by Trevor Veale
Letitia was in her bedchamber and about to trickle some perfume onto her wrist when Agatha burst in.
“Oh, Agatha, it’s so good to see you!” she said. “Would you find out what’s growing in the kitchen garden? We’ll need some winter veggies - that frightful Lucinda woman is coming to dinner.”
A half hour later, Agatha bounded back into the room.
“I’ve done an inventory of what’s in the garden!” she said enthusiastically.
“ – And?” Letitia asked.
“We have turnips, a few carrots – and lots and lots of nettles!”
“Then tell the cook to make nettle fondue with carrot puree. We’ll have turnip stew for hors d’oeuvre, and call it ragout de navet on the menu.”
Agatha made a slight grimace, which was not lost on Letitia.
“If you find nettles not to your taste, you don’t have to have them,” she said. “There’ll be more for the rest of us.”
Agatha nodded, deflated.
“Oh, and let’s have cacah for dessert.”
Agatha’s grimace intensified. Then her face brightened.
“But we don’t have any sugar left from our ration, ma’am,” she said triumphantly.
“Get it on the black market,” Letitia said “I know for a fact that Lucinda will enjoy cacah!”
Before she left, Letitia gave Agatha instructions that she was to be woken at seven. She had decided to take a nap before dinner and soon – while the evening light from streetlamps outside the palace were streaking patterns onto her bare walls – she was sleeping diagonally under the silk sheets, her head at the extreme edge of the pillow. Her discretely aging face was covered with dried mud which she used to preserve her complexion.
As he walked up the stairs at the end of the hall, Simpkins paused to admire himself in the mirror, and, greeting himself with a sotto voce “Looking good, Sim. Looking good,” he raised his cupped hand to smooth back his heavily-dressed hair.
When he got to the upstairs corridor he marched across to the First Lady’s bedchamber and knocked on the door.
“Your six o’clock gin and tonic, ma’am!” he called.
Letitia a continued to sleep soundly.
“Are you sure you don’t want it, ma’am?” he said more loudly.
She stirred slightly, then burbled a sound of complaint.
“Very good, ma’am,” he said and tossed back the contents of the glass.
The Gorms were all assembled when Lucinda arrived for dinner at the palace. Catheter had been looking forward to introducing her to his family, but lately his mood had been troubled. He had gone to his room to do some sound mixing, and when Simpkins knocked on the door to announce dinner, he frowned and went back to his tape decks. He asked the butler if Lucinda had arrived, and heard that she was expected at any minute. He wasn’t interested in dinner, and if it wasn’t for Lucinda’s arrival, would have gone on working all evening. He selected a tape of whale moos, slipped it into his recorder, and went to the bathroom to freshen up.
Downstairs the other Gorms waited in the dining room and fiddled with their napkins. Dinner was served on Limoges china of a design much inferior to the pieces that had been sold off by the People’s Party, but the silverware was good and some of the pictures that had been looted during the revolution had been returned from abroad and rehung. Oil portraits on the walls showed King Reginald the Restorer, Godfrey’s dashing great-grandfather, complete with horse, sword and black-and-yellow plumes. He had died fighting against the Slobodians at the Battle of Mellinda. The portrait next to it was of his son, the tragic King Cuthbert. He was not on horseback, merely standing, in full Mellorian national dress. There was a sense of calm resignation in his eyes, as opposed to the attractive arrogance of his father.
On the opposite wall hung a portrait of King Oswald the Optimist seated, his queen beside him, staring out of the painting with an air of sad wistfulness, as if he knew that, being an optimist, he was up against it. Godfrey’s father, King Egbert, was positioned next to Oswald. He wore a red tunic, which bristled with braid and tassels, a dark blue sash – richly bemedalled – and an ermine cloak and velvet gown.
