Queen Camilla

by Sue Townsend

  In the morning, Gin awoke to a terrible silence. There was no sound of Graham preparing for work, no sound of Tonic’s asthmatic breathing. There was only the slow drip of water hitting the sink.

  52

  Jack Barker was reading the early editions of the newspapers in bed; it was still dark outside. He laughed quietly to himself when he saw the front page of the Sun. The huge black headline read:

  GOD COULD BE DOG CLAIMS TOP CLERIC

  See page three

  Jack turned to page three, and after glancing at a photograph of a bare-breasted adolescent, a Ms Candy Barre from Ludlow, he read:

  The Archbishop of Canterbury shocked fellow clerics today when he announced from the pulpit, ‘God was almost certainly not a man or even a woman, but could be a dog.’

  The bearded, sandal-wearing, holy man who is head honcho of the Church of England, made his shock claim at a service to celebrate the bravery of animals in both world wars.

  After congratulating pigeons, who carried messages from the front line, and horses, who pulled the heavy artillery, he lavished most of his praise on dogs, who, as well as showing bravery in many capacities, were vital in keeping up the country’s morale and providing comfort to the bereaved.

  The lentil-eating cleric shocked worshippers by suggesting that God could be manifested in the form of a dog.

  When he said, ‘After all, God is only dog spelt backwards,’ a member of the congregation stormed towards the pulpit, shouting, ‘How dare you use that tired old cliché in God’s house!’

  The agitator was wrestled down the aisle by Cathedral Security Staff and was later arrested and charged with ‘causing upset in a public place’.

  Jack studied Candy Barre’s pneumatic breasts more closely, and was interested to read that she enjoyed water sports.

  The ‘God could be dog’ piece was featured in every newspaper. The Peter Simple column in the Daily Telegraph was of the opinion that God was probably a St Bernard. Whereas a columnist in the Guardian suggested that God was almost certainly a bitch. The cartoon on the front of The Times showed a golden Labrador sitting on a cloud, looking down to earth. Jack didn’t laugh; the archbishop was obviously trying to subvert the dog terror laws. Jack thought, who will rid me of this pesky priest?

  Now that did make him laugh.

  Lawrence Krill was delighted when The Bastard King of England, as the attendants called him, was introduced to King George III ward. He wasted no time in informing Graham that he, Lawrence Krill, had in his possession the lost English crown.

  Graham sat on his bed muttering, ‘I am the future King of England,’ to himself.

  A kind nurse gave Graham his medication, which he swallowed obediently.

  ‘Of course, you’re the future King of England,’ she said soothingly. In her experience it was better to agree with the poor souls.

  Lawrence Krill rummaged in his bedside locker and brought out a cardboard crown he had made in occupational therapy. Lawrence had decorated it with stuck-on jewels made from the cellophane wrappers of Quality Street toffees. It wasn’t the coronation that he had expected, but as Krill lifted the crown and placed it on Graham’s head, he could not help but feel that he was a man apart. A purple toffee wrapper dislodged itself from the crown and floated to the floor. Sunlight shone through the barred windows on to King Graham and his only loyal subject.

  The little copse of trees on the green in the centre of Hell Close had been cut down in the middle of the night. Camilla had thought she’d heard a chainsaw, but being in that state between dreaming and wakefulness had, after a few minutes, gone back to sleep. As soon as she drew open the bedroom curtains in the morning, she noticed that the trees were gone, leaving only pale ground-level stumps as a reminder. Without the softening trees, Hell Close looked bleak and raw. The dogs of Hell Close were sitting together in the spaces between the stumps. They look as though they’re having a meeting, thought Camilla.

  Charles came out of the bathroom and was alarmed to see Camilla crying at the window.

  ‘The trees have gone,’ she sniffed.

  Charles looked out and said, ‘What an unspeakable act of vandalism.’

  He dressed quickly and went out on to the green. The assembled dogs watched as he kicked at the stumps.

  William came to join him and said, ‘When I’m king, I’ll come back and plant a hundred English oaks here.’

