by Trevor Veale
“It’s her latest thing,” Ada whispered back. “She used to be a goth, now she’s into being a superskank.”
“You’re late,” Hector grumbled. “Lunch is half over.”
Hernia flashed a gold-toothed smile and wriggled into her seat. “We’ll just have to eat more quickly then,” she said, and to prove her point she and Anton tore into the food.
“Hungry, Hernia?” Dawna asked sarcastically.
“Ravenous!” Hernia replied, her mouth crammed full.
Anton turned to an incoming servant bearing a steaming platter of venison.
“I’ll have two of those,” he said.
“My sister prefers the grime look,” Dawna remarked, “or should I say the slept-in look.” Dawna was wearing an off-the-shoulder black peasant top from Yves Saint-Laurent, under a puff-sleeved fitted denim jacket with matching skinny jeans.
“Call it whatever fucking look you like,” Hernia said.
“Hernia, your language is getting atrocious,” Ada protested weakly.
“How do you achieve your matted, mussed-up look, that’s what I want to know?” Dawna said, with feigned curiosity.
“Easy – I sleep with tramps every night, and I leave all my nice clothes rotting in the washbag,” Hernia replied.
“You have a washbag?” Dawna looked surprised.
“Nah, I was lying – I gave all my nice clothes to the Salvation Army.”
Letitia and Godfrey exchanged disapproving looks.
Dawna reddened and was lost for a suitable reply. Meanwhile Anton and Hernia were demolishing a whole venison platter. At the same time, Angus started bellowing, sitting up in his high chair and flailing his tray with his spoon.
“Here, Angus,”Dawna said, leaning across his nurse. “Eat some peas.”
She tried to spoon the green mush into his mouth.
“Perhaps he’s coming down with something,” Ada said anxiously.
“No, ma’am,” Betty said. “Knows his dad’s coming, that’s what it is.”
“Oh, nonsense, he doesn’t know what’s going on outside,” Letitia said.
“He does, ma’am, really. He shows it in his eyes,” Betty insisted.
Letitia took a morsel of venison from the nearest platter and tried to feed it to Angus.
“Eat this. Good, say ‘good’”
Angus turned his face up to the painted ceiling and squealed like a stuck pig.
“Just taste it,” Letitia insisted, pressing the morsel to his lips. He took it in his pudgy hands, sniffed it and pushed it in his mouth. “There!” Letitia said triumphantly.
Just then the twin doors parted and Catheter walked in. He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. Angus bawled with his mouth full, and began choking, his watery eyes bulging and veins standing out on his forehead. Catheter looked alarmed. “Who’s been feeding him solids?” he said.
“Here, wash it down with some tea,” Letitia said, forcing her cup to his lips.
“Wait!” Catheter said. “You’re going to kill him.”
He hurried over and beat Angus sharply on the back. A wad of soggy meat shot across the table.
“This is a fine way for a king to enjoy lunch,” Godfrey said. “Watching one’s son making one’s grandson puke.”
“I had to!” Catheter shouted. “He could have choked to death.”
“Catheter!” Letitia scolded, a trace of guilt in her tone. “Remember we’re guests here.” Scrutinizing him as he took his place at table, she noticed the stubble of beard along his jaw.
“Haven’t you shaved since last night?” she said.
Dawna picked at her food more quickly.
The presence of Catheter at the table had altered the dynamic, causing her to shut down. She observed the spat between him and his parents with bored indifference; she just wanted to leave.
Letitia noticed that Dawna’s plate had different food than the rest of the table, and gave Ada a raised-eyebrow look. Ada whispered that she was on a Japanese food kick. As well as sushi and sashimi, she nourished herself on octopus and squid, and her breakfast was a bowl of ramen noodles topped with an almost-raw egg. Revolting, Letitia considered, though she had managed to remain slender after giving birth to Angus, so perhaps her diet was forgivable.
“Hernia likes to go to underground clubs where she can climb onto a table and show off – preferably her private parts,” Dawna suddenly said.
Her quip aroused Anton who lifted his face from his feasting.
“Private parts – is that something I haven’t seen?”