His mind in disarray after a day spent in grueling debates with Bribe, Godfrey looked up at his father’s portrait and slowly pulled himself together. He thought of what a tough old bugger his father had been and the exacting standards he set for his son. When faced with the gravest of crises during World War II, as the Nazis threatened to invade as a prelude to their attack on Russia, King Egbert’s diplomatic maneuvers, playing off von Ribbentrop against Molotov, had saved Melloria from being dragged into the conflict. Drawing inspiration from his father’s stiff resolve, he prepared himself for a potentially grueling dinner.
Eventually Catheter came down and entered the room, followed – as protocol demanded – by Lucinda. She looked, if not stunning, then extremely presentable, and glanced appreciatively round the room, smiling at everyone. Seating herself near Catheter, she moved her chair closer to the table and spread her napkin on her knees. She was soon chatting with Godfrey and Anton.
Letitia looked across at her with mild exasperation, and mentally dissected her dress, jewelry, face, manner, antecedents and voice: Nice dress but nothing special. She’s wearing red with a green floral print and an orange bag – like a set of traffic lights. Look at that heavy gold necklace and those chunky bangles. Flashy isn’t the word. But I suppose it’s necessary to overdress when you’re in business. And Catheter must have spent a fortune on that ring – diamonds and sapphires mainly, though I can’t see clearly from here. Why did she decide to wear a glass bangle next to a gold one? It looks awfully vulgar. And those earrings! Every time she shakes her head they flash like car headlights. She’s such a commoner, but these days we all are, I suppose! Oh God, is she making eyes at Godfrey? Shameless hussy!”
Conversation at dinner was light and desultory. Catheter steered the discussion toward the progress of the Restoration Bill, partly to avoid the kind of social chit-chat that might evoke witheringly sarcastic remarks by his mother against Lucinda.
“Let’s hope it gets to the third reading,” he said cheerily. “And if it does, let’s hope that the president doesn’t withhold his assent!”
Catheter’s quip set Lucinda off, and her laughter could be heard tinkling above the hubbub of chatter.
The reason for Sharon’s resignation and sudden departure from her job at the palace lay in the newsroom of the Sunday Bugle. A story was being put to bed with the rest of the paper late Saturday evening which had first been submitted to the editor when Arabella Scott-Natterson had been reinstated to her old post, renamed Political Correspondent. She told him she had been holding on to it for complex reasons since before the revolution, and as soon as he read it he immediately assigned it to the front and center pages of the Sunday paper.
Arabella went back to her office to write the final draft of the biggest story of her career, pausing only to send Sharon the check that had prompted her resignation. Her final act before finishing the piece had been to call the president’s press office for comments and, finding no one there, typing a “Not available for comment” line at the end of her story.
The story that the Bugle’s night editor laid out on the pages of the Sunday edition told of Godfrey Gorm’s night of naked naughtiness, the scathing expose of his boogie night with a nobleman’s maid, which had resulted in a lovechild, and the amazing cover-up of a king’s bastard son. It was to have consequences that even the hardboiled editor of the Bugle could not have foreseen.
Chapter 61
A Mortal Blow To The President
Sunday breakfast at the presidential palace was usually a bit later than during the week. The Bugle had not yet been brought to him and Godfrey had his nose fixed in the legislative papers stacked beside his plate. Letitia sat next to him, eating her toast and buttering his.
“I had a frantic phone call from Ada last night,” she said, continuing to butter toast as sh
e talked, “and she wanted us to have Angus back right away. She said it’s high time Cathy took some responsibility for his son in his native land, instead of leaving Betty to raise him. She and Hector are so frazzled by his constant bawling, they are going to fly him and Betty first class to Melloria, so we’d better be ready to pick them up today.”
Godfrey grunted, barely stirring, but her words percolating through his mind set off a train of thought about the virulent form of Attention Deficit Disorder that periodically appeared in males of the Gorm line. His grandfather, King Cuthbert, had been a sufferer and had ended his short reign by flinging himself from the roof of Calliper Palace.
“The other thing she wanted to do,” Letitia continued, “was to send that frightful creature Hernia to us. She thinks it would help to settle Anton down.”
