Letitia Unbound

by Trevor Veale

  Suddenly they were purring up a steep driveway. They approached a walled villa and Simpkins stopped the car in front of a set of wrought-iron gates. He leaned out his window and pushed numbers on a keypad and the gates swung open. They parked in the courtyard of what looked like a Turkish fortress and Simpkins climbed out and opened the doors for Sharon and Craig. Once a butler, always a butler, she thought. They followed him up a flight of stone steps to a locked front door. He opened it with his key and led them across a floor laid with ceramic tiles and adorned with oriented silk carpets. They were in a high-ceilinged room where Chinese artifacts were displayed in glass cabinets. They walked through a library, then a room with a huge LD screen, sound equipment and a pool table. Simpkins motioned them to sit on a black leather sofa while he went over to a walnut-paneled kitchen counter overhung with stainless steel utensils. He returned with Cokes and Doritos on a tray. Installing Craig in front of one of the flat screens with a PlayStation, a Coke and a bag of nachos, he led Sharon up a marble staircase to the bedrooms.

  Sharon looked inside each room and noticed every window opened onto a tiled balcony. Each room had an ensuite bathroom with sunken tubs set in black marble, gold faucets and gold mirror frames. Gold chandeliers hung overhead. She was awestruck and wondered about the owners of the house. How did they get the money to buy all this and what would they be like to work for?

  Simpkins led her by the hand into the main bedroom and slid open a closet door. “Why don’t you just walk in and pick out a dress?” he said. “Anything you like.”

  She peeked inside. It was almost as big as Craig’s bedroom and she marveled at the owners’ taste, not knowing whether it was good or bad. She picked out a black silk evening gown and held it up to herself in front of the closet door mirror. Simpkins cackled. He lay stretched out on the bed and was watching her.

  “That’s very you, Sharon. Nice and sexy. You should try it on.” He lit another cigarette and motioned for her to change into the gown. It felt strange and embarrassing, but she took off her shabby blue coat and pulled her black woolen dress over her head and was soon posing for him in the elegant black silk like a runway model.

  Simpkins ogled her, smoking and holding a jewelry box near his lap. “If it weren’t for that crap on your hair you’d look like a real lady,” he said. “Come over here and I’ll put something nice on you.”

  She rankled at the reference to the henna on her hair, but noticed he was holding a diamond necklace out to her. She wanted to be wearing diamonds more than anything in the world.

  She sat on the bed and waited while he laid the necklace around her throat and fitted the clasp. She began to feel like a queen adorned in her finery, and her only regret was that Craig’s father wasn’t the man giving her silks and diamonds and now touching the stones on her throat.

  “How about a kiss then?” he whispered hoarsely.

  She turned her face toward him and opened her lips. Outside the bedroom door she heard Craig’s whining voice.

  “Mum, I’m bored. When can we go home?”

  Chapter 23

  The Old Queen’s Send-Off

  The state funeral of the dowager Queen Gloriana took place a week after her death. A thick, whitish freezing fog lay over the city as many of the people who had attending the royal wedding seven months earlier sat waiting in the cathedral’s solemn nave for the arrival of the funeral cortege.

  Queen Letitia was battling the same urge to sneeze as she had the last time she sat with Godfrey in the royal pew. The same damn altar boy was swinging his censor dangerously close to her nostrils and the tickling from the incense was becoming unbearable. This time, however, there was no mumbling archbishop’s chant to distract her. The Deputy Archbishop, the Very Reverend Dr Martin Bribe, was conducting the funeral service as the archbishop was ‘indisposed.’ Probably nursing a hangover, Letitia thought and her irritation grew. Bribe was determined to maintain silence during the waiting period, so there was nothing for it but to look for an alternative distraction. Letitia’s eyes, already starting to water, alighted on the chancel where the priests stood in silent readiness for the royal coffin.

