Queen Camilla

by Sue Townsend

  Charles tried to head him off by asking, ‘Do you have a garden, Graham?’

  ‘Yes, it’s mainly laid to lawn, but I’ve got a few rows of salvia and daffs. In the spring, of course. I don’t like tulips. You can’t rely on them to stay upright in the vase, can you?’

  ‘Er… no, indeed, er… tulips are terribly… spontaneous in their habits.’

  ‘Do you ride?’ asked Camilla.

  ‘Not on horses, no,’ said Graham, somehow giving the impression that he didn’t care to ride horses, but that he was often to be found mounted on camels or llamas, even elephants.

  ‘Are you interested in art at all? Painting… er… that sort of thing.’

  Graham said, ‘I don’t like modern art, I think it’s a con, chimpanzees could do better. In fact, Michael Jackson’s chimp friend, Bubbles, has done some quite passable watercolours. His last exhibition sold out completely, within an hour.’

  Charles, a watercolourist himself (as was Camilla), was rather peeved and a little jealous of the chimp’s success. Charles had exhibited at the One-Stop Centre recently, a rather fine series of watery ‘impressions’ of Hell Close. Only one had been sold, to the Queen.

  When they retired a few steps to the other end of the room for coffee, the subject of Graham’s birth and adoption had still not been broached. A great deal of dog patting went on. Leo, Tosca and Freddie were surprised at the extra attention they were receiving. Freddie took advantage of this to perform his trick of chasing his own tail.

  Graham’s laugh was not a pleasant sound. When Freddie, wildly spinning, banged into the coffee table and knocked a glass of wine over, he was ordered to stop by Camilla, and silence fell between the three people in the room. Each of them wished that they were somewhere else. Eventually Graham went to bed, taking with him his inhaler and what he called a ‘book’: a subscription magazine called TW Monthly. It had transpired during the evening that Graham was an aficionado of the game of tiddlywinks and played to competition standard.

  Charles whispered to Camilla when they were in bed together and conscious of the proximity of their son sleeping in the next room, ‘I suppose tiddlywinks needs a great deal of manual dexterity. I mean to say, one would have to have exceedingly strong thumbs.’

  Camilla held her thumbs up in the dark and said, ‘I’ve always had strong thumbs. I used to be able to crack a walnut between my thumb and index finger.’

  ‘He gets it from you then, darling,’ Charles said.

  Neither of them had said that they were disheartened by meeting their son Graham, but damp and dismal disappointment seemed to have leaked into the room and lay over everything like a wet fog.

  Just before she went to sleep, Camilla said, ‘To be Tiddlywinks Champion of Ruislip three years running is pretty good, isn’t it?’ It was a genuine question.

  Charles said, ‘It’s a splendid achievement, darling.’

  Camilla whispered, ‘I’m not sure I can love Graham.’

  Charles grimaced; this was exactly his sentiment. ‘Perhaps when we get to know him better…’ he said.

  ‘But the tulips,’ Camilla hissed, ‘and those shoes.’

  Charles said, ‘Something could be done about his appearance – a good tailor, a decent barber.’

  ‘But he isn’t very… nice,’ said Camilla.

  ‘No,’ agreed Charles, ‘but we must make allowances for him.’

  ‘But he doesn’t like dogs, darling,’ said Camilla.

  ‘Not everybody does,’ whispered Charles.

  ‘But our sort of people do,’ she said, turning towards him in the dark.

  ‘Then we must make Graham into our sort of person,’ said Charles.

  They kissed, and turned away from each other. It was unsaid, but understood between them, that there would be no physical intimacy while Graham was under their roof.

  37

  When Camilla went downstairs the next morning to make tea, she found Graham, fully dressed, sitting up-right on the sofa tapping into his laptop. She pulled her dressing gown together and tied the belt; she did not want Graham to see her ‘Everything A Pound’ shop nightshirt with its picture of the Hulk on the front.

  ‘Graham,’ she said, ‘you’re up early.’

  ‘Early?’ said Graham, censoriously. ‘Half the morning’s gone.’

  Camilla glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it was 7.50 a.m. ‘You must think me quite a slugabed.’

  Graham said, ‘At your age you need more sleep, I suppose.’