His wife’s words set off another train of thought in Godfrey’s mind, this time about Anton who was, in his opinion, in danger of going to the dogs. Anton had tried his hand at sitting in the Assembly, but found it too irksome and preferred to hang out with his LARP buddies, whom Godfrey considered a bunch of wastrels. They spent their time dressing up in costumes and prancing about the country playing games that were completely beyond him. Anton kept his room crammed full of helmets, swords and costumes for his role plays, and Godfrey was getting seriously concerned that Anton would end up lost in a world of fantasy.
“Maybe that isn’t a bad idea…” he began to say when Mary Sedeekly came into the room and asked, in a worried tone, “Have you seen the Bugle?”
Godfrey shook his head behind his legislative papers, and Letitia gave her a puzzled look.
“You’d better bring it to me at once,” she said, spreading Cooper’s Oxford marmalade on her toast in an anxious manner.
Mary left the room and quickly returned. “I hope it turns out all right,” she said, handing Letitia the Sunday Bugle and immediately leaving.
Godfrey continued browsing and chewing toast until, with a sharp exclamatory shriek, Letitia threw the paper down.
“It’s unspeakable…!” was all she could say.
Godfrey glanced worriedly at her and scanned the front page. “Christ!” he said, and began reading avidly.
“”It’s worse than you think,” Letitia said, seeing his shocked face. “They’re saying you should resign forthwith!”
“I can’t believe it,” Godfrey stuttered.” After all this time… how could she?”
“Very easily,” Letitia replied. “All it takes is a pushy journalist and a lot of money.”
“Why did the editor put this out without my permission?” Godfrey croaked, still holding a piece of toast. “The man should be stripped and whipped!”
For a few seconds there was a stunned silence. ”Heads will roll!” Godfrey continued, finding his voice at last. “Why didn’t the press office warn me this was coming out?”
“Because they didn’t know, Dear,” Letitia whispered. “I’ll bet the Bugle didn’t even bother to tell them.”
The door opened, and Catheter walked in. “What’s going on?” He looked at his parents’ shocked faces in surprise, and went to take his place at the table.
When Letitia had told him about the damning article in the Bugle, Catheter looked at his father in angry astonishment.
“How will this affect the restitution?” he asked.
Godfrey ignored the question. “Those who are responsible for this,” he said, throwing the paper across the table, “should be castrated with boiling oil!”
Letitia looked at Godfrey in dismay. “This is going to have a terrible effect on the country,” she said, “and God knows what it’s going to do to the future of the monarchy.”
A sudden thought struck Catheter, “Maybe it was meant to be,” he said.
“Maybe I was never meant to be king – at least Lucinda and I can live our lives in peace… ”
“Shut up!” Godfrey growled. “I’ll have you on the throne of Melloria if it’s the last thing I do!”
Chapter 62
Another Servants’ Discussion
In the palace laundry room a discussion was taking place among the small group of servants. Seated on his favorite upturned basket, Simpkins was holding a copy of the Sunday Bugle while Wilson, the young male cook held forth:
“Look, the only reason the people elected Goddy as prez was because he was Dawna’s father-in-law. Everybody knows that. All he knows how to do is make bloody speeches and play billiards. He doesn’t have an intelligent idea in his head – he just wants to bring back the monarchy. And what’s more, he’s letting the bloody bishops jerk him around! And we’re the ones who pick up the tab – “
“What can he do though, he’s not a dictator?” Godfrey’s driver, the appropriately named Motion, cut in.
“Please don’t interrupt! Can I make a point? You can say what you like when I’m finished!” Wilson snarled. “So what’s he gonna do about this poxy sinners’ tax? I mean I don’t go to church - I'm an atheist, Does that mean I have to pay for the bloody bishops’ palaces?”
Simpkins added a note of compassion for Godfrey. “I take your point, Colin, but it’s a shame he has to get booted out like this, with his tail between his legs.”
Motion laughed coarsely. “It’s his tail that got him into this pickle in the first place!”
Turning to Simpkins, he added: “Here, Sim, isn’t Sharon Whoresipoop – the one who had the king’s bastard – your fiancee?”
