by Trevor Veale
The woman in the booth pushed a “free-entry” ticket across the counter, releasing an antique lavender perfume as she moved, and told Sharon to present it to the attendant at the palace doors. Meanwhile, Craig was led with some other children toward a Bouncy Castle. Sharon took the ticket and crossed the palace courtyard in an expectant mood. She would pick up Craig later. Now she just wanted to see the old place from a fresh perspective. She marveled at how easy it was for a former servant to pass through the imposing stone pillars with their Corinthian capitals. She recalled the times she had trudged around the side of the palace to the servants’ entrance, at the start of a long, hard shift of scrubbing, dusting and bedmaking, all for a bare pittance and a Christmas card from the king and queen by way of thanks. Nevertheless, she treasured the cards and kept them in a drawer. Their Majesties had at least given her a full-time job.
Then the reason she had obtained that job floated into her mind and she quickly overlaid her thoughts with bitter resentment. “The servant class has been abolished!” she repeated to herself. Now the king’s getting a taste of his own medicine, wherever he is, and the queen too. She wondered what the government had done with them and their sons – there were all kinds of vague rumors about their whereabouts. Some people said they had been secretly flown to Bulimia to join Princess Dawna and little Prince Angus, others that they were in prison awaiting trial for crimes against the people. The TV and radio never gave out any news about them, and the Bugle was just full of government propaganda. It was all very mysterious.
With such thoughts occupying her mind, she drifted through room after grandiose room. She was surprised that so few of the fine renaissance tapestries, 17th-century oil paintings and 18th-century furniture remained. She remembered there being much fancier ornaments and more elaborate décor than was now displayed. Most of the rooms held nothing more than framed photographs and display cases, full of items like servant uniforms and utensils used in the kitchen.
She became aware of people milling around her, carrying her along. She found herself in a high-ceilinged room that the servants always referred to as the marble room. It used to have a preponderance of classical statues, athletically poised on their podia, Greek vases and Roman urns with veined marble surfaces. Now all that was gone, replaced by cheap-looking replicas and more framed photographs. What the hell have they done with all the statues? She wondered.
“This old room brings back some memories, don’t it? Remember how it had to be kept tip-top, with everything gleaming – even when Their Majesties were away? Otherwise the queen would have a fit!”
She almost didn’t recognize Simpkins, even though she had become used to seeing him off-duty in leather jacket and jeans. This time he was wearing a faded denim jacket, over a dingy white T-shirt, faded jeans and his usual scuffed sneakers. His face was paler and pudgier than before and his portliness had bloated into stoutness. There was something extra shifty and seedy about him, and the dark glasses he wore looked incongruous in the gloomy room.
“You don’t look good,” she blurted out. “What you been up to?”
“Oh, just the usual,” he said. He laughed a brittle laugh.
“I thought you musta disappeared over the border, I ain’t seen you in such a long while.”
“I ain’t a border-hopper no more, Shaz. Mind you, I ain’t doing so bad for meself.”
“How’s that?” She was genuinely curious.
“Some high-ups in the government have got me working for ‘em.”
“What kind of work?”
“Commercial traveling,” he said curtly. Something about his manner put her off asking him for details. He took her arm.
“Anyway, my girl, you are looking beautiful,” he said. “Except for that crap on your hair – why don’t you wash it off? It makes you look like a whore.”
It was the kind of remark a sleazeball would make, and she was taken aback. He had become even more of a shabby lowlife than ever, and she started to feel anger rising. Who the hell did he think he was, calling her a whore? And what right did he think he had to take her by the arm, as if nothing had changed between them?
Painful memories were being revived and she fumed as he walked her out of the marble room. Yet something else was stirring again, and it made her stomach lurch. It began with the way he looked right at her – she could feel his eyes behind the shades he wore sliding up and down her body. She smoothed the cotton dress; at least she had always kept a decent figure even after years of drudgery – and having Craig and a disabled dad to look after. Strange feelings were rising, yet not so strange because she’d been through this all before.