  Among its furnishings was sturdy wooden lectern in the form of an eagle whose straight back bore a huge leather-bound bible. As she focused on it she noticed that its beady eyes were staring directly at her. She felt a strange discomfort, that slowly turned to anger. How dare this impudent creature stare at her like that! Was it trying to outface her? The carved wooden beast was an indecency. She began fantasizing a suitable punishment for the brainless creature’s mockery and lack of respect for the queen. It should be turned to face the commoners’ pews and never be allowed to face the royal pew again, she thought. That would be a good start, though not enough to make it pay for its impudence. She envisioned dropping a black cloth over the beast’s head, thus plunging the brute’s malicious eyes into complete darkness. Hah! A cloth would be too lenient, better a wire cage to remind the upstart bird that while a queen may stare at an eagle, particularly a dumb wooden one, an eagle must never stare at a queen! The cage would impress on the creature that while the queen and her family were free to come and go as they please, the wretched beast was to remain in its place, forever serving as a humble bookrest. Then, if the beast still wouldn’t show humility by softening its gaze, further punishment would be inflicted. This thought pleased Letitia greatly.

  She imagined the offending avian having its pebble eyes ripped out by a sturdy pair of pliers. Trash could do the job – he’d put the fear of God into the beast! Then in her mind she watched him compound the bird’s humiliation by sawing off its beak, which she considered insolently tilted upward. A hammer would next be used to crack its arrogant claws. Finally if the recalcitrant bird still refused to bow its head, a bucket of acid would be tipped over its entire body, melting it into a pool of pathetic sludge.

  Letitia began rocking gently in her seat as she struggled to avoid giggling. She shoved a fist in her mouth and gnawed on it. She was beside herself with mirth as she imagined the bird’s complete destruction. She herself had suffered a thousand indignities in her life and now she was getting her own back. The bird would be stripped of all its vain pretensions. An upwelling of laughter began pushing through her defenses. It rippled from her stomach into her chest and up to her throat, and she uttered a strangled guffaw that echoed in the silence. The next moment she felt a sharp though discrete nudge in her ribs and heard Godfrey’s voice whisper: “Not so loud, my dear – remember we’re in church!”

  Godfrey, sitting in the plush leather upholstery beside his wife, sighed and flicked his eyes toward the cathedral entrance. He was concerned that the cortege’s journey from the royal chapel of rest to the cathedral was taking far too long. Even allowing for the throngs of people waiting in the cold outside the cathedral, the coffin and coffin-bearers should be here by now, he thought. He was still mentally chewing over the prophecy that the strange face in the mirror had made, particularly about the threat of an uprising, and was beginning to wonder if terrorists had sabotaged the cortege. It was a bizarre idea, since Queen Gloriana had enjoyed much popularity during her lifetime. She had a quirky way about her, as Godfrey well knew, which only served to endear her to the Mellorians, who were a quirky lot themselves. He couldn’t see how upsetting the funeral of such a much-loved public figure would serve a political end, although recent bomb outrages in various parts of the city indicated that the People’s Party were desperate enough to resort to extreme measures.

  Suddenly, to everyone’s great relief, the doors of the cathedral were flung open and eight members of the palace guard entered, bearing the flag-draped, flower-bedecked coffin which they carried to the chancel. Everyone rose and the king and queen, with their two sons and daughter-in-law, left their pew to stand in front of the coffin. The congregation began singing Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer and Letitia’s eyes streamed with the tears she had been holding back.

  Driving back to the palace in a convoy of
limousines, the king and queen were greatly moved by the sight of piles of flowers and messages of condolence outside the palace gates. People had been coming in droves to lay flowers and a whole roast pig was being carved by cooks in the middle of Constitution Square. Pieces were being distributed to the throng who were also consuming large quantities of Bullet beer and cabbage and burdock cola. In spite of the freezing fog, crowds had stood outside the cathedral to pay their respects to the nation’s grandmother: the handicapped in wheelchairs joined veterans of the war with Slobodia in fatigues and bandannas in front of a band playing traditional Mellorian laments. Constitution Square became the focus for a popular remembrance service after the pork barbecue. There were speeches by dignitaries, more anthems from the band and four viewing screens positioned around the square displaying huge faces of the Old Queen beaming a rare smile.

  Chapter 24

  The Plot

  On the same freezing December day that the huge demonstration of public mourning was taking place, a meeting of the Central Committee of the People’s Party was being held in the cramped basement of a party ‘safe house’ in East City.

  Seven members of the committee sat on lumpy cushions in a rough semicircle: Paul Slamil, the Chair, Joe Steel, his Deputy, four Revolutionary Women of Melloria (a feminist caucus within the party), namely: Stella Mastoid, Mickey Miskiss, Dolores Unchain and Penny Slam, and a man with a snub nose and a Slobodian accent who answered to the name of Caspar.

  They shared a bottle of brandy as an antidote to the cold. The windowless room, lit by a single overhead bulb, was unheated and cluttered, having recently been vacated by a party activist who had stayed three weeks. In one corner of the room was an unmade bed, in another a dressing-table heaped high with what looked and smelled like dirty laundry. Through an air vent they could hear mourners passing by outside. Periodically the room resounded with the sound of a brass band.

  Paul Slamil cleared his throat and perused his notes. He began the meeting by spelling out the Party’s objective for the coming winter.

  “Things are shaping up, comrades,” he said. “In the three months leading up to December, the party gave out six thousand blankets, nine hundred kerosene heaters, twenty-seven hundred hectoliters of kerosene and forty tonnes of food and essential supplies. When the dreadful weather comes, as the forecasters say it will, the people will be well looked after thanks to our efforts. Then, when we launch our spring offensive against the monarchy, the people will be with us and there will be little or no resistance when the putsch comes – ”

  “When putsch comes to shove!” Caspar, an addict of bad puns, interrupted.

  Joe Steel’s brutal face twitched. Among the women, only Penny Slam, a bespectacled, bright-eyed woman snickered.

  “You sound pretty confident our push will succeed, Paul,” Steel said, before grabbing the bottle and taking a swig.

  Slamil’s craggy features gave a barely perceptible tic as he silently considered the remark.

  “We’ll certainly do better than our last public outing,” he said finally.

  “That was a cheap shot, Paul,” Dolores Unchain countered. She was a tall, brooding woman with a penchant for black leathers and berets.

  Slamil turned to Steel and Unchain, who sat next to each other. “What I can’t understand,” he said, “is how, with a hungry, desperate crowd and no police or palace guard up against you – an ideal situation – you couldn’t get the crowd worked up enough to burst open the bloody palace gates!”

  “You know perfectly well what happened – let’s not bullshit each other!” Unchain said. “The king showed up with his two sons and distracted the crowd with some piss and wind, then when Princess bloody Dawna arrived in her beemer the crowd went completely out of control – no one could have agitated that mob!”

  Steel seized the passing bottle and gulped another slug.

  “That fucking bitch will have to be dealt with!” he said.

  Slamil’s features broke into a smile. “Hey, if she’s that good with crowds, maybe we should get her on our side – anybody know what her politics are?”

  Mickey Miskiss, a big, fuzzy-haired woman with heavily-tattooed forearms, gave a snort of derision. “She’s radical chic – so long as it’s in fashion,” she said.

  Unchain, who didn’t want to lose out to Slamil, shuffled on her cushion. “Let’s get back to the point, shall we?” she said. “Joe and I were doing pretty well with the crowd outside the palace at first. He made some good speeches and so did I – ”

  “So what, Doll! Nobody cares about speeches if they don’t get results!” Steel replied moodily. “Speeches don’t get reported in the media – action does.”

  “So how do we make sure there are no more screw ups?” Stella Mastoid broke in. “I think we should have a really good plan in place the next time we try to topple the monarchy.”

  “We need the people to respect us, not see us as a bunch of loud-mouthed tossers,”Miskiss added. Slamil held up his hand.

  “We have an excellent plan in place, Stella,” he said. “We’ve already started our warm-up actions, and there more to come over the next month. “You’re right about the media, Joe. The only way to get publicity is to create a few bangs.”

  “Let’s have a few high-profile bombings then,” Steel added.

  “And for God’s sake, no more cock ups!” Mastoid wailed.

