Queen Camilla

by Sue Townsend

  With both parents dead, there was now nobody to advise him otherwise. So he found a Jiffy bag, took four first-class stamps from his purse and posted the package in the postbox on the corner.

  29

  Mitzie, a King Charles spaniel, was lying under Chancellor Stephen Fletcher’s desk with her pretty muzzle resting on the Chancellor’s highly polished black brogues. One of her silky ears was cocked, listening to an alarming conversation between her master and the Prime Minister.

  ‘Please, Jack, don’t ask me to get rid of Mitzie.’

  ‘We have to lead by example, Chancellor. How can we fight the war on dogs if you’re harbouring one in the very heart of government?’

  ‘But Mitzie’s so docile, so well behaved.’

  ‘She’s still a dog, Chancellor.’

  ‘But she’s all I’ve got since Veronica refused to leave the bloody constituency.’

  The call was abruptly disconnected; the Prime Minister rarely said goodbye on the telephone. Mitzie crawled out from under the desk and stood at the Chancellor’s side. She had been glad to see the back of the neurotic Veronica, who had constantly complained about dog hair and the occasional flea bite. Mitzie was glad the poor cow preferred rural isolation.

  Mitzie jumped up on the Chancellor’s lap and laid her glossy head on his knee. She gave him the brown-eyed, full-on, adoring gaze that she had been working on in private in front of the mirrored wardrobe doors in the master bedroom. The Chancellor stroked Mitzie’s head and thought bitterly about his estranged wife. She had never loved him with such adoration as this dog. ‘I’ll never give you up, Mitzie,’ he said.

  Only Mitzie witnessed the Chancellor’s frailty these days. It was she who stayed awake half the night with him when he toiled over the papers and graphs that told him that England would be destitute, wearing rags and living under a railway arch within three years, unless taxation was increased by three pence in the pound. He had done his best for the country, but nobody, not even God, could give the people what they wanted: low taxation and superb public services.

  England owed the United States a hundred billion pounds and the United States owed seven trillion dollars to the World Bank. The Chancellor sometimes thought that money was an abstract thing, existing only in the imaginations of the people who brokered deals. He felt like a man who had shuffled halfway along a tightrope, only to see his landing platform go up in flames. He wondered how Jack Barker had become so powerful. A certain look from him was enough to silence a room. Perhaps, thought the Chancellor, it’s because Jack doesn’t care about anything any more, and therefore nothing can hurt him.

  The Chancellor picked Mitzie up and held her in his arms like a baby. He kissed her, told her she was beautiful and swore his undying love for her. He then put her down on the floor and wrote:

  Dear Jack,

  It is with great regret that I have to inform you that I have decided to resign from my position as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  You asked me to choose between my dog and my job. I have chosen my dog.

  I wish I could say that working with you has been an honour and a privilege. However, I can't.

  Stephen Fletcher

  The Chancellor read the letter aloud to Mitzie and asked her opinion.

  Mitzie barked, ‘Don’t be so hasty, Stevie, stay around to help us fight the war on dogs.’

  The Chancellor put the letter into an envelope and locked it inside a drawer of his desk. Mitzie always gave him good advice, he thought. The dog was sensible and rational, unlike most of his ministerial advisers, who could not see the economic wood for the financial trees.

  30

  All over the land people without dogs congratulated themselves and those with dogs felt vaguely discomfited. Anti-dog stories had been appearing in the press. It seemed that every day a dog had caused a serious traffic accident, or a child had been savaged. When a train was derailed outside Ely, causing two fatalities and dozens of injuries, a dog was blamed. The train driver, who had braked when he saw a dog on the line, had appeared on the front of The Sun. The headline read: ‘DRIVER TRIES TO SAVE DOG AND KILLS MUM OF THREE.’ Dog charities reported that their donations were down and Battersea Dogs Home took in a record number of abandoned animals.

  The Queen picked up a basket of wet washing and lugged it out into the garden. A strong wind had blown up and the Queen wanted to take advantage of its free, drying properties. She battled against the gusts of wind to peg the towels and bed linen on to the clothesline. Harris and Susan waddled out to watch her. They were both subdued, each thinking about their chance of surviving the proposed one-dog-per-household rule. They stood with their heads into the wind, which flattened their ears and sent rippled patterns through their fur.

