God Save the Queen!

by Dorothy Cannell

  Vivian snapped the father-and-daughter shot. And when that was done, Flora thought about giving Reggie a good-bye kiss on the cheek, but settled for shaking hands with him. When they parted at the shop door, she was both relieved and sorry.

  “You look worried,” commented Vivian as they strolled toward Edna Smith’s council flat under gray skies webbed by clouds.

  “I don’t like leaving Nolly on his own, but I know I have to start sometime. And he wasn’t invited to tea.”

  “That was a smart move, getting that photo.”

  “I’m going to show it to Mrs. Bellows when I see her, on the chance that my mother did bring my father to Gossinger. She may even have been at their wedding and be able to identify him and Reggie as the same person. And if Mrs. Bellows can’t help, I’ll talk to Sir Henry and show him the photo, too. I’m not so silly that I’ll accept on blind faith someone who shows up out of thin air. But something inside me tells me Reggie is my father.”

  “I think you’re right, Flora. If he were a fraud—and I have yet to figure out why he might be—I think he would have done his homework and padded his conversation with convincing details, ones that you’d identify. For instance, he might have asked if your grandfather still made his wonderful chocolate cake, or if you still had the patchwork teddy bear.”

  “Fancy you remembering Buttons!”

  “I never saw you without him when you were little. For a while I thought you were Siamese twins.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Buttons?”

  “No, silly! Reggie.”

  “I rather liked him, but don’t hold me to that. How about you?”

  “The same.” Flora stepped away from the curb as a bus rushed past. “I felt kind of sorry for him. It must get awfully tiresome having to live by your wits, but I don’t suppose he’s trained for anything but being a rogue.”

  “If you say ‘Poor Daddy!’" Vivian took her arm, “I may be tempted to throw your charming hat under the next lorry.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Flora whirled away from him and started to run toward the corner. “I’d like to talk more about my mother to Reggie,” she said when he caught up with her, “but I have the feeling he really didn’t know her. And in answer to your unspoken question, sir, I do not feel as though I have survived an earthshaking experience. Now where is it that Edna Smith and Boris live? Did she say the third or the fourth floor?”

  “Follow me,” said Vivian. “Remember I was here yesterday to give her the spare key to the shop. That reminds me: I should ask her for that back.”

  “I think we should let her keep it, in case of emergency,” answered Flora as they climbed the staircase hemmed in by stone walls on each side. “Oh, thank goodness, we’re here.”

  “Yes, I was developing altitude sickness myself.” Vivian buzzed the doorbell, and within seconds they were being ushered into a narrow hall with foil wallpaper in a geometric pattern that made the eyes cross. Music from a rock group crept out from under one of the doors, and a toasty aroma wafted its way from the kitchen at the far end.

  “This is nice—I was looking out the window for you!” Edna Smith, wearing a cotton frock with plums all over it, her hair piled up in galvanized loops and curls, led the way into the living room, which was decorated in black and gray with a lot of gold trim, and so many mirrors it was rather like being in a fun house. “Sit yourselves down—no standing on ceremony here. You’ll find those chairs comfy. Set me back a bit, but you get what you pay for, I always say.”

  “This is a treat,” said Flora, taking the black leather chair to the left of the small but fiercely hot electric fire. “We’ve been looking forward to this, haven’t we, Vivian?”

  “All day.”

  “Go on with you,” Edna gave him a playful poke, “pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Now do as you’re told, sit your bum down across from your girlfriend.”

  “Oh, I have to tell you,” Flora said quickly, as the heat from the fire worked its way up to her face, “I’m ever so grateful for your helping out yesterday with my furniture, letting the movers in and I’m sure showing them where to put everything.”

  “Well, you can’t leave that sort of thing to men.” Edna Smith placed a bowl of peanuts on each end of the black coffee table with the mirror top. “Arranging a room takes a woman’s touch, and that reminds me—Boris is going to feel the back of my hand if he doesn’t turn down his CD player. I let him stay home from school today even though I didn’t believe he had the tummy-ache, not for all his moaning and groaning, but I told him he wasn’t to make a lot of noise and bother Mr. Phillips, that’s the lodger, the one I told you about. He’s easy to please, but that doesn’t mean the poor man will put up with having his eardrums ruptured.”

  Edna’s expression hinted at steel beneath the fleshy cheeks and heavy makeup. “I’ve decided I’m not going to put up with any more of Boris’s sulks, so why don’t you two sit back while I go and straighten him out before I bring in the tea? There’s those peanuts for you to be getting on with. And maybe you’d like to have a look at the paper.” She put that day’s edition of the Daily Mail on the coffee table. “There’s a bit in there, if you can find it, about the Queen coming to Bethnal Green to open the new wing of the children’s hospital. I can’t remember what date it says, but sometime soon.”

  “Boris isn’t playing his music all that loud,” said Flora when Edna left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “It doesn’t rattle my eardrums,” replied Vivian, “but after meeting him the other night I can understand his grandmother’s patience wearing thin.”

  “Or it could be the lodger is a miserable old cross-patch. Which is a bit of a shame, really, because I’ve been wondering if he isn’t a relative, but really Edna’s boyfriend come back into her life.”

  “You’re such a romantic! My guess is the only flame the man wants lit is under his dinner. Don’t you realize we men are all alike, taking the easy road wherever possible? I’ve been thinking, you’re probably an excellent cook, Flora.” Vivian picked up the newspaper.

  “As a matter of fact, I am, but what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?” Flora hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Why don’t you look up that piece about the Queen coming to Bethnal Green?”

  “You’re thinking of that letter you wrote to Her Majesty about obtaining the Royal Warrant for your grandfather’s silver polish. You’re not worried that one of the corgis ate it, are you? Because I’m sure you will get a reply.” Vivian flipped the pages and had just located the news item in question when Boris Smith came into the room, fresh-faced and stocky, with his sandy hair sticking up on end as if he had obeyed a grandmotherly instruction to put his head under the tap and towel it dry. His freckles and round cheeks gave him a somewhat engaging look, despite the scowl that looked to be the same one he had worn the last time they’d seen him.

  “Hello, friends and neighbors,” he said, plonking himself down on the settee, “Grandma told me to come and be nice to you. I’m supposed to say I’m sorry for being rude the other night.”

  “Are you?” asked Flora.

  “Not really.” Boris took a fistful of peanuts and tossed one into his mouth. “Sometimes it’s just great to act rotten. It wasn’t anything to do with you, really.”

  “Nothing to do with your visit to Gossinger?” Vivian laid the newspaper down.

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” Boris crunched down on the peanuts and wiped his hands on his knