Queen Camilla

by Sue Townsend

  Althorp dropped to all four paws and slunk out to the kitchen, muttering, ‘First I’m humiliated, and then I’m patronized.’

  William had half hoped that Graham would be out somewhere. But Graham was well and truly in, sitting at the kitchen table with Charles and Camilla, teaching them the finer rules of tiddlywinks. Graham was about to tiddle a wink when he looked up and saw Chantelle Toby standing in the doorway in a shaft of sunlight, looking incandescently beautiful in a white shirt, wide leather belt and blue jeans.

  She gave him a lip-glossed smile in greeting and said, ‘You must be Graham.’

  Charles got to his feet and said, ‘Graham, this is Chantelle Toby. She looks after your, er… grandfather at Frank Bruno House.’

  Chantelle said, ‘Tiddlywinks! I used to play with our granddad. ’E’d give me a Nuttalls Minto every time I got one in the cup.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Graham. ‘Would you like to play?’

  Chantelle sat down on the only vacant chair, and William leaned against the sink and watched while Graham and Chantelle played as a team against Charles and Camilla. He noticed that Chantelle was flicking her hair more than usual, and throwing her head back, laughing, showing her perfect teeth.

  Althorp, who had accompanied them, having nothing better to do, said to Leo, ‘Doesn’t it make you sick, how humans have to go through a whole lot of malarkey just to get themselves a shag?’

  Leo said, ‘You’ve got a dirty mouth on you, Althorp.’

  Freddie growled, ‘I’m with Althorp on that. Dogs don’t waste time messing about. It’s a quick sniff, and Bob’s your uncle.’

  Tosca said, ‘Leo is a romantic, aren’t you, pet?’

  Leo said, ‘Bitches appreciate a bit of respect, a few compliments. Wise up, Freddie, you’re living in the past.’

  Freddie bared his teeth at Leo and growled from the back of his throat.

  Tosca yapped, ‘Don’t start, Freddie.’

  Althorp took Freddie’s side and the two dogs rushed at Leo, snarling and swearing. Tosca ran and hid behind Camilla’s legs. Charles picked up Freddie and hurled him into the back garden, saying, ‘Bad dog, Freddie!’

  When the kitchen door had been slammed shut, Freddie walked down the garden path and urinated against the last remaining winter cabbages.

  After Chantelle and Graham had beaten Charles and Camilla three times in a row, the tiddlywinks were put away and the table was set for lunch, to which Chantelle and William were invited.

  Camilla said, ‘Why don’t you young people get to know each other, while Charles and I prepare some lunch?’

  William said, ‘Young! Isn’t Graham over forty? Is that what’s considered young these days?’

  Camilla said, ‘Forty is the new thirty. We’re all living longer now. Think of your great-granny, she was a hundred and one when she died.’

  Graham said, ‘I cried for five minutes when I heard she’d finally gone. I felt a sense of kinship with her.’

  Chantelle said sweetly, ‘You take after her a bit, Graham. She had a moustache just like yours.’

  Graham stroked his moustache proudly.

  When the younger people had gone into the living room, Charles said to Camilla, ‘What shall we give them? There’s hardly anything in the pantry, and we seem to have spent all our money.’

  Camilla said, ‘Leave me to it. You go and talk to the kids.’

  She surveyed the few ingredients: there was curry paste, paprika, a little vegetable rice, and the ubiquitous root vegetables from the garden. There was no meat, cheese, fish or eggs. However, there was stacks of Pedigree Chum, and several boxes of Bonios.

  She said to the dogs, ‘You’re extremely well catered for, aren’t you, darlings?’

  William had no desire to ‘get to know’ Graham. He flung himself into a corner of the sofa and studied the various calluses on his hands. Graham was holding court: talking about his job, making it sound as though he was James Bond, or something, thought William. In the scaffolding trade, health and safety inspectors were the enemy. Grice considered them to be the scum of the earth.

  Chantelle’s eyes were shining. ‘I’m in a caring profession,’ she said. ‘I’m a nurse.’

  ‘No, Chantelle,’ said William. ‘You’re a care worker. You’re not trained, are you? You’re on the poxy minimum wage.’

  Chantelle was hurt, her luscious lower lip trembled. Why was William showing her up in front of his half-brother?

  Charles said, ‘Wills, darling, Chantelle does a simply wonderful job, caring for Grandpa.’