  Charles patted his son’s shoulder and said, ‘There isn’t room for a hundred English oaks, darling. A mature oak has a tremendous span.’

  William’s patriotic fervour deflated, he said glumly, ‘Whatever,’ and bent down to stroke Althorp. ‘C’mon boy,’ he said, ‘time for your breakfast.’

  Charles was mystified as to why William said goodbye so brusquely. He put it down to lack of sleep; the lights in William and Harry’s house were often blazing at three o’clock in the morning.

  The remaining dogs drifted to their homes despondently. The trees had been their message posts and had provided shade in the summer; some of the dogs had enjoyed chasing the floating autumn leaves and forcing cats to climb to the upper branches.

  During the rest of the morning, little knots of residents stood on the green, looking at the space where the trees had been. Only Maddo Clarke’s boys were happy to see level, uncluttered ground. Four of them took their ragged jumpers off for goalposts and began to play football.

  The Queen told Prince Philip about the trees when she visited him at Frank Bruno House. He made no sign that he had understood her, but Harold Bunion agreed with her that it was a crying shame. She asked Bunion if he had noticed any improvement in staffing levels.

  He said, ‘A lot of hoodlums have been set on to feed them that can’t feed themselves.’

  ‘Hoodlums?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Well, teenagers,’ said Bunion. ‘Same thing, in’t it?’

  The Queen busied herself sorting her husband’s laundry and tidying his bedside locker. At lunchtime a youth wearing the Sir Arthur Grice Academy uniform brought a tray of food into the room and plonked it on Bunion’s bedside trolley.

  ‘Do you require assistance with your dinner, sir?’ asked the youth.

  Bunion said, ‘No, I can feed myself, ta very much. But do you mind telling me how much you earn, lad?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t get paid, sir. We’re volunteers, working with old people as part of Sir Arthur Grice’s charity, “Feed an Oldie”,’ said the boy.

  The Queen said, ‘I rather fear I’ve been duped by Sir Arthur Grice. I hadn’t expected him to exploit schoolchildren.’

  Bunion took the cover off his plate and stared distastefully at a mound of glutinous rice and a greenish chicken curry.

  ‘Foreign muck,’ he said, contemptuously.

  The Queen said, ‘I do wish Philip would wake up. There’s something I must tell him.’

  ‘I can pass a message on,’ said Bunion, who didn’t like to tell the Queen that her husband would probably never speak again.

  ‘It’s too important to leave a message,’ said the Queen. Then, because she had to tell somebody, and Mr Bunion had been so sympathetic of late, she said, ‘At ten o’clock this morning I wrote to Jack Barker, abdicating from the throne. I am no longer the Queen of England.’

  53

  On the night before Election Day, Harris led the remaining Hell Close dogs under the Exclusion Zone’s metal fence. They passed through the slumbering suburbs, keeping to the shadows and resisting the temptation to bark at provocative cats and the occasional human. Once they reached the dual carriageway that led to Bradgate Park, they picked up speed and were soon running in a tight pack with Harris at its head. When they had covered three miles, Harris called a halt, fearing that his little legs would collapse under him.

  He gasped, ‘We must find a ditch and drink.’

  A retriever padded away and soon gave a low growl that a ditch had been found and that the water was potable. Harris couldn’t move. His heart felt as though it would burst thro
ugh his ribcage. Susan panted behind him; none of the dogs were used to running such a distance without stopping. Only the greyhound seemed to be enjoying himself.

  After a while, Harris walked down to the ditch and stood in the brackish water and drank. When he had slaked his thirst, he barked that they were to leave the verge of the road and cut across the fields. Their eventual destination was Beacon Hill, in the deer park. Harris set off.

  Susan gasped, ‘Slow down, Harris, or you’ll never make it to the top of the hill.’