  After a few minutes, Violet squeezed through the gap in the fence between the two gardens. She could never get used to seeing the Queen performing any household task. To Violet it was as novel as witnessing a circus pony walking on its hind legs. They worked together, pegging out the billowing sheets.

  ‘These are wearing a bit thin,’ said Violet, examining the exquisitely monogrammed linen.

  ‘They’re over fifty years old,’ said the Queen. ‘They were made for our wedding.’

  ‘Lovely bit of embroidery,’ said Violet.

  The Queen did not like to tell Violet that the silk for the embroidery had been farmed from specially bred silkworms that fed on a certain type of mulberry tree, planted in a secret location. Or that a team of embroideresses had worked twelve hours a day, for ninety days, to complete the task. It would sound like a fairy tale.

  Violet said, ‘These sheets are as thin as a piece of old-fashioned lavvy paper. I can see my bleedin’ hand through ’em.’

  Moments later a huge gust of wind filled the sheets, reminding the Queen of the puff-cheeked illustration of the wind on a weather chart that used to hang on her nursery wall when she was a small child. Every day Crawfie would ask her and her sister, Princess Margaret Rose, to hang a little weather symbol on to the hook, adjacent to the day of the week and the date.

  Another gust ripped one of the sheets apart at the hem, leaving the pegs on the line and the sheet flapping along the ground. The Queen and Violet gave little screams and hurried to retrieve the sheet. The dogs barked excitedly as the two women battled against the wind. When they finally struggled back into the house, Violet noticed that the Queen had tears in her eyes and said, ‘It’s only a sheet, Liz. You can buy a bedding bundle for a fiver in Grice’s Mini-Market.’

  ‘A fiver?’ queried the Queen, blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s probably made in China, cos the Chinks’ll work all day for a few noodles and half a cup of rice,’ said Violet.

  The Queen sat down at the kitchen table, buried her head in her hands and began to weep.

  Violet put her arm around the Queen’s shoulder and said, ‘Come on, come on, don’t cry. The Chinks are ’appy enough.’

  The Queen said, ‘It isn’t the Chinese I’m weeping for.’

  Violet said, ‘What, then? Is it Philip?’

  ‘No,’ sobbed the Queen, ‘it’s the dogs. Only one is to be permitted per household. Oh Violet, how can I choose between them? They’re both adorable.’

  Harris and Susan each gazed up at the Queen and tried to look just a little more adorable than the other.

  When Charles called around to see his mother, to tell her that all residents of Hell Close had to push their wheelie bins to the police barrier because house-to-house collections had been suspended, he was alarmed to find her not only in tears, but being consoled by Violet Toby, a woman he had never felt entirely comfortable with.

  ‘Mummy, what’s happened? Is it Papa?’

  ‘No,’ said Violet, in her usual trenchant manner. ‘The Government has said your mam has got to kill one of her dogs.’

  Harris and Susan ran under the table and listened as Violet told Charles about the one-dog-per-household law.

  Sh
e continued, ‘If you’d get a telly, Charlie, you’d know what was going on in the world.’

  Susan began to bark hysterically, ‘We’re going to die! We’re going to die!’

  Harris said to Susan, ‘This is England. They don’t kill dogs in England.’

  When Susan continued to bark, Harris sank his teeth into her neck and she calmed down and whimpered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Charles was sure that Violet must be wrong. She was an unreliable witness: he had once overheard her asserting in the queue at the ‘Everything A Pound’ shop that she had heard on the News at Ten that Judas Iscariot’s diaries had been found and that they proved that Judas ‘didn’t shop Jesus!’

  Charles said, ‘This is England, Mummy. The English people are dog lovers, they would not allow their Government to implement such a draconian law.’

  The Queen blew her nose and said, ‘I hope so, because I couldn’t possibly choose between Harris and Susan.’

  Charles said, ‘Nor I between Freddie, Tosca and Leo.’

  Violet said, ‘Thank the sweet Jesus I’ve only got our Micky. But if it came to choosing between our Micky and our Barry, well, I’d ’ave to choose Micky.’

  Charles said, ‘My poor darling Camilla, it would break her heart to condemn two of our dogs.’

  Violet said, ‘Pardon me for speakin’ my mind, but I ain’t exactly bothered if ’er heart is broken. She’s gone an’ caused everybody in ’Ell Close a lot of bleedin’ trouble. I’d ’ad an appointment with the pliers woman to tighten my dentures tomorrow. I’ll have to cancel it now.’

  Charles said, ‘Camilla is distraught, Mrs Toby.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m distraught an’ all,’ said Violet. ‘My top set keeps slipping on to my bottom set. It’s like ’aving a pair of bleedin’ castanets in me mouth.’

  Charles said angrily, ‘My wife did nothing wrong.’

  The Queen said quietly, ‘Camilla acted very irresponsibly, Charles. Her actions were not the considered actions of a queen. A queen has to put her people first and her own desires a long way back.’

  Violet said, ‘If I’d put myself first I’d ’ave ’ad our Barry took away after ’e set fire to ’is first school.’

  ‘But you did your duty,’ said the Queen. ‘You stood by your son.’

  ‘Well,’ said Violet, evasively, ‘I stood by ’im until ’e set the church on fire, then I ’ad to do my duty an’ turn ’im in. There was a wedding going on at the time.’

  The Queen asked, lowering her voice, ‘How will I choose between the dogs, Charles? It’s impossible.’

  Charles said, ‘It’s an intolerable situation. We must hope against hope that Boy English wins the election.’

  Violet Toby said, ‘I’ve never voted Conservative in my life. But them Cromwell people ain’t for the poor and the working classes no more.’

  Charles said, ‘Because of my status as a Royal, even an ex-officio Royal, I have never been allowed to vote.’

  Violet said, ‘Our Barry can’t vote on two counts. One, he’s a criminal, and two, he’s a lunatic.’

  Charles shouted, ‘Do you see the company we’re in, Mummy? We’re disenfranchised, along with criminals and lunatics.’

  The Queen shouted, ‘If you don’t want to be a Royal, then pass the succession to William.’

  ‘You mean, pass him the poisoned chalice,’ Charles roared. He stalked out of the back door, banging it behind him.

  When there was no sound of the Queen’s wheelie bin being dragged from the back garden into the front, the Queen said, ‘Well, it looks as though he has left me to deal with my own rubbish.’

  Violet sighed, ‘It’s a pity we can’t take our grown-up kids’ pants down an’ give their arses a good smacking, ain’t it?’

  The Queen put on her hat and coat and, with Violet’s help, they struggled against the wind to pull her wheelie bin to the barrier at the entrance to Hell Close.

  Camilla was turning the familiar pages of an edition of Horse & Hound. She had brought a stack with her from the outside world. They provided ballast when she felt as though her new life threatened to swamp her with its difficulties. She looked at the familiar faces of her friends and their horses; she almost knew the captions under the photographs by heart: ‘Major Jeremy Yarnold swaps a joke with the Honourable Lady Fiona Leyton-Haige at the Hunt Ball at Smockington Manor.’ Even the advertisements on the back page gave her comfort.

  All three dogs were lying on the sofa, something they were normally forbidden to do, but she hadn’t the energy to shout at them, and order them on to the floor. Charles often teased her that she treated the dogs as though they were hairy children that she indulged.

  She said to the dogs, ‘You look happy, darlings.’

  Freddie whimpered, ‘I may look happy to you, but that’s because I’m limited to very few facial expressions. I’m actually tormented by jealousy and rage.’

  Tosca growled, ‘Get over it, Freddie. Go and call on that cheap bitch, Britney.’

  Freddie snapped, ‘You’re making a fool of yourself with Leo. You’re a mature bitch, and he’s barely off his mother’s teat.’

  Leo lifted his big head and sniffed between Tosca’s back legs.

  Tosca growled, ‘You don’t like it because I refuse to be dominated by you.’

  Freddie barked, ‘Mixed-breed couplings never work. You’re a pedigree and he’s a mongrel. You know nothing about his bloodline.’

  Tosca barked back, ‘We’ll be together for life.’

  Leo growled, ‘When my balls have grown, we’re going to have puppies of our own, aren’t we, Tosca?’