“You still ain’t got a boyfriend yet, have you?” he said.
“How about you?” she countered. “How’s your sex life these days?”
“Lousy,” was all he said.
She felt dizzy. They were standing at the foot of the grand staircase, where visiting dignitaries would have to wait while the king and queen descended in dazzling array, graciously acknowledging their presence.
“Listen, I been a bloody fool. I should’ve stuck with you, Shaz, instead of drifting away like I did, after your old man – ” His voice trailed off. “How is he, by the way?”
“All right,” she said listlessly. “His head’s still funny, but he has his good days… sometimes.”
“Listen, I think we should have a chat,” he said. “Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee – you look a bit peaky.”
She was propelled down the corridor and into the former servants’ room without further protest. The room was now a cafeteria, and she was left standing near the door while he went to buy two cups of coffee.
“Let’s sit down,” he said and motioned for her to follow him. He pointed to a chair at one of the tables and she sat in it, feeling like a zombie. It was all so unreal, Simpkins breezing back into her life yet again, just when she thought she’d seen the last of him and the need he represented.
He lit up one of his cigarettes, but this time didn’t offer the pack to her. He didn’t have his flashy silver lighter either, just a book of matches. She wondered if he’d come down in the world, assuming he could get any lower.
“How’s Craig these days?”
“Good. He’s outside at the carnival.”
“Carnival! What a load of bollocks that is!” He snorted smoke from his nostrils. “A shabby old merry-go-round with dings on all the horses, a creaky ferris wheel, a few tatty sideshows and some battered bumper cars trundling about. It’s a farce! Still, the whole bloody country’s going to rack and ruin, if you ask me.”
Sharon sipped her coffee and reflected.
“Do you ever wonder where the king and queen are?” she asked.
“I know where they are – they’re banged up. This government wants to make commoners of ‘em, so they’re being kept out of the way till people have forgotten all about ‘em. It makes sense when you think about it – the government don’t want people hankering after the good old days.”
“Well, at least I had a full-time job back then,” she said, her thoughts shifting.
“And you will again, my girl, just as soon as I can arrange it. How d’you like to work for a couple of Party lesbians?”
She burst out laughing. “Well, now that you put it like that – how could I refuse!” she said. “Really, Sim, where d’you come up with all these weird ideas?”
“Nothing weird about it, it’s a straight offer – if you’ll pardon the pun.”
So it came to pass that Sharon found herself riding a shaky, crowded bus up a pine-tree forested mountain to the west of West City, on her way to her new job. She recognized several other ex-palace servants on the bus and reckoned they were all now employed by Party high-ups. As they climbed the hill, where bougainvillea hung in lumps over high stone walls, Sharon pulled the stop cord. She recognized the area – the out-of-town toffs where she had worked on Simpkins’s recommendation, had their house nearby.
When she reached her new
employer’s house, the morning rushed by in a blur of hurry-scurry-flurry-worry. Her boss, Mickey Miskiss, the government’s foreign minister, seemed to spit out faxes and phone calls as she breathed, and Sharon was rushed off her feet delivering messages, answering the phone, serving coffee to visitors in the den and running to the front doorbell. Midway through the morning. Paul Slamil and Joe Steel held a long conference call with Mickey, who later drove off to Party HQ. Sharon began to understand that the reason for the increased activity was the start of the Party’s election campaign. Unable to persuade the former king to run against the Party, Slamil and Steel had enlisted the cooperation of the deputy archbishop, Martin Bribe, who fancied his chances as leader of a newly-formed Church Party that was pledged to overthrow the People’s Party on the grounds that they were godless atheists.
Mickey’s partner, the tall delicate-looking Stella Mastoid, waylaid Sharon in the kitchen as she was putting away the coffee. She wore a skintight, iridescent blue-green shirt and a long black silk skirt, that clung to her legs, so that she looked like a mermaid emerging from an oilslick.
