and now, of course, everyone knew. There was no privacy in the Royal Household. Dirty linen was very much aired in public, not just in the staff rooms and canteens these days, but on Snapchat and WhatsApp and StaffList, the Household intranet that was little more than a sewer of gossip and innuendo. Who knew what they were saying about her? She was probably the subject of half their mean, illicit conversations.
But she wasn’t alone. The other half would probably be about Leonie Baxter in the catering office, who was getting letters too, apparently, calling her a bitch and a whore. Nothing as . . . imaginative as Cynthia’s own persecution. Anyway, Mrs Baxter probably deserved it. She was always causing problems, throwing her weight around, criticising the way things were done. It was no surprise to hear the woman had enemies. Recent speculation in the servants’ hall had been all about her.
Cynthia tramped up the stairs to her bedroom. This summer, she had shared the cottage with three other hospitality staff. Needless to say, they treated her like a pariah. Her room was her sanctuary: transformed from dreary functionality with Indian sari fabric used as throws, and flowers begged from the chief gardener, who was one of her few abiding friends. Cynthia knew how to travel light and yet transport a sense of style. Off duty, her clothes were her glory. She wore mostly vintage, which suited her gentle bosom and slight frame. Some of her favourite pieces were by Ossie Clark and Zandra Rhodes, unusual items she’d unearthed in charity shops over the years, irreplaceable and perfect. But she also made things inspired by ideas from Instagram and Pinterest. Her dingy little plywood wardrobe concealed a riot of colourful silks and velvets, all stitched with infinite care.
She was thinking about this as she opened the bedroom door. A moment later, a piercing scream shattered the rural peace of the afternoon.
A dining room assistant, who was sharing the cottage, ran up the stairs two at a time to see what the problem was. Mrs Harris was standing just inside the doorway, trembling, incoherent, looking at the bed. It was covered in a pile of scraps of fabric, so many they took up the same amount of space as a human being. She was shaking so hard she could hardly speak.
‘What is it?’ the dining-room assistant asked.
‘M-my clothes,’ Mrs Harris managed to mutter. She pointed a bony finger in the direction of the bed. ‘They’ve c-c-cut up all my clothes.’
*
Mary van Renen was packing up her belongings, ready to move out of her Fulham flat. She had a few more days left to work and then she could flee to Ludlow, where her childhood bedroom was waiting for her, there were ponies in the field to feed, and her mother had already made a freezerful of coq au vin and stroganoff to celebrate her return.
Mary had chosen this room in the flat because it had the largest wardrobe, even though it was at the back and overlooked by half a dozen nearby offices and houses. At the time, clothes had seemed more important. London clothes, city clothes . . . for her posh job at the Palace and lunches with friends at Instagrammable cafés; for dates with men at glamorous restaurants where, in between the courses you ordered, they served you courses you hadn’t, where dishes arrived smoking under glass bell covers and a starter of shellfish was made to look like a beach.
They didn’t have restaurants like that in Shropshire, or at least, if they did, it was a big deal. So was finding a straight single man with an interest in art and culture and settling down. But t
hen, that had proved equally impossible in London. Not for either of her flatmates, who had sexy, devoted, rugby-and-football-playing boyfriends, one of whom was a high-flyer at the National Gallery. But for Mary . . . all she seemed to attract were nutters. One nutter, anyway. One was enough.
She glanced out of the bedroom window at the patchwork of lights outside. In the summer, people tended not to draw their curtains. She’d recently seen a couple having sex in one of the windows above a row of garages. Today, that window was dark. The one above it and to the left was dimly lit, though, with a dummy of some sort propped against it, outlined by a pale amber glow. She peered to see what it could be, exactly, and thought for a moment she saw it move. With a familiar sensation of her body plummeting through space, she stifled the scream in her throat. Was it human? Was it watching her? How long had it been there?
‘Ella?’
She shouted for her nearest flatmate while trying to keep the panic from her voice. Ella had been at home half an hour ago, but now no one came. Mary closed her curtains and carried on watching through the gap, trembling as she muttered Ella’s name into the silence, unable to drag herself away.
The light behind the silhouette was turned out. The shadow merged into the darkness.
*
At the Palace, Rozie was coming back from a run. She had permission to do a few circuits down behind the lake when the public weren’t around. They had gone for good now. The place was being prepared for Her Majesty’s imminent return and Rozie’s thoughts were on the schedule for next year, which would be her main task in the coming weeks. She had a vast folder of requests for visits and there was not nearly enough time for the Boss to perform them all. Of course, she would want to do as many as she could.
Rozie had left her work clothes ready to change back into in the ladies’ toilets near her office, which were posh and contained a shower and comfortable dressing area. No Boss didn’t mean no sartorial standards, so her linen jacket was hanging on a wooden hanger behind the door and a Prada pencil skirt she’d found in the Selfridges sale was neatly laid out on a padded stool. Lifting the skirt to reach for the towel folded underneath it, she noticed a plain white envelope tucked between the two.