by Sue Townsend
Camilla said, ‘How much do I owe you for the dog food, Mr Grice?’
Grice waved the suggestion of payment away airily. ‘Nothink,’ he said. ‘It’s free, gratis, a present from one dog lover to another.’
Camilla asked, ‘And are all the dog lovers in Hell Close to be given dog food?’
Grice’s eyes shifted away from Camilla. ‘You could mention to ’Er Majesty the Queen that you’ve got a few spare tins,’ he said.
The Hell Close dogs had made their way around the side of the house and were now marauding in the back garden, trampling on the neat lines of brassicas and winter cabbage. King had jumped over the fence and was howling at the back door.
When Grice made no sign of leaving, Camilla, impelled by good manners, asked if he would like a cup of tea. Grice unbuttoned his cashmere overcoat and dropped down heavily into a chair. He looked around the kitchen and said, ‘I hope you didn’t take your house arrest personal, only I ’ad to be seen to be in control.’
Camilla stood with her back against the sink, willing the kettle to boil. She made no move to open the carton of dog food, though it was hard to resist the hunger in her dogs’ eyes. She waited for Grice to state the nature of the price she would have to pay.
Grice said, ‘I was brung up in a council house like this. There was nine of us, we took it in turns to wear the shoes, an’ there was never enough cups to go round. I ’ad to drink my tea out of a jam jar.’ Grice’s voice faltered, he was suddenly overwhelmed with self-pity. ‘I didn’t own me own underpants until I was sixteen.’
Freddie snarled, ‘Pass the bleeding violin.’
Camilla said, ‘You’ve certainly done terribly well to fight your way out of such poverty, Mr Grice.’
Grice sighed, ‘Yeah, I done all right. I’ve got everythink – ’ouses, cars, expensive wife, millions in the bank – but it ain’t enough. I want somethink money can’t buy.’
Camilla asked, ‘Happiness?’
Grice said, ‘No, happiness is for losers. What I want is an honour.’
Camilla said, ‘But money can buy you an honour, Mr Grice. One only has to donate a large sum of money to the Cromwell Party.’ She had heard recently from Beverley Threadgold that Michael Jackson, the disgraced singer, had, in exchange for many millions of pounds, been elevated to Lord Jackson of Neverland.
Grice growled, ‘But it ain’t guaranteed. And anyway, why should I pay the monkey when I can get one from the organ grinder?’ He was rather pleased with his analogy, but Camilla was baffled. What had monkeys and organ grinders to do with the reintroduced honours system?
The kettle shrieked and Camilla poured boiling water into the teapot. The dogs in the garden were now leaping up at the windows and scratching on the back door. Camilla felt doubly besieged; her own dogs were whimpering pitifully, never taking their eyes off the carton of dog food, still unopened on the table. She poured strong black tea into a delicate china cup and asked, ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘A bit of milk and seven sugars,’ Grice replied. ‘Anyway, you might mention that in your opinion, Arthur Grice, employer of hundreds, philanthropist and benefactor to the poor, deserves an honour. Perhaps when you give the Queen a few tins of this dog food.’
Camilla said, ‘Mr Grice, I have no influence over the Queen.’
‘But your ’usband has,’ said Grice. ‘Couldn’t ’e put a word in for me?’
Camilla said, ‘Relations are strained between my husband and his mother at the moment.’
She spooned seven teaspoons of sugar into Grice’s cup and added a little milk.
Grice said, ‘I expect she blames you because she’s not allowed to see ’er ’usband.’
Camilla said, ‘I do feel dreadful about that.’
Grice said, ‘And it’s your fault ’er dogs are goin’ ’ungry.’
‘Yes,’ said Camilla, grimacing as Grice sipped his sickly-sweet tea.
He said, ‘An’ all these problems could be solved by just a little tap on the shoulder with a sword, and the words “Arise, Sir Arthur”.’
‘When you put it like that,’ said Camilla weakly.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to think about it,’ said Grice, picking up the carton of dog food.
Leo, Tosca and Freddie leapt at the box, trying to knock it out of Grice’s huge hands. Grice roared, ‘Fuck off, you bleeders!’ and kicked out viciously, catching Tosca a hard kick behind her ear. She recoiled from the blow and lay still on the floor, whimpering, with her eyes half closed. Leo and Freddie cowered away from Grice as he made his way out of the kitchen carrying the carton. Camilla knelt over Tosca, stroking her head and making soothing, calming noises. She heard the front door open, then close, then the cacophony of ravenous dogs outside pleading for food.