  Graham buried his face in his hands. He remembered how kind the nurse had been to him when he sat by his adoptive mother’s bed as she lay dying from the terrible wounds that the lawnmower had inflicted on her.

  Noticing Graham’s reaction, Chantelle asked, ‘What’s up?’

  Graham said huskily, ‘I told them to have that mower serviced professionally.’

  When Camilla called them in to eat, they trooped into the kitchen to find a delicious casserole dish of rich-looking beef curry, a pile of steaming rice and dishes of spicy vegetable croutons. As Charles sat down, he murmured, ‘Camilla, darling, you are an absolute wizard. However did you do it?’

  A red-eyed Graham sniffed that he did not like curry, but would give it a try. As they forked the fiery chunks of red meat into their mouths, Camilla watched anxiously.

  Charles said, ‘It’s simply delicious, darling,’ then went into an anecdote about a visit he’d made to Delhi.

  William remembered the photograph of his mother sitting alone in front of the Taj Mahal. To his horror, his eyes filled with tears. He blamed them on the curry, but he left as soon as decency allowed. Chantelle stayed and helped Graham with the washing-up.

  When they were alone in the kitchen, Graham said, ‘Can you keep a secret, Chantelle?’

  Chantelle had once caused endless trouble when she had inadvertently blurted out the secret that Beverley Threadgold’s name, before she changed it by deed poll, was Edna Onions. She said, ‘Don’t tell me nothing secret, Gray. It’ll be all round the estate before you can say diddly squat.’

  But Graham was longing to tell somebody outside the family about his royal parentage.

  He said, ‘You might think I’m just a normal chap with an ordinary tea-towel in a nondescript kitchen in a boring region in—’

  Chantelle was a patient girl, but even she was growing slightly irritated. ‘Yeah?’ she prompted.

  ‘Well, I’m not an ordinary chap,’ said Graham, ‘I’m royalty. I’m second in line to the throne.’

  Chantelle scraped at the burnt bottom of the curry pot with the end of a sharp knife and said, ‘Yeah, I know. William told me.’

  Graham was outraged. ‘I was sworn to secrecy,’ he said.

  Chantelle laughed, ‘Don’t get your pants up your crack. There’s no such thing as a secret no more. Secrets was something they ’ad in the olden days.’

  Graham took the sharp knife out of her hand, rinsed it, dried it and placed it carefully in the cutlery drawer. They continued washing and drying the pots in a companionable silence.

  Arthur Grice was at his tailor’s in Melton Mowbray, being fitted for a top hat and morning suit. He was standing in his Y-fronts, having his inside leg measured, when he received a call on his mobile from the acting head teacher at the Arthur Grice Academy, a Mr Lowood.

  The teaching staff were threatening to resign en masse in support of the religious studies mistress, who had got into an argument with Chanel Toby about creationism.

  Arthur shouted down the phone, ‘What the fuck’s creationism when it’s at ’ome?’

  Mr Lowood replied, ‘It’s the concept that God created the universe, and everything in it, in seven days. Well, six actually; he rested on the seventh.’

  ‘I ain’t surprised,’ said Arthur. ‘Anybody would be shagged out after workin’ that ’ard. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘Chanel Toby questioned the theory and argued for Darwinism,
stating quite aggressively that we’re descended from the apes. I’m afraid things turned physical.’

  Arthur, who had more than a touch of the simian about him, thought about his coming investiture and the Queen’s apparent affection for Chanel Toby. He couldn’t afford to rock the boat.

  He said, ‘The kid ’as a point. I mean it’s a lot to do, ain’t it, in six days. Create every bleedin’ flower, tree, plant, seaweed, animal, bird and fish. Not to mention light and dark. I mean it beggars belief really, don’t it?’

  The acting head said, tentatively, ‘But you insisted that the children be taught the Bible, Mr Grice. It’s part of the curriculum, Bible studies, three times a week.’

  Arthur pushed the tape measure out of his groin and said to the tailor, ‘You’re enjoying yourself a bit too much down there for my likin’, nancy boy.’ He said into the phone, ‘I’ll be there in ’alf an hour.’

  On the drive back to the Flowers Exclusion Zone, Arthur talked about God. ‘Me an’ God ’ave a lot in common,’ he told Rocky. The Flowers Exclusion Zone was Arthur’s world and he was undoubtedly the supreme ruler, and like God, he had come from nowhere, and both of them had been forced to bang a few heads together on the way. God was always smiting some awkward bleeder who wouldn’t play by the rules.

  ‘He was a hard bastard,’ Arthur said to Rocky. ‘He watched his kid die on the cross and wouldn’t let ’im down.’ Arthur’s hands sweated on the steering wheel; he had always had a thing about the crucifixion.

  When he arrived at the academy he was greeted by Mr Lowood and taken to the staffroom to hear the staff’s grievances, which were not only about Chanel Toby and her ‘challenging behaviour’. They earned less than teachers in non-academy schools, they paid for their own pensions, they worked longer hours, the children were impossible to teach…

  Arthur surveyed the sullen gathering and said, ‘My teachers said I was educationally subnormal. Well, I ain’t the best scholar in the world,’ he added ingenuously, ‘but I’ve proved ’em wrong, ain’t I? I’m joinin’ the ’igher echelons. Next week this school will be called the Sir Arthur Grice Academy. So who knows what Chanel Toby will achieve in ’er life? Give the kid a chance, eh?’

  Then, with Lowood following, Arthur went to his office upstairs, where they met Chanel Toby and Mrs Whitehead, the head of religious affairs, an anxious-looking woman with an overactive thyroid. Arthur was now the great conciliator. Though he thought, looking at Chanel’s sulky expression, there’s a face that needs a good slapping.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s hear what Mrs Whitehead ’as to say.’

  Mrs Whitehead said, ‘The lesson was progressing satisfactorily. I’d asked the children to draw Adam’s ribs, from which Eve was made, when Chanel Toby asked why we were, and I quote, “having to do ribs again, when we’ve already done ’em in biology”. I explained that God had made Eve out of one of Adam’s ribs and Chanel said, “As if!” in a very unpleasant tone. This led to a certain amount of repartee among Chanel’s classmates, some of it explicitly sexual, about the reason God felt the need to create a woman at all. I managed to divert the discussion along more theological lines, and then Chanel Toby shouted out, “I know why God created woman! It was to tell Adam he was wearing the wrong shoes.”

  ‘I regret to say there was laughter, and I asked her to leave the classroom. She refused, saying that she was being persecuted for her religious beliefs, and that she would sooner be burnt at the stake than retract her views.’

  Lowood said, anxiously, ‘For the record, Mrs Whitehead, can I take it that at no time did you threaten Chanel Toby with burning at the stake?’

  ‘At no time,’ said Mrs Whitehead indignantly.

  Arthur cooed genially, ‘Do you want to say anything, Chanel dear?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Chanel. ‘I think I’ll take your advice and leave school.’

  ‘And what will you do?’ asked Arthur, paternally.

  ‘I’ll marry Prince Harry,’ she said. ‘I might as well; I could be ’aving ’is baby. We didn’t use a condom because ’e said it would be like eating a sweet with the wrapper on.’

  Princess Michael woke with a new sense of purpose on the morning of Sandra Grice’s first lesson in social advancement. However, Sandra was an unwilling pupil. She resented Arthur’s implication that she was not a lady.

  ‘It’s not as if ’e’s a gentleman ’imself,’ she said to Princess Michael when they were sitting in the Princess’s overfurnished sitting room.

  ‘And what is your idea of a gentleman?’ asked Princess Michael.

  ‘It’s somebody who holds your hair back when you’re being sick,’ said Sandra. ‘Arthur’s never done that!’

  They started with a discussion about clothing for Arthur’s investiture.

  ‘Tell me whose style you admire,’ said Princess Michael, her pen poised over a notebook.

  ‘Dolly Parton, Jordan, Jodie Marsh,’ said Sandra. ‘I like sexy clothes with a touch of class about ’em.’

  Princess Michael asked, ‘Your favourite outfit?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Sandra. ‘It’s my red leather catsuit with white fringing, worn with white cowboy boots and a rhinestone Stetson.’

  Princess Michael closed her eyes briefly. The outfit as described caused her real pain.

  She said, ‘From now on, your colours will be only beige, grey, black or white. The only fabrics allowed are cashmere, wool, silk or linen. Hems will touch the knee. Jewellery will be pearls and/or diamonds, nothing else.’