“What a busy morning!” she said huskily. “And all because some crucifix-waving cleric thinks he can be the next president!”
“Mm, yes,” Sharon replied, busying herself with the creamer and the sugar bowl. “I’ve been working non-stop.”
Stella watched her as she cleaned up the kitchen counter. Sharon had the feeling that she was doing more than watching the daily help, that she was peeling the daily help’s clothes off, layer by layer, with her eyes. She pushed down the uncomfortable feeling and opened the dishwasher door.
“Why don’t you just leave that for a minute,” Stella said. “I’m fixing myself a drink. Would you like one?”
“Oh no, that’s all right,” Sharon said. Stella mixed her a Sidecar without listening to her reply and handed it to her.
“Come and sit down in the den.”
Like a child, she did as she was told. Stella led her to the couch and they sat down. Sharon took a few sips of her cocktail and wondered what was coming next.
“Of course, this Bribe person is a loser and the whole election business is a smokescreen,” Stella said. Her words came soothingly as though she were caressing her with them. “Come December it’ll all be over and then we can really party.”
Sharon wasn’t sure if it was Stella’s voice that made her feel tingly, or the liquor she was drinking. Both sensations were smooth and seductive.
“Do you think the Church Party stands a chance?” Sharon asked, trying to maintain her composure.
“None whatsoever.” Stella was watching her as she drank, and she was aware how stiff and tense she was, as if ready to spring back to her duties.
“But a lot of people are religious.” She felt Stella edging closer to her.
“Ha! They can stuff as many people into church halls as they like – it won’t make any difference to the final count on Election Day.” Her eyes seemed to be laughing, though not at Sharon. “In an election, it’s numbers that matter – numbers of ballot papers.”
Sharon was still tense, but she tried to make an effort to relax. Stella’s eyes were taking in her body: the flesh of her thighs, hips and plump breasts under her dark skirt and white blouse.
“Oh, you mean the government controls the actual numbers!” she said, attempting a knowing smile.
Stella laughed softly, then she whispered: ”We’ve talked enough, Sharon, don’t you think? I don’t want to give away all my secrets – not on your first day.”
They both put down their drinks at the same time, then Stella moved closer and put her arm around her.
“You’re really attractive, you know that? You’re nice and cuddly like my friend Mickey.”
The kiss, when it came, was tender, not boozy and rough like the kisses Simpkins gave her. Stella took her hand and led her into the bedroom. Then she took Sharon’s clothes off and removed her own, draping them over a chair. The spacious room had a light, airy feel, the walls a pale pastel blend of blue and gray, the furniture blond and modern with a king-sized four-poster bed. Stella kissed her on the neck and put her hand on her cheek. Then she let it drop to her left breast, rubbing the rosy nipple until it was hard.
Oh well, Sharon thought, succumbing to the delightful sensation, this is one Party worker I wouldn’t mind partying with!
Chapter 34
The Royal Helpers
In a screened-off area of the gardens behind the newly-named People’s Palace guests of the People’s Party milled and chattered around the shaved lawns: laughing, shaking hands, nodding heads and coalescing into little knots, their gossip buzzing through the air like wasps. They smiled when the official photographer asked them to pose and breathed in the summer scents of flowers, perfume and cold shrimp platters. Some of them wandered into a shaded area under a flapping, yellow-and-black canopy where long tables of food had been laid out and people sat on folding chairs with their plates, eating and talking inexhaustibly. Waitstaff in white shirts brought drinks and snacks to those who were standing around the Deputy Leader, Joe Steel. Alone among the bustling conviviality, Arabella Scott-Natterson stood and watched with a mixture of professional interest and utter boredom.