Arthur Grice drove his Rolls-Royce slowly around Hell Close, pursued by famished dogs. A few of the more intelligent animals knew that this was a fruitless pursuit, but they joined the pack anyway. Grice stopped the car outside Princess Michael’s house. It was soon marooned by a circle of Hell Close dogs whose eyes were wild and whose teeth were bared. Rocky was throwing himself around on the back seat, bouncing from one side of the car to the other, ignoring Grice’s commands to stop. The noise of Rocky’s barking in the confines of the car was intolerable.
Grice called for assistance. ‘I want tasers and dogs ’ere immediate,’ he shouted into his mobile phone. While he waited for help, Grice’s blood pressure rose; he could feel the pulse in his ears throbbing. He was not accustomed to being frightened, but the thought of being attacked and brought down by the maddened pack made him sweat and tremble with fear. Some of the residents had come to stand at their front gates; others were gawping from their front-room windows. They were thoroughly enjoying Grice’s predicament. Grice saw two policemen in riot gear, with Emperor and Judge straining on their leashes, running down Hell Close towards him, followed by Inspector Lancer holding a taser gun.
Emperor barked, ‘Clear the area, go to your homes!’
The Hell Close dogs stood their ground.
Judge barked, ‘Go to your homes, you filthy scum!’
Harris ran forwards and growled, ‘We have nae had a decent meal in days, and we have a right to protest.’
Susan barked, ‘Harris, let’s go home.’
But Harris’s hackles were up and he advanced on the straining police dogs, growling, ‘You’re a disgrace to your own kind.’
Inspector Lancer said, ‘Let ’em off the leads, boys.’
The dog handlers unleashed Emperor and Judge, and the pack of Hell Close dogs turned tail and scattered to their own homes. Only Harris stood his ground.
As she fled, Susan barked, ‘Run, Harris, run.’
But Harris, foolishly, because he was half their size and there were two of them against one, prepared to fight. Emperor and Judge waited for their orders; Lancer’s finger moved to the trigger of the taser. He was sick of police dogs getting all the glory. You could hardly open a newspaper without seeing a photograph of one of the smug ‘heroes’ sitting at the side of a grinning handler. He advanced on Harris.
Harris turned to look at Lancer, growling from the back of his throat. When it looked as though Harris was about to run at his ankle, Lancer pulled the trigger and the taser shot the wire from the gun. The darts on the end embedded themselves into Harris’s belly, sending 50,000 volts through the little dog’s body. Harris screamed in agony, then collapsed and lay twitching on the pavement. His agonized yelps brought the Queen and Prince Charles running. Charles had never seen his mother run before, not even when he was a child and they played on the lawn. He was astounded how quickly she covered the territory from her front door to Harris’s side.
As the Queen bent over Harris’s prone body, Inspector Lancer said, ‘It was self-defence. ’E would have ’ad me throat out.’
The Queen said, ‘Nonsense! To reach your throat he would have needed a stepladder.’
Grice opened the car door and said to Lancer, ‘If you’ve killed
Her Majesty’s dog, you’ll pay for it with your inspector’s pips. I’ll have you on the beat so long your feet will be in tatters.’
Lancer said, ‘But Mr Grice, I was only following orders.’
Grice rolled his eyes, and Charles said, ‘That was Rudolf Hess’s defence at Nuremberg, Inspector Lancer.’
Grice bent over Harris, asking solicitously, ‘’Ow is the little fellow?’
The Queen took off her cardigan and laid it over Harris, who opened one eye and whimpered, ‘Thank you.’
Grice said, ‘’E’ll soon be all right, when ’e’s ’ad a decent meal.’
The Queen said, ‘Unfortunately, Mr Grice, I have nothing substantial to give him. Your grocery boxes have been somewhat inadequate.’
Grice lowered his voice and said, ‘I’ve got a carton of dog food in the boot of the Rolls, Ma’am. You’ve turned me down for a peerage, but ’ow about a knighthood? I could settle for bein’ Sir Arthur Grice.’
The Queen was tempted to take Grice up on his offer; after all, what was a knighthood? A mere tap on the shoulder with a fancy sword and a few steps backwards.