  But Harris was exhilarated by the sight of the beacon looming ahead in the moonlight; he thought about nothing else but reaching the top. Two of the very small toy dogs – Zsa-Zsa and Fifi, a lap dancer’s pet – sank into the bracken, unable to go on, but the soft-mouthed Labrador retrievers picked each toy dog up carefully by the scruff of their necks and carried them up the hill towards the summit. In the dark woods beyond, the deer collected. The cracking and splintering of the bracken had woken them and their fastidious nostrils had alerted them to the danger of dogs. When the pack reached the foot of the beacon, Harris barked a halt; the dogs lay down in a circle around him.

  ‘Listen for humans,’ ordered Harris.

  The dogs cocked their ears and listened, but the only sounds were of owls hunting and nocturnal creatures moving through the undergrowth. There was not a single human voice or footfall.

  ‘We will now climb to the top of the beacon,’ said Harris.

  It was a difficult ascent; the dogs scrambled over huge boulders that had been thrown about in a volcanic eruption millions of years before. When they finally reached the top it was some time before they could speak. Each dog had its tongue out, panting, though they looked at each other with bright triumphant eyes. When they recovered their breath, they began to explore the summit. Most of them took the opportunity to urinate against the base of the stone direction marker, where important cities including Moscow and New York were indicated by an arrow pointing in their direction.

  Harris called the dogs to attention, saying, ‘We are here for a purpose. There are beacon hills all over England, and at the top of each beacon there is a pack of dogs. We are going to send a message that will be heard by every dog in the land.’

  The dogs fell silent, waiting for the message.

  After a full minute had passed, Tosca said irritably, ‘Are you intending to share the message with us, or are you going to stand in the moonlight all night looking heroic, you clapped-out little ponce?’

  Rocky growled, ‘Keep it sweet, Tosca.’ He nodded at Freddie and said, ‘Respect, innit?’

  Harris said, ‘It’s two o’clock in the morning. Most of our fellow dogs are in their homes, guarding their human feeders – yet another thankless task we perform every day of the year. The ancestors of our owners laid down their lives to secure their freedom. Are we to ignore their sacrifice?

  ‘How much longer can we stand by and do nothing as laws are passed that prevent our owners from speaking of what they know to be true?

  ‘English men and English women must be free to express what is in their hearts, and if they do not like what their Government is doing, they must be allowed to say so, and not be afraid of a knock on their door in the middle of the night.

  ‘The dog terror laws must not be implemented!

  ‘Now listen, and learn this simple rhyme. It will be barked from this beacon and be heard and repeated by the dogs on the nearest beacon, and so on until the whole of England is awoken to the sound of barking dogs.’

  When the dogs of England heard the commands issuing from the hundreds of beacons, they woke and pricked up their ears. It was a call to arms.

  Destroy the ID cards of Government supporters! Chew the cards! Eat the cards! Bury the cards!

  There were queues outside the polling stations on the morning of the election. Nothing had ever excited the English voters as much as the dog question. Cromwell Government supporters who were also dog owners had woken to discover that their identity cards had been torn from wallets, bags and jacket pockets in the night and chewed to pieces, rendering them useless at the polling stations, where possession of an ID card was mandatory before a vote could be cast. Some Cromwellians had the disturbing experience of seeing their cards snatched out of their hands by marauding dogs as they produced the cards to show the electoral officers.

  However, it was the huge turnout in support of dogs that caused the biggest landslide in recent political history. Seasoned analysts were taken by surprise at the size of the New Con victory. Boy English was hailed as a new type of politician, one with ‘emotional intelligence’ and ‘vision’. His first address to the nation was given, accompanied by Billy. The English voters were transfixed by the little dog’s antics, as he licked his paws and groomed his sweet face. So transfixed that they failed to listen attentively to what Boy was saying: there would be an extension of the Exclusion Zones, the Government would censor the programme output of the BBC, and in future the American Secretary of State would have a designated office at Number Ten.

  Boy finished with, ‘And, of course, the anti-dog legislation has already been rescinded.’

  He lifted Billy and manipulated one of his paws to wave goodbye.