“Nah,” Hernia said, “she’s talking about my twat, you twat!”
She pushed Anton’s face back into the plate.
“My sister,” Hernia countered, “goes to all the posh clubs – she’s on every celebrity list. In fact, her biggest trauma is having to decide between two society parties on the same night.”
Dawna stuck out her tongue, but Hernia was getting into her stride: “She wears skin-tight scarlet pants, a purple bolero jacket and a pink corduroy cap and calls it chic. She won’t even board a plane unless the seat covers match her clothes!”
“Everything Hernia wears has to be dirty, torn and very black!” Dawna retorted.
“Not everything,” Hernia said. “My lipstick’s dark chocolate brown, actually.”
Godfrey grunted and tossed his napkin on the table.
“The turn of this conversation is getting on my nerves,” he said.
“Yes, can we tone it down please?” Hector pleaded.
“You’re very quiet, Catheter,” Hernia said, prodding him. “How much does it cost to keep your wife in Givenchy?”
Catheter squirmed and clenched his jaw. He actually preferred the smell Lucinda gave off, which was like wet, clean laundry, to the cosmetic-counter fragrance of his wife.
Dawna was torn between commending her sister for upsetting Catheter and continuing the feud, so she babbled about a charity fashion show she’d attended. “There was a lot of champagne and it all got a bit hazy. When the time came for me to draw the raffle, I was in such a fluster all the tickets went flying.”
“You mean you were too drunk to pull out raffle tickets,” Hernia corrected.
“Look, I’m not a lush, all right?” Dawna said.
“Going out tonight then?” Hernia asked.
“I can’t – I have an enormous red boil on my neck.”
Hernia leaned over and scrutinized Dawna’s neck. “Let me see…Huh, that looks more like a hickey from someone with a front tooth missing.”
“At least I’m not a tramp like you!” Dawna shot back.
“The difference between you and me,” Hernia said with deliberation, “is that you wear your gold chains round your wrist and I wear mine hanging from my – ”
“Yes, I think that’s quite enough!” Ada chastised.
Hector added hastily: “Now that we’ve all had lunch, I suggest those of us mature enough to be good-mannered retire to the drawing room – for coffee, port and brandy.”
“I’m going to bed,” Letitia said. She had reached the end of her patience.
Catheter was white-knuckled with suppressed rage. There was something of the puritan in him, and Hernia – so unlike the crisp, clean wholesome Lucinda – had offended him.
“I think you ought to apologize to your parents,” he told Hernia. “Your behavior at table was disgraceful.”
“Oh, why don’t you give yourself a high colonic!” she retorted.
“What?”
“Stick it up your ass!”
The meal broke up awkwardly with everyone going in different directions. Nobody went to the drawing room except Godfrey and Hector. They settled in front of a roaring fire in the high-arched stone hearth with a decanter of brandy. Godfrey sat pondering. He was still shaken by Hernia’s vulgar behavior at table and wondered what steps Hector would take to discipline her.
His eyes fell on the decanter. He decided the brandy would give him either a perverse lucidity or ble
ssed oblivion – both of them extremely welcome.
“By Jove, that’s good stuff by the look of it,” he said. “You don’t mind if I pour myself a stiff one?”
“Go ahead, old chap!” Hector replied. He was already working his way down the decanter.
“I believe the People’s Party are staging their election in about six weeks’ time,” Hector said.
“Stage is right,” Godfrey said bitterly. “The whole bloody thing’s a farce. The reds are trying to appear to the world’s media as a democracy-loving party – but look what they did to me!”
“But if they win, how will you get your throne back” Hector said.
“By hook or by crook!” Godfrey said despondently. He stared into his glass. “By the way, how are the opposition party doing? I’m completely out of the loop.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Hector said, his face animated. “Old Archbishop Lesot’s dead. Bribe has been exposed by some newspaper woman as a People’s Party stooge, and he’s had to step down. There’s been a leadership reshuffle. The Bishop of Mingella, who’s just been appointed archbishop, has stepped in as temporary leader, but he wants to take a back seat. Seems he’s more the advisory type.”