  As Camilla filled the kettle she thought, he is utterly charmless. The three dogs clustered around her as she made the tea. They seemed to be reluctant to be left alone in the sitting room with Graham.

  As she was about to go upstairs with Charles’s tea, Graham said, ‘I’d advise you not to wear those King Kong slippers on the stairs. Certainly not with a cup of hot liquid in your hands, and with your hair in your eyes.’

  Camilla said, ‘You’re probably right,’ and extracted her feet from the gorilla slippers before climbing the stairs.

  On hearing that Graham had been up for hours, Charles quickly washed, shaved and dressed. He chose, Camilla noticed, smarter, more conservative clothes than usual.

  ‘You’re rather formal today,’ she said, noticing that the suit he was wearing smelt rather fusty.

  Charles said, ‘I have to tell Mummy about Graham today, darling. I think a suit reflects the, er… gravity of the situation.’

  Camilla said, ‘Darling, can’t we get to know Graham a little better before we inflict him on the family?’

  ‘Inflict?’ questioned Charles. ‘He is our son!’

  Camilla said, ‘He inferred I was lazy, more or less said I was old, and made me take my lovely warm slippers off.’

  Charles remembered the enlightening conversations he had enjoyed with Laurens Van der Post, in which his mentor had explained that separation from the mother can be the cause of aggression in adult life.

  He said, ‘He’s almost certainly hurting dreadfully inside, Camilla. We must nurture him, surround him with love and security.’

  Camilla said, ‘Before or after we tell your mother, The Queen of England, that she has a bastard grandson who is second in line to the throne?’

  When Charles went downstairs he found Graham in the living room, staring out of the window at the bird table. A pair of blue tits were hanging upside down pecking at the white flesh of the suspended half coconut.

  Charles whispered to Graham, ‘Aren’t they delightful little birds? I’m absolutely thrilled to see them using my bird thingy.’

  Graham said, ‘It’s a pity it will have to come down.’

  Charles’s forehead creased. ‘Come down?’ he said.

  ‘I was out there at six o’clock this morning,’ said Graham. ‘It’s a highly unstable structure. I’m surprised you got planning permission.’

  Charles said, ‘I didn’t get planning permission because I didn’t apply for it. It’s only a bird table.’

  Graham said, ‘It might be “only a bird table” to you, but to me it’s a dangerous structure that could kill or maim a small child or a vulnerable adult.’

  Charles said, ‘I know it’s your job to assess risks, Graham, but couldn’t you turn a blind eye?’

  Graham said, ‘Please don’t ask me to compromise my professional integrity. I’ll help you to take it down.’

  Graham thought that dismantling the bird table would help him and his father to bond. He had been aware of a certain coldness emanating from his mother earlier that morning. He knew it was nothing he had done or said. Perhaps, he thought, she was going through ‘the change of life’. His adoptive mother had metamorphosed from a placid, homely woman into a shrieking diva during her change.

  Graham said, ‘And avian flu is on the way. This is not the time to encourage birds, is it?’

  Charles looked around the living room, trying to see it through Graham’s eyes. Suddenly the most harmless of things seemed to present an ominous danger:
the little crystal chandelier could fall from its ceiling mounting, somebody could trip over the holes in the threadbare Aubusson carpet. If the radio overheated it could explode and cause an inferno.

  To deflect Graham’s attention from the bird table, Charles said, ‘I would like to introduce you to my mother and the rest of the family today.’

  ‘I’m a bit nervous about meeting the Queen,’ admitted Graham.

  Charles said, ‘We’ll have breakfast and then I’ll take you round.’

  The dogs ran into the kitchen and stood eagerly by their feeding bowls. They were usually fed half a bowl of dried dog food each. But this morning they were treated to Pedigree Chum. Camilla put half a tin into each bowl, saying, ‘You have Her Majesty the Queen to thank for this.’

  The dogs gobbled it down greedily, and then waited for more. When Camilla made no move to refill the bowls, Freddie barked, ‘Is that it? Is that all we’re getting? What about a Bonio?’

  Leo whimpered, ‘I’m twice the size of them. I’m a growing dog, I need two Bonios.’