Seeing the Queen’s hesitation, Grice continued, ‘We could ’ave a bit of a do at the One-Stop Centre.’
Charles said, ‘Mummy, it wouldn’t do any harm. All titles are meaningless; nothing means anything. Life is composed of random happenings. And we ourselves are composed of water and carbon thingies.’
The Queen and Grice were baffled by Charles’s philosophizing.
The Queen thought for a moment, then said, ‘Very well, Mr Grice, these are my terms, in exchange for giving you a knighthood. First, I am to be allowed out of Hell Close to visit my husband. Second, all the dogs in the close are to be given a case of food, and you might also throw in a couple of boxes of Bonios.’
Grice agreed eagerly. He would have been willing to forfeit half of his fortune for a knighthood bestowed by the Queen. She was, after all, the genuine article.
Charles picked up Harris’s prone, twitching body from the pavement. Grice ordered the policemen and their dogs to return to work. He said to the Queen, ‘I’ll get the missus to organize the do.’
The Queen said, imperiously, ‘You will organize the dog food first, Mr Grice.’ Then she and Charles, with Harris in his arms, trekked across the little green.
Camilla was watching them from her doorstep, her hands pressed against the sides of her face, convinced that she was responsible for killing Harris, the Queen’s favourite dog. Charles would not allow his mother to go back to her own house with the sickly Harris. So stopping only to collect Susan, they proceeded to Number Sixteen where Camilla was waiting. After establishing that Harris was alive, Camilla absented herself and went into the kitchen to cry and make tea. The Queen had not directly blamed Camilla for Harris’s condition, but neither had she been particularly friendly to her.
Harris was wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, where he lay blinking and whimpering. The Queen sat beside him, stroking his back and repeatedly telling him that he was ‘a brave boy’. Although she had appeared to keep her composure, a slight trembling of her chin betrayed the fact that the Queen was in fact distraught.
Charles hovered over his mother and Harris, not quite knowing what to do or say.
He tentatively patted his mother’s shoulder and said, ‘Mummy, look at the other dogs, they’re terribly worried.’ The Queen looked across the room to where Susan, Freddie, Tosca and Leo were lying with their ears flattened and their eyes fixed on Harris.
Word spread quickly among the dogs of Hell Close that the Queen had rescued them from starvation and that Harris had almost sacrificed his life for their cause. A cluster of concerned dogs had gathered outside Charles and Camilla’s house, waiting for one of the resident dogs to give them an up-to-date medical bulletin on Harris’s condition. Zsa-Zsa had escaped from Princess Michael’s house while her mistress was absorbed in writing her novel. Spike and Raj, both usually confined to their back gardens, had also joined the crowd.
At 4.30 p.m. Freddie came into the front garden and barked an announcement: ‘At 4.27 Harris sat up and requested food and a drink. He is very tired, but his nose is shiny and his eyes are bright. The Queen expects him to make a full recovery. I suggest that you go back to your homes and wait for the delivery of Pedigree Chum and Bonios.’
Micky Toby barked, ‘Will the mongrels get Pedigree Chum?’
Freddie barked back, ‘In accordance with Harris’s wishes, I am calling a moratorium on divisions between the mongrels and the pedigrees. After all, we are all dogs!’
The mongrels among the pack of dogs turned to see how the pedigrees had taken Harris’s relayed dictum. Not well, was the answer. It was thought among the pedigrees that the shock from the taser had addled Harris’s brain. How could a mongrel ever be the equal of a pedigree dog? Did centuries of selected breeding count for nothing?
Spike growled to Zsa-Zsa, as they crossed the green to their respective houses, ‘I don’t mind having sex with a mongrel, but I wouldn’t want to live with one.’
Zsa-Zsa yelped, ‘Nor I, mon chéri. Zat ’Arris is a traitor to ’iz class.’
Spike growled, ‘I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’ve always fancied you, Zsa-Zsa.’
Zsa-Zsa laughed, ‘You are too ’eavy for me, chéri, and unfortunately you ’ave ze face of John Prescott.’
Spike was mortified; he had seen John Prescott on the History Channel. Zsa-Zsa was selfish and highly strung, but she was not entirely heartless. She saw that she had hurt Spike’s feelings
She said, in a conciliatory tone, ‘We will not ’ave sex, but you can sniff my derrière.’