  Jack Barker was seated at his desk in his office at Number Ten. It was ten o’clock in the morning and he had been wearing the same jeans and tee shirt for two days. He was listening to a Leonard Cohen CD; now and then he would join Cohen in a mumbled duet. He and Pat, his first wife, would make love to the sound of Leonard Cohen in the small flat they used to share. Cohen had been the soundtrack to their young lives. His second wife, Caroline, had banned him from listening to Cohen. She said his songs were ‘unhealthy’ and tried to interest him in her own passion – early English music played on a thing called a sackbut, or something similar. Harpsichords, anyway.

  He opened the letter that had been couriered to him the day before the election, and reread the contents.

  Dear Mr Barker,

  I’m sure you will be pleased to hear that at 10 a.m. today, I abdicated from the throne.

  I am only too well aware of the fact that you do not recognize the monarchy. However, I do.

  There is a question as to who will succeed me to the throne, but this need not concern you, as I suspect you will soon no longer be Prime Minister.

  I thought it only courteous to inform you of my decision, since we do share a history together.

  Yours sincerely,

  Elizabeth

  He picked up the telephone and dialled the number he knew by heart. Pat answered immediately. She was in her kitchen; he could hear their old dishwasher whining in the background.

  He said, ‘Pat, come and get me.’

  She said, accusingly, ‘You’re listening to Leonard Cohen. You know the effect he has on you. Turn it off, Jack, now!’

  Jack used the remote and turned the volume down, but his sense of desolation and misery remained.

  He said, ‘We should never have got divorced, Pat. And I should never have gone into politics.’ He repeated, ‘Come and get me, Pat.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’ve got somebody living with me.’

  Jack could not speak; Leonard Cohen groaned about death and despair. Eventually he asked, ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s a Pyrenean mountain dog called Jack,’ she said.

  Jack didn’t know the breed, but it sounded big.

  He repeated, ‘Come and fetch me, Pat.’

  54

  At dawn on the first Monday of the New Con Government a Chinook helicopter came out of the sky from the east and clattered over Hell Close. It hovered a few moments, then landed on the green where the trees had once been. The noise was an assault on the quiet early morning. The insistent clack-clack-clack of the propellers and the shriek of the engine woke everyone in Hell Close and brought them stumbling from their beds to look out of their windows. All of the dogs in the close were barking, alerting each other to possible danger.

  When Camilla
pulled back the curtains she could not at first comprehend what her eyes were telling her. What looked like a monstrous, hovering beetle sat on the green, spewing black-clad, balaclava-wearing men from a hatch in its belly. She turned to speak to Charles and saw with incredulity that he was slowly putting his dressing gown on over his pyjamas.

  She shouted, ‘For God’s sake, Charles! Why not have a wash and shave before you come to the bloody window?’

  They heard their front door being battered, then splintering. Angry voices were yelling incomprehensible instructions; heavy boots were pounding up the stairs. Charles had picked up a comb from the dressing table and was combing his hair.

  Camilla said, ‘The dogs have stopped barking. Where are the dogs?’

  When, from her window, the Queen saw dark figures running towards Charles and Camilla’s house through the blue dawn light, her first thought was that she must protect her son.

  Charles was balding and wrinkled, and would soon be a grandfather, but he was still her child. She did not wait to put on her dressing gown or slippers, but ran downstairs and out into Hell Close in her cotton nightgown and bare feet. She had heard as a child whispered conversations about the fate of the Romanovs – death by firing squad. If necessary, she would offer her own life, if the assassins would spare Charles.

  As she ran across the wet grass on the green, she saw Harris, Susan, Freddie, Tosca and Leo sitting at the door of the Chinook, being petted by the soldiers inside.

  When the men kicked the bedroom door open, Charles was prepared for them. He had expected something like this to happen since the day he realized that his life as a Royal was entirely in the hands of the people. Without their consent, his family could not rule.

  Camilla wished she had combed her hair when a television crew entered the bedroom and shone a bright light into her face. She was startled again when Boy English strode into the room and, after positioning himself between Charles and Camilla, said, ‘I’ve come to set you free, Your Royal Highnesses.’