She stood holding her glass of Chardonnay, her face set in a half-smile. Before the revolution she used to enjoy palace garden parties – the combination of booze, views and titillating gossip invigorated her. But this outdoor bash made her feel superfluous, and the people all around her were beginning to disgust her. Some were piling potato salad, shrimp, coleslaw and bread rolls onto their plates as if their lives depended on it, as they jostled around the food table. Others were sucking up to Joe Steel, whose brutal features were partly concealed by his red cap. Government officials wore faded blue denims, yellow boots and red baseball caps, as a symbol of solidarity with the workers, and Arabella was reminded of her college days when posh girls wore dungarees and parkas as if they were single mothers on welfare.
Steel was holding forth, surrounded by fawning Party hacks and government groupies, and he seemed to Arabella the embodiment of everything she hated about the new regime. She abhorred the crassness of its blaring propaganda, the loutishness of black-uniformed Party toughs shouting slogans in the streets, anger bristling from their faces, and those damn red-starred flags hanging form every building, along with portraits of Paul Slamil.
Another thing she hated was the suspicion that now fell on her as a journalist. It wasn’t enough that she was forced to write bland adulations of the regime and vicious condemnation of its enemies under the pen name Bella Scott. She was also subject to phone-tapping, censorship and even being followed about in the street. It was starting to make her paranoid. Her insecurity merely reinforced her intense distaste for the Party, which she felt was conning the people by promising a democracy it would never allow. Day after day her neutered newspaper filled its columns with pro-government blather, promising full and free elections, although she knew – as part of the propaganda machine – that the Party had no intention of permitting a realistic opposition party to grow, and the token one they had allowed was a joke.
The official opposition, the Mellorian People’s Christian Party, popularly known as the Church Party, was held in mild contempt by most non-churchgoing Mellorians, and had been allowed to campaign merely as a sop to the international media, members of which were beginner to filter into the country. Support from United Nations relief agencies and the World Bank would be crucial to the economic development of the country after the election, particularly since the Slobodians had turned off the tap of financial support to the Party. Thus the government had permitted a motley collection of bishops, boy scout and girl guide leaders and church worthies to emerge, with Martin Bribe as its leader, and the archbishop, Thomas Lesot - who was considered by the Party as too unreliable for leader – as his deputy. Its chance of winning the election being laughable, people were beginning to grudgingly accept Paul Slamil as their future pre
sident for life.
Gloomy thoughts of the election as a foregone conclusion lingered in Arabella’s mind as she stood with her Chardonnay. A fragrant warm breeze was blowing in her face, and she decided to put her glass down and take a stroll in the former queen’s garden. Walking away from the braying voices of Steel and his sycophants, she reached a grove of cypresses that formed a small arboretum beside the garden and found two former courtiers on one of its rustic benches.
Mary Sedeekly and Agatha Armstrong-Pitt were so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice Arabella’s approach.
“Oh, it’s all so distressing,” Mary was saying, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when hordes of commoners would be tramping over the palace, poking about in every room, and the government charging us to go in!”
“It’s absolutely monstrous,” Agatha agreed. “I saw lowborn women rooting about in the closets in the East Wing, pawing the linen and towels and oohing and ahing over each monogrammed royal crest. What did they expect – Martha Stewart!”
“I know,” Mary exclaimed. “I overheard some hussy clucking about all the beds and saying ‘Do you think this is nylon or rayon?’”
They convulsed in giggles for a moment, then Mary pulled a brochure from her purse. “Just listen to this – from the government’s Guide to the People’s Palace: ‘The people’s revolution has one aim and objective: to reward the hard-working people of Melloria for their struggle and sacrifice during the corrupt era of the monarchy so that they may now enjoy the fat of the land – their land – that the Gorm dynasty once lived off. The people are the ones who deserve to luxuriate in the splendors of this palace, and experience the delights that once only kings and queens could enjoy.’”
“How dare they!” Agatha cried. “The sheer cheek of those awful Bolsheviks! And they make us, the ladies of the queen’s bedchamber, pay good money to enter our own former workplace. Before this dreadful revolution, ladies and gentlemen of the court could come to the palace whenever they jolly well chose to, and not have to pay for the privilege!”