“So they’re looking for a new leader, I suppose?”
“Exactly, and – guess what? – people are starting to say it should be you!”
“Are they now..?” Godfrey pondered as he sipped his brandy. “What else is new”
“Well,” Hector said, his face beaming, “the new archbishop, Larry Lepager, is coming to see me tomorrow, and now that you’re here, I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you too.”
“What on earth for?”
Hector gave Godfrey a knowing look. “Before he died, Lesot made a pledge that the party’s main platform would be the restoration of the monarchy. Lepager’s view is that only a constitutional monarchy would be acceptable to the voters.” Hector drank a copious draft and smacked his lips. “So if you’re willing to be a constitutional king, the Church Party will back you – and you can be its leader!”
“Constitution…?” Godfrey racked his brains. “We had a constitution once – for a few months. My ancestor, King Oswald the Optimist, tried to modernize the country in the nineteenth century. He drew up a constitution, but the aristocracy were so outraged, they launched a coup, deposed Oswald and installed his brother, Reginald the Restorer.”
“So you did have a constitution!” Hector roared.
“Yes, Oswald proclaimed it to the people, but the palace coup meant it was never implemented. Strangely, the place where it was publicly announced has been called Constitution Square ever since.”
“I believe they call it Revolution Square nowadays.”
Godfrey’s face darkened. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
“So, are you ready to consider becoming a constitutional monarch?”
“Well, I’m better disposed to the idea than I was – knowing what happens when one doesn’t make changes…!”
He looked at Hector questioningly.
“Tell me, how do you preserve your mystique, your remoteness, when every Tom, Dick and Harry can see what you’re up to, and maybe decide you’re not worth keeping?”
Hector guffawed and slapped his thigh. “You don’t. Can’t you see! It was your remoteness, my dear Godfrey, especially from the poorest of your subjects, that led to your present predicament. You and Letitia sheltered yourselves from what was going on by attending to court rituals, while the people were crying out for leadership – and in some cases food! That’s what gave the reds the chance to knock you off your perch!”
“But how am I supposed to relate to the people?” Godfrey exclaimed, perplexed.
Hector threw back his head and laughed. “You’re priceless, Godfrey, you really are! You relate to the people by going out and mingling with them. Dropping your aloofness and conversing with the man and woman in the street.”
“In the street?” Godfrey said, and clutched his brandy glass.
“Of course – and invite a few of them for tea and scones at the palace once in a while. And make sure the media cameras are rolling when you do.”
Godfrey looked unsettled. “But what about Letitia? She’s even more aloof than I am. She doesn’t like involving herself in court life – except to sound out the gossip – never mind chatting to ordinary people in the street!”
Hector struggled to contain his mirth. “You’re right! God, she’ll be a tough nut to crack. Isn’t there any way she can be quietly sidelined?”
Godfrey tossed back the last of his brandy. “There is – and me too, if she has her way. She wants us to retire and live in the Caribbean. Of course, I have to get my throne back first. Then I’ll be able to hand the reins to Catheter – let him deal with all the constitutional business.”
Hector gave him a quizzical, sideways look.
“Won’t you have to deal with his upcoming divorce first?” he said.
Godfrey’s face became ashen. “Divorce? But I got a promise from Dawna that she wouldn’t… they wouldn’t…Oh my God, that alters everything!”
“I’m afraid my daughter won’t settle for anything less now, old chap,” Hector said. “Catheter’s taken the bit between his teeth – he’s made his mistress preggers!”
Chapter 47
Godfrey for President
Letitia awoke to her second day at Porcellan palace with a childlike sense of wonder. A maid had come and gone, while she was asleep, and had left a thermally insulated cup of hot lemon tea and a sealed and folded message on her nightstand. She was feeling a strange tingle of expectation, for no reason that she could think of. There was something swimming through the air, but she couldn’t quite catch it. Like a great silvery fish, it wriggled between the reeds of her thoughts.