  She examined Sandra’s hair, which was white-blonde and long, piled up on top of her head, looking like several Mr Whippy ice creams, minus their cornets. Princess Michael unfastened Sandra’s hair from its pins and combs and twisted it into an elegant chignon.

  Sandra said, looking in the sitting-room mirror, ‘I look like one of those women what collects cats.’

  ‘No, you look très elegant,’ said Princess Michael, who was excited by her new career as a stylist and life coach. With her royal connections she could end up editing Harpers & Queen, perhaps British Vogue, one day.

  She persuaded Sandra to go up to the bedroom and try on a beige silk suit.

  Sandra stood in front of the cheval mirror.

  Princess Michael said, ‘No, you still look common. It’s these enormous breasts of yours.’

  Sandra said, ‘I look common, because I am common.’

  She climbed out of the beige suit and handed it back to Princess Michael. Beverley Threadgold, who was looking out of her front bedroom windows and wondering why Sandra Grice’s car was parked outside Princess Michael’s house, was agog when she saw Sandra ‘flaunting herself’ in a leopard-skin bra and matching thong in Princess Michael’s bedroom. Also enjoying the show was Inspector Lancer who, after Sandra had roared off in her car, had entered ‘active lesbian’ in Sandra’s file.

  42

  Chanel told both of the grandmothers that she was pregnant before she told Harry. Violet and the Queen were watching Emmerdale in the Queen’s living room when Chanel walked in after knocking on the back door and shouting, ‘It’s only me.’

  The two women moved their eyes away from the screen reluctantly. They had been about to discover who in the village had been stealing tractor wheels.

  ‘I’ve got sommat to tell you both,’ said Chanel.

  ‘You’ve been chucked out of school again,’ said Violet resignedly.

  ‘No, I think I’m pregnant!’ said Chanel excitedly.

  ‘Oh, my duck!’ said Violet. ‘That’s smashin’!’

  The Queen was amazed that pregnancy was always a cause for celebration in Hell Close, however young the girl or however unsuitable the father of the child might be.

  ‘Do I know the father?’ asked Violet.

  ‘You both know the father,’ said Chanel. ‘It’s ’Arry.’

  ‘Ari?’ questioned the Queen. As far as she knew, she was not acquainted with a Greek person called Ari.

  ‘Harry!’ said C
hanel, making a great effort to sound the aspirant.

  ‘What, the Queen’s ’Arry?’ said Violet delightedly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Chanel. ‘I know it’s ’Arry’s cos I ’aven’t bin with nobody else.’

  ‘Come and give your grandma a kiss, you little beauty,’ said Violet, staggering to her feet.

  The Queen rose from her armchair and waited until Violet released Chanel from a tight embrace. She kissed Chanel on both cheeks and said, ‘It’s time we had some new blood. Congratulations, Chanel dear.’

  When Chanel had gone to break the news to the father and the rest of the family, Violet said, ‘We’re related now, Liz. It’s the Tobys and the Windsors, eh?’

  They waited until the Emmerdale tractor-tyre thief had been unmasked – a drug fiend, newly arrived from the city, who was swapping tyres for crack cocaine – then they put on their coats, checked that they had their registration cards, and headed to Frank Bruno House to tell Prince Philip that he was about to become a great-grandfather.

  He couldn’t grasp that Harry and Chanel Toby were expecting a baby. He kept referring to the time he had shot a baby elephant while on safari in Africa.

  Violet shouted, trying to cheer him up, ‘We’re related now, Phil! Ain’t it lovely?’

  The Queen said, ‘Oh, my poor darling, you look so unhappy.’

  ‘I miss the dressing-up,’ he said bleakly. ‘I miss my medals and my gold braid. Where are my lovely uniforms, Lilibet?’

  The Queen said, ‘Hush, darling, you’ll wake Mr Bunion.’

  Bunion was noisily asleep in his wheelchair. His snoring was awfully irritating, thought the Queen, but infinitely preferable to him waking up and starting one of his interminable anecdotes about the wildcat strikes he had led in the 1970s.

  On the way home the two old ladies talked about Harry and Chanel’s wedding. There would have to be a wedding.

  When Sandra got home from Princess Michael’s, she found Arthur staring morbidly at the accumulated rubbish in the stream under the glass floor.

  ‘Look, there’s a bleedin’ dead rat down there now,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on to Rentokil, but they reckon they ain’t got frogmen on the staff.’