  After throwing each dog a Bonio, Camilla picked the bowls up from the floor, rinsed them under the tap and stacked them on the draining board, signifying that the dogs’ breakfast was over. The dogs lay together under the table, hoping that a few crumbs would drop from Graham’s plate; they had noticed that he was a messy eater.

  After a while, Freddie growled, ‘This is demeaning. We’re totally dependent on human beings for all our needs.’

  Tosca moved closer to Leo and whimpered, ‘We’re still in control of our sex lives.’

  Leo licked a sticky patch on Tosca’s ear and whimpered back, ‘And how could we feed ourselves, Freddie? We haven’t got fingers. We can’t open the tins.’

  Freddie snarled, ‘There was a time when we dogs killed our own food.’ Then, unable to resist, he gave a tiny nip to the exposed patch of flesh between Graham’s sock and trouser leg. ‘Tasty!’ said Freddie, before Graham kicked him under the table.

  When the telephone rang Harris and Susan ran into the living room and heard the Queen say, ‘Good morning, Charles… I’m quite well, thank you… Yes, Harris is back to his usual self… No, I am not especially busy this morning, but I’m going to see your father this afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to come with me… Can’t you tell me on the telephone?’

  Harris said to Susan, ‘Charles is coming round. I hope he brings his dogs, I’m in the mood for a scrap.’

  Susan growled, ‘Don’t overdo it. You’re still convalescing.’

  The Queen said, ‘Come at ten, and I’ll make coffee. Will Camilla be with you?… I’m dreadfully sorry, Charles. I’d quite forgotten that Camilla is still under house arrest… So how many cups shall I put out… three?’

  When she’d put the phone down, she said to Harris and Susan, ‘Charles is bringing a visitor to see us, so I want you two to be on your best behaviour. No barking, no biting, no fighting.’

  *

  It was some time before the Queen could take in the full import of what Charles was saying. She had thought he was talking gibberish as he told her a faltering tale about Camilla, Zurich, cuckoo clocks, adoptive parents, and a boy called Rory, who then seemed to have turned into Graham, the young man who was standing in her living room, biting the fingernails of one hand while jiggling the change in his shapeless grey trouser pocket with the other.

  The Queen said, ‘Charles, please take a deep breath and repeat very slowly what you have just told me.’

  Charles said, ‘I’ll, er… try to… take a run at the fence from a different direction. Er… this young man is my eldest son, Graham. His mother is Camilla, my wife. He was born in Zurich, in 1965. Until recently I knew nothing of his existence.’

  The Queen gave Graham a full appraising look, taking in the details of his physical appearance. The ears belonged to Charles, as did the jaw, the hairline and the hands. He had Camilla’s nose, eyes and posture. Graham was a perfect amalgam of Charles and Camilla’s genes. The Queen did not need to see the DNA certificate or the solicitor’s papers that Charles was waving in front of her.

  She said, ‘Why did Camilla not tell you about the existence of this child?’

  Charles hesitated; he did not want to hurt Graham’s feelings, but how else was he to explain Camilla’s oversight?

  He twisted and turned his neck inside his shirt collar, ‘Look Mummy, she simply wiped it out of her mind. You know how delightfully scatty she can be.’

  The Queen saw Graham flinch, as though a flying insect had stung him. She felt a little pity for him.

  She said to Charles, ‘I know Camilla is absent-minded at times, and that you think it is a charming characteristic of hers, but she is not suffering from amnesia, is she? Does she remember the name of her first husband? The names of the children she had by him? The first gymkhana she won? Her favourite alcoholic drink? I expect so. Do you not find it strange that she apparently forgot about the birth of her first baby.’

  Harris barked, ‘Not a common or garden baby, either, but the second in line to the throne.’

  The Queen shouted, angrily, ‘Oh do be quiet, Harris!’

  Harris barked back, ‘There’s no need to take it out on me.’

  Susan barked, ‘It’s Charles you want to shout at.’

  The Queen shouted at both dogs, ‘Continue barking, and you’ll go outside!’

  Charles said, ‘I’m equally baffled, Mummy. But Camilla has, I think, a sort of filter in her brain that, er… prevents any negativity or unpleasantness getting through and hurting her.’

  The Queen said tersely, ‘More of your Van der Post nonsense. Go into the kitchen and make the coffee, you’ll find everything on the tray!’

  When Charles had gone, she turned to Graham and said, more gently, ‘So, you’re my eldest grandson, Mr Cracknall?’

  Graham said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ His voice was remarkably like Charles’s, thought the Queen. His pronunciation was good, without a trace of a regional accent.

  The Queen continued, ‘Please, do sit down,’ and indicated the fireside chair opposite her own. ‘I’d be most interested to hear your story.’

  As Graham spoke, he grew less intimidated by the Queen’s presence, and after giving her his basic biographical details he talked about his pastimes and hobbies. The Queen was interested to note that he had once collected New Zealand postage stamps; philately was something they had in common, she told him.

  When Charles came in with the coffee tray the Queen was asking Graham, ‘Have you met your half-brothers yet, or your aunts and uncles?’

  Charles said, ‘Of course he hasn’t, Mummy. You are the head of the family and you had to be told first.’

  The Queen said, ‘Does anybody else know?’

  Charles said, ‘Only Fatty Soames, but I swore him to secrecy.’

  ‘Fatty Soames?’ laughed the Queen. ‘You may as well have contracted the Red Arrows to write of Graham’s existence in the sky over London.’

  Graham said, ‘Why do we have to keep my existence a secret? I’m very proud to be a member of the Royal Family. I always knew that I was a cuckoo in the Ruislip nest. I never fitted in with the other boys at school.’

  ‘And nor did I,’ said Charles. ‘They were beastly to me.’

  Graham said, ‘Without wishing to disrespect the dead, I have to confess that I always felt that my adoptive parents were a little common. It used to pain me that they would have a milk bottle on the table at breakfast.’

  He glanced at the coffee tray with its matching cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug, silver apostle spoons and sugar tongs. He approved of the way that the shortcake biscuits had been arranged in a fan shape on the plate.

  He said, with growing confidence, ‘I used to wash my face and brush my hair before sitting down to watch the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day, Your Majesty.’

  ‘How very nice,’ murmured the Queen.

  She bent down to stroke Harris, who growled, ‘Mr Goody Fucking Two Shoes.’


  The Queen said, ‘Do I understand that you work for a living, Mr Cracknall?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Graham, apologetically. ‘My adoptive parents thought that a career in health and safety would be… well… safe.’

  ‘Graham is hiding his light under a bushel,’ said Charles. ‘He’s a world-class tiddlywinks player.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ said the Queen. She added, ‘The Duke of Edinburgh had a passion for tiddly-winks; I believe he was a member of the Tiddlywinks Federation.’

  Over coffee it was arranged that the other members of the Royal Family would meet Graham later that evening at Charles and Camilla’s house, and that they would all be sworn to secrecy.

  Dwayne Lockhart, sitting in the dark of the surveillance room, smiled to himself, ‘Ah, bless. Haven’t they realized yet? There is no secrecy.’

  The Queen said, ‘As you must be aware, Mr Crac-knall, there is to be a general election in less than five weeks. If the New Cons win, they have pledged in their manifesto that the Royal Family, which now includes you, will be reinstated. Not all the electorate will approve of the fact that you were born out of wedlock, and that your existence has been hidden from them. There may be a backlash that will result in us staying here for many more years.’ She picked up Harris and, using him as a buffer against the world, said, ‘I do not want to die in Hell Close, Mr Cracknall.’

  Dwayne switched screens and watched Paris Butterworth ironing for half an hour. She did nothing interesting, but Dwayne didn’t mind, he loved her.

  38

  Boy English had been informed of Graham’s existence by the editor of The Oldie, who in turn had been told by a disgruntled Polish plumber who had worked on a blocked toilet in Sir Nicholas Soames’s London house. Boy immediately accessed www.hardtopleeze.co.uk and found Graham’s video. As he watched, Boy saw his election victory running away, like storm water down a drain.

  At the daily election-planning meeting he watched the video again. This time with his advisers, although he did not tell them about Graham’s parentage. In the discussion that followed, the advisers were almost united in their condemnation of Graham’s appearance and manner. The sole dissenter was a darkly attractive young woman with a geometric haircut, called Miranda, who said, ‘I think he’s kind of sexy. I go for that nerd look.’