Propping her head on the pillow, she looked at her image reflected in a gilt mirror. Her hair was in disarray, since she no longer used a hairnet, and she smoothed it absent-mindedly while making a mental note to ask Ada for the name of a good hairdresser. Then she swept her gaze over the room. Compared to the awful cell-like room at the mental home or the tasteless vulgarity of the room at Duodenum, it was a joy. The bed had fresh linen, there were flowers and bowls of fruit on the dresser, and fluffy white towels in the bathroom. French doors led out to a veranda and through its ornamental railings she glimpsed lawns and a pleasing grove of trees, almost bare, that threw their shade over the frosty grass. She watched the crisscross patterns rearrange themselves in the whim of the breeze.
She reached over and picked up the message. It was a copy of an email that had been sent to Godfrey from Lawrence Lepager, the newly-appointed Archbishop of Melloria and leader of the Church Party. He congratulated the king and queen on their safe arrival and hoped their stay would be pleasant and restorative, mentioning that he was flying to Bulimia on Thursday and was looking forward to meeting them both. Thursday, she thought. The first Thursday of the month. Godfrey had better get his admiral’s uniform drycleaned! Then she remembered – she’d left it at Duodenum when she packed their luggage. Thank God! Realizing she had nothing to wear except her green plaid dress and the tweed skirt and beige sweater, she made a mental note to ask Ada for the name of a good dressmaker.
She cast the message aside and drifted into a pleasant slumber, The prospect of a meeting with the new archbishop faded from her thoughts, to be replaced by an appraisal of her new environment. Porcellan Palace was a phenomenon whose opulence lurked everywhere. She couldn’t rememeber whether it had forty-three bedrooms or forty-four, but its ceiling paintings, ornate rooms, octagonal library, sunken marble bathtubs, sauna, tennis courts and swimming pool put her own former residence in the shade. From the domed conservatory to the vaulted chapel, every room was magnificent. The staircases, carved by Italian craftsmen, were superb. She thought of the circular atrium in the dining hall that produced powerful acoustic effects – you heard every word that people around you were whispering! Turning her thoughts away from plun
ging balustrades and soaring ceilings, she dozed off.
When she opened her eyes a half hour later, she had her second surprise of the day. The phone rang on her nightstand. She lifted the receiver drowsily and heard a rasping tone in Godfrey’s voice that gave her goosebumps.
“It’s about my health,” he said. “Last night I had a nasty attack of what I thought was acid indigestion. Anyway, the doctor came and gave me a blood test. It appears my PSA reading –whatever that is – is seventeen. A PSA reading of zero is normal, so I’m seeing the urologist tomorrow. I’ll probably need an operation.”
“Oh my God, is it cancer?”
“Well, it’s some sort of growth.” Godfrey replied. “The doctor said nature hid the prostate gland, so it’s hard to fathom what goes on down there without an op,” he went on. “Anyway, the surgeon’s a specialist in laser probes and that sort of thing – so I’ll be in good hands.”
“Thank God.”
Letitia put the phone down, transfixed. A million worries went through her mind. If Godfrey had prostate cancer, it might mean… Of God, don’t let it mean anything! She tried to place her faith in surgeons and laser probes.
She spent the morning choosing skirts, blouses, sweaters and dresses in several shades of beige, oatmeal and green (in the end she couldn’t make up her mind about an evening gown and chose one in mauve), then decided to spend some time out of doors. She had an hour before lunch so went for a stroll in the palace gardens. She wandered about for a while, taking in views of sloping lawns with gravel paths leading to gazebos, bowers, grottos and other horticultural delights, before her legs grew tired and she found a bench to sit on. With her back to the lake, she began to daydream.
Her lovely fantasy about retiring to Mustique or Barbados and living her customary lifestyle – minus the bad weather and burdens of state – had been blown to smithereens by the ravaging People’s Party. She shuddered at the thought of how much damage had been done to her country. Even worse was the thought of the state her beloved Calliper must be in, vandalized and stripped of all its finery. She knew it had been renamed the People’s Palace, which meant anyone could have what they wanted from it. She imagined that the grounds were looking dreadful, the lawns covered with dry grass and weeds, goats browsing under the withered cypresses and her garden completely neglected, the few flowers and shrubs exhausted from lack of water.