Simpkins’s face darkened. “I’ll thank you to keep her name out of this discussion, Andy – if you know what’s good for you.”
Berryman, who’d just come in from the garden to pick up some laundry, chipped in: “Anyway, what’s wrong with restoring the monarchy? We were better off when we had a king.”
“Were we bollocks!” Wilson said. “The ordinary people didn’t have no say in how the country was run – and they run it down!”
“Well, it might not be so bad next time,” Berryman maintained. “After all, we’ve never had a constitutional king before.”
Wilson snorted derisively. “We’ve never had a bloody constitution!”
The ten per cent tax imposed on non-churchgoers, the so-called ‘sinners’ tax’, which a caucus of bishops in the Assembly had forced through as a condition of not opposing the Restitution Bill, and which would, over the years, finance the bulk of church expenses, met with much popular opposition. As Easter approached, a large number of people gathered outside the presidential palace. Some of them had climbed the railings and were milling around in the courtyard. A few had wandered into the gardens, and had been chased out by Berryman wielding a rake. Godfrey’s driver and Simpkins were doing what they could to control the crowd and shoo away the trespassers, but people continued to surge forward.
A deputation was assembled, which after much negotiation was invited into Godfrey’s old study, now his office, and two narrow benches were brought in. Both were soon filled with chattering delegates. The leader of the deputation, a dour-looking teacher, sat on a chair in front of Godfrey’s desk. He looked like a man who had been bitterly disappointed by life, and complained that he and his fellow citizens were being twice bled by the government since the new tax had been introduced.
“When are you going to curb these damn bishops, Mr President?” he asked loudly.
Godfrey gave a tired smile. “I’m doing my best to contain Their Lordships’ zeal,” he said tightly. “Their efforts to turn this country into a religious state are being stoutly resisted.”
“We might have known this would happen when we let a bunch of priests and bishops take over!” a man in a woolly hat said, half to his fellow deputies. “We should have let the People’s Party stay in!”
Godfrey was stung into a sharp reply. “If you’d done that, the country would be a dictatorship by now – or it would be a province of Slobodia, which amounts to the same thing! At least we’ve kept the country free. All you people should be grateful,” he went on, embracing the whole deput
ation with a sweep of his arm. “If Slamil and his lot had been allowed to remain a month longer, you’d all be living on turnips and your children would starve.”
“We know you’re doing your best, sir,” an old man who looked like a farmer said. “It’s just that these damn bishops are bleeding us white!”
“That’s right,” the leader of the deputation added, “and people are saying you’re losing your grip!”
Godfrey’s expression took on a purplish hue, and he grasped the beveled edges of his desk.
“Now look here,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “I served this country as its king for over thirty years and I’m not going to turn my back on it – ”
A blank white screen suddenly filled Godfrey’s vision, and he marveled at its clinical, almost antiseptic whiteness. Meanwhile, his body made a half turn away from the desk and crashed like a felled tree on the carpeted floor.
After the shock of learning he had angina pectoris had worn off, Godfrey went into mourning for his old life. He stayed at the hospital undergoing tests, for three days, and came out on Easter Sunday. The mild April weather made him wistful for his hunting days, and he spent most of his first day of convalescence watching The Deer Hunter and other hunting DVDs in the drawing room, having his meals brought to him and reading the Bugle.
Hernia and Angus, with his nurse Betty, flew in from Bulimia and, in their different ways, caused a stir. Hernia, in her ‘shock frock’ outfit of short leather miniskirt, Doc Martens, SATAN’S SEX SLAVE T-shirt and numerous body piercings, caused Letitia to have frequent paroxysms of exasperation. She shared her irritation during her evening dinner with Godfrey.
“She’s driving me into an early grave, and Agatha and Mary too,” she said indignantly. “She hid sex toys in the baskets during the Easter egg hunt, and to top it all, after lunch when Agatha put The Sound of Music into the DVD player, we discovered the little minx had switched the labels and we were watching pornography – involving lesbians and German Shepherd dogs – in front of the archbishop!”