Spike went behind Zsa-Zsa and drew in her scent – it was a heady mix of musky secretions and the Diorissimo that Princess Michael sprayed on Zsa-Zsa after the little dog’s daily bath. Spike was overwhelmed by her fragrance; he lost his ugly head and attempted to mount her, but the disparity in their sizes prevented him from gaining purchase and his efforts were frustrated. Princess Michael, finally realizing that Zsa-Zsa had escaped from the house, went looking for her. She found her, apparently being mounted by the drooling Spike.
She screamed, ‘Get off her, you ugly brute,’ and kicked out at Spike.
Princess Anne, hearing Spike’s howl of pain, flew out of her house, roaring, ‘Kick my dog again and I’ll take your bloody head off your shoulders!’
Princess Michael scooped up Zsa-Zsa and kissed her tiny petulant face, saying, ‘Did the horrid slobbery monster frighten you, my precious?’
Princess Anne gave Spike an affectionate cuff round the head and said, ‘At least my dog looks like a dog. That spoilt creature you’ve got in your arms looks like a hairy four-legged Barbie doll.’
Exactly how the two women came to brawl in the street is disputed. Spiggy swore Princess Michael struck the first blow, whereas a more neutral witness, Mr Anwar, claimed that Princess Anne jumped on Princess Michael’s back and shouted, ‘Ride, pony girl!’ It was not unusual to see women fighting in Hell Close, but it was the first time that the Royals had made such an exhibition of themselves. Princess Michael was heard to scream that Anne had married a mongrel. Anne yelled back that at least Spiggy had a chin.
Maddo Clarke brought a folding chair on to the green and settled himself to watch the spectacle of posh middle-aged totty rolling in a mud patch. Spiggy eventually broke the fight up and dragged Princess Anne back into their house, saying, ‘Leave it, Annie, she’s not worth it.’ Maddo Clarke congratulated Princess Michael on her fighting technique, and offered to help her off with her muddy clothes. When she refused his help, he folded his chair and went back inside his house.
34
The dog food that Grice’s van delivered was labelled with government health warnings, saying: ‘DOGS KILL.’ ‘DOGS SERIOUSLY ENDANGER YOUR HEALTH.’ ‘DOGS CAUSE BLINDNESS.’ ‘DOGS LICK THEIR GENITALS, AND THEN THEY LICK YOU!’ ‘DON’T FEED A DOG, FEED A STARVING CHILD!’ ‘DOGS CARRY FLEAS.’
&n
bsp; After serving it up, the Queen left Harris in Charles and Camilla’s care and went home to put on her coat, hat and gloves. Having made sure her identity card was in her handbag, she left her house and walked up to the checkpoint. Inspector Lancer waved her through without meeting her eye. Normally she would have exchanged a few pleasantries – they had once talked for five solid minutes about the weather – but for now she could not bring herself to speak to him.
She waited for longer than usual outside Frank Bruno House, constantly pressing the buzzer and eventually banging on the front door. A female care worker she had never seen before, who was pushing an old lady in a wheelchair, opened the door and said, in an accent the Queen thought might be Polish, ‘What is it you are wanting?’
The Queen put her foot in the door and said, ‘I’m here to visit my husband, Mr Windsor, on the top floor.’ She took out her identity card; the woman glanced at it and allowed the Queen to step inside.
The smell hit the Queen like a blow. The air felt heavy with invisible, malodorous substances. The woman in the wheelchair turned her yellow face towards the Queen and said, ‘Your Majesty, they’re killing me.’
The Queen hurried towards the lift, but the care worker shouted, ‘The lift, it is broken.’
As the Queen climbed the stairs, pausing every now and again to catch her breath, she heard the distressing sounds of her contemporaries, those she had once called her subjects, crying out in bewilderment and fear. She also heard a younger, harsher voice shouting instructions to somebody who had displeased them.
When she walked into her husband’s room she found Harold Bunion trying to reach Prince Philip’s mouth with a dessertspoon full of yogurt. Because of the barrier the wheelchair presented, he could not get close enough to spoon the yogurt into Philip’s mouth. When Bunion saw the Queen, he said, ‘Thank God you’ve come.’
The Queen was alarmed when she looked at her husband. In the six days since she’d last seen him, he appeared to have shrunk to half his former size. She hardly recognized the little old man who was lying with his head on the grubby pillow.