  Chapter 25

  Dawna’s New Affair

  In his austerely-furnished bedchamber Godfrey perused his copy of the Bugle, sipping a cup of his favorite dark Colombian. There was a report of a bombing on the front page next to some big, splashy picture of his daughter-in-law and some actor who looked vaguely familiar. Godfrey read the report. Someone had planted a quantity of semtex at the National Bank and it had blown out the front of the building. A robbery had then occurred and a large amount of money taken. It made him think about the old professor’s prophecy and its dire warning of an uprising against the monarchy. This is just the first stage, he thought. They terrorize the country with bombs, stealing money for weapons and more explosives, and then they launch their attack when we’re least prepared. If only I knew where these renegades are hiding out, I’d have then flushed out in no time. East City is like a rabbit warren – they could be in a hundred different places.

  He turned the page and found another report that dealt with the People’s Party’s stepped-up efforts to win popular support. Party workers were visiting impoverished houses and delivering much-needed provisions as the cruel winter began to bite, provisions that came from Party supply dumps near the Slobodian border. The reporter speculated on whether the money to buy these supplies came from disgruntled Saint growers, angry with the government for its harsh laws against cannabis, or from the Slobodian government, which for its own reasons were backing the Party’s efforts to destabilize the country.

  Finding nothing else of interest, Godfrey cast the paper aside and stretched out on his spacious bed. Damn the bloody Slobodians! He thought. They’ll do anything to help those bastards attack us. And there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. He looked about him at the sober furnishings and felt a modicum of relief. The palace is safe – for now, at least – and the job I have isn’t too taxing. He reviewed the events of his day: coffee and the morning paper, breakfast, a trip to the forest with the head ranger to see what the fierce weather was doing to the deer population, back to the palace for brandy and a game or two with Bunty in the billiard room, lunch – he envisioned the venison chasseur, artichoke hearts, truffles, dessert of brandy cake with stilton and port in the drawing-room – then a nap before meeting ambassadors or foreign dignitaries, more brandy, dressing for dinner, a state banquet for visiting royalty, brandy and bed. It was a shame his body was starting to give out, he thought, or he’d be happy to stay on until he keeled over. And an even bigger shame that Letitia wasn’t as content with their life as he was.

  It puzzled him just how discontented she was; after all, she had it eve
n easier than he did, spending her time either in bed or in the drawing-room reading Country Life. She had once told him she thought that Hamlet’s famous question should be ‘To do or not to do,’ and he knew exactly what her answer to it was. She preferred inaction to action as her default setting and indulged her preference whenever she could. She complained that they were prisoners of protocol and tradition, which he thought was a bit rich. He considered tradition the bedrock of the monarchy and its sure protection, though he was starting to think that the monarchy needed to adapt to the modern world if it was to survive.

  These thoughts brought him back to the professor’s prophecy and how the old man had urged him to open up his palace to the people. He could just imagine what his palace advisers, Pest and Fatsi would think of that! Still, it might not be a bad idea to raise revenue by opening the palace to paying visitors during the summer months that he and his family were vacationing abroad. Visitors could be charged ten moons a head to gawp at the throne room, the state banqueting room and other grandiose rooms. He would raise the matter at the next Wednesday meeting. With that pleasant thought on his mind he rang for his valet.

  Farther along the corridor, Letitia was almost choking on her lemon tea. Pictures of Princess Dawna in an intimate tete a tete with an American film actor at a fashionable café in West City were all over the Bugle and she thought she would have a heart attack. The Prancing Princess will have to be firmly dealt with, she thought.

  “She’ll have to be packed off to Bulimia for a long period of rest as soon as the baby is born,” she told Agatha, the Duchess of Dimchester, “or the family’s good name will be destroyed forever. Godfrey is head of the church for heaven’s sake! Never in all my years as queen have I seen anything like this. Even when Godfrey’s sister Latrina ran off to marry a monster, it was never plastered all over the paper. Not that Latrina is anything to look at, so maybe this is a compliment to her Glamorous Gorgeousness. It’s one thing for male members of a royal line to be seen sowing their wild oats, but the wife of the Heir Apparent and mother of a future king – we hope – flaunting herself in a café with an American!”