by Sue Townsend
He gave a low bow and Camilla noticed that the hair on the crown of his head had been woven into his scalp. She pulled her dressing gown around her and finger-combed her hair.
Charles said, ‘Was it necessary to break our door down, Mr English? If you’d rung the bell, it would have been answered.’
This was not how Boy had imagined the liberation scenario. He had expected them to be grateful and gracious, regal at least. It was hard to imagine these two late-middle-aged people reigning over anything more important than a car boot stall.
‘May we go downstairs?’ asked Camilla. She was conscious of their unmade bed and the puddle of knickers she’d left on the floor.
Stepping over the splintered bedroom door, Charles, Camilla and Boy went downstairs and into the sitting room, followed by the film crew and the soldiers.
When the Queen burst in shouting ‘Charles! Charles! My darling boy!’ and flung herself into her son’s arms, nobody was more surprised than the Queen herself. She sobbed into his chest, ‘I thought they’d come to assassinate you.’ After a few moments of loud weeping, the Queen thought, I’m behaving like those Middle Eastern mothers on the news, I must pull myself together, whistle a happy tune.
When the Queen and Charles had finally prised themselves apart and had dried their eyes and blown their noses with the squares of lavatory paper that Camilla handed them, they sat down on the sofa with Camilla and listened to what Boy had to say.
‘Your Majesty,’ he said, bowing to the Queen.
She said, ‘I’ll have to stop you there, Prime Minister. I am no longer the Queen, I abdicated my position yesterday. I am now the King’s mother, and I do not wish to return to public life. My husband is not well enough to be moved, so I shall be staying in Hell Close until… he no longer needs me.’
She took Charles’s hand in her own and held it tight.
After Boy’s face had been retouched with make-up, he knelt at the Royals’ feet and, as the TV camera closed in, removed the tags from around their ankles.
The next day, reading The Times, Camilla was glad she’d had a pedicure. A photograph of her left foot dominated the front page.
55
The Royal Family were having afternoon tea in the ornately decorated and furnished Throne Room at Windsor Castle. Princess Chanel, visibly pregnant, was pouring Earl Grey tea from a silver teapot into exquisitely patterned china cups. King Charles and Queen Camilla, sitting side by side on ornate thrones, declined the tea; they were far too hot in their coronation robes with the ermine trim, and their crowns were both heavy and uncomfortable. The Princes William and Harry fidgeted on their gold and brocade chairs, longing for the next hour to be over. Their military uniforms were equally uncomfortable.
Princess Chanel sipped on her tea decorously. ‘How about calling the baby Gucci?’ she said to Prince Harry. ‘Gucci would suit a boy or a girl.’
‘Gucci?’ said Charles, looking up from the letter he was reading.
‘I like it,’ said Harry. ‘It’s sick!’
‘No, Harry, it’s ridiculous!’ said Charles. ‘I will not have a grandchild called Gucci.’
Camilla adjusted her crown and sighed; there was always a little tension immediately before the double doors at the end of the room were opened. Charles reread the letter that had been forwarded, together with a note from Dwayne Lockhart telling him that he and Paris were reading War and Peace together.
King George III Ward
Rampton Hospital
To The Prince of Wales
16, Hell Close
Flowers Exclusion Zone
Dear Mother and Father,
I am the victim of a terrible injustice. Imprisoned in a hospital for the criminally insane, for a crime I did not intend to commit.
I have always maintained that glass coffee tables should be banned. Perhaps now the authorities will pay heed to my expertise and experience.
I continually scream, shout and inform the psychiatrists, doctors and nurses in here that I am of royal birth, and one day will be the King of England. But to no avail.
Will you please visit me as soon as possible, bringing my authentication papers with you? They are in the bureau drawer in the lounge of the bungalow.
I urge you to act in haste.
Please give my regards to my mother, Camilla, Countess of Cornwall.
Yours, your son
Prince Graham of Ruislip
‘Anything interesting, darling?’ asked Camilla.
‘No,’ said Charles. ‘It’s of no interest whatsoever.’
He tore the letter into tiny pieces and stuffed them into the pocket of his white, satin breeches.
When the first notes of a fanfare sounded, the Royal Family braced themselves and the public were let in. A bossy uniformed woman from Royal Heritage Ltd shouted, ‘Please do not feed or touch the exhibits, or attempt to engage them in conversation. And please keep to the public side of the rope.’
Camilla found it hard to make small talk to her family in front of a constantly changing audience of gawping tourists, but it was only for an hour on weekdays and two at the weekend. The rest of the time was, more or less, their own. Mr English, the Prime Minister, had been terribly kind to them, really. And she was sure that he was right when he explained that everything, even the monarchy, had to pay its way.
A huge Australian man in a tee shirt with the slogan ‘The Dingo Done It’ gripped the velvet rope and said to his wife, ‘Shame to see ’em in captivity, ain’t it, Darleen? They look almost human.’
The guide shouted, ‘Keep moving!’ and the crowd shuffled on.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Queen Camilla
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