  Freddie lunged at Leo, biting his nose and causing the bigger dog to howl in pain. Tosca leapt at Freddie’s throat, and soon all three dogs were engaged in a vicious fight. Charles ran in to find Camilla vainly trying to separate the dogs.

  He shouted, ‘Freddie, stop it at once!’ He yanked Freddie’s collar and threw him on to the floor.

  Camilla protested, ‘Why single Freddie out? All three of them were fighting.’

  Charles said, ‘Because he’s a nasty piece of work, Camilla.’

  ‘No, he’s a darling boy,’ Camilla said.

  Freddie lay on his back at Camilla’s feet, whimpering pitifully.

  ‘You’ve hurt him,’ Camilla said to Charles.

  Charles replied, ‘Any fool with eyes to see can tell that he’s putting it on.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Camilla, bending down and scooping Freddie into her arms. ‘Dogs have no guile, he’s genuinely hurt.’

  Tosca barked, ‘Freddie is a better actor than Lassie.’

  ‘Quiet, Tosca,’ said Charles.

  Camilla said, ‘Why are you being so horrid to my dogs.’

  Charles said, ‘Because your dogs are a bloody nuisance, Camilla. I don’t need to discipline Leo.’

  Leo jumped off the sofa, shook himself, stretched, and then padded towards Charles, leaning his head against Charles’s thigh.

  Charles said, ‘Come with me, Leo. We’ll go and deal with the wheelie bin.’

  Camilla went to the window; she and Freddie watched Charles. Every now and then the lid of the bin opened like a big gaping mouth, and pieces of rubbish blew out and twirled around the close.

  Beverley knocked on the back door and shouted, ‘It’s only me!’ She was wearing a pink tracksuit and what looked like new white trainers. She said, ‘I’m on the cadge again, Cam. Can I buy a can of dog food off you? Vince is threatening to feed our King on that tinned mince what we got in our grocery box.’

  Camilla said, ‘I’m awfully sorry, Bev. But we’ve barely enough for our own dogs.’

  Beverley said, ‘That bleedin’ King will eat us out of ’ouse and ’ome. I’m bleedin’ sick of ’im. Still, at least we ’aven’t got your problem.’

  ‘Which problem is that?’ asked Camilla. ‘I have so many.’

  ‘Which dog you’re gonna keep and which two are for the chop,’ said Beverley, with relish.

  When
Beverley explained about the proposed one-dog-per-household law, it was like throwing a grenade into a house that already had a chip-pan fire. The fact that Charles had already shown his hand by singling out Leo and rubbishing her own dogs did not surprise Camilla. Charles had, after all, been brought up to play palace politics. Look how ruthless his ancestors had been.

  Beverley said, ‘It’s like that film, Sophie’s Choice, where Meryl Streep has to choose between ’er kids.’ Beverley looked from Freddie to Tosca and back again.

  Camilla remembered the film and said, ‘I wept absolute buckets, I was prostrate.’

  Beverley said, ‘So, which of ’em are you goin’ to choose?’

  Freddie and Susan waited nervously for her answer.

  ‘How can I possibly choose?’ Camilla asked. ‘Freddie is such a marvellous little character, and Tosca is utterly adorable.’

  ‘And Leo?’ asked Beverley.

  ‘Leo’s lovely, of course. He’s a big softie.’

  ‘But he’s Charlie’s dog really, ain’t he?’ said Beverley, malevolently.

  When Charles returned, Camilla said nothing about Beverley’s visit or that she knew about the proposed change to the dog ownership laws. She could tell that Charles was preoccupied and miserable. She knew that he was dreading telling her that they would have to choose which of the three dogs was to live, and which two were doomed to die. It was part of Camilla’s make-up that she did not confront unpleasantness head on. That would make things real, and she preferred to live in the shadowy world of self-deception.

  All three dogs were exceptionally quiet, even docile. Camilla went to bed early, leaving the bedroom door open so that Freddie and Tosca could come and go as they pleased.

  Charles stayed downstairs and later that evening sat at his little writing desk and wrote a reply to Nicholas Soames.

  My dear old friend,

  I can't tell you how delighted I was to receive your letter. One sometimes despaired of ever receivinga reply to the numerous letters I have sent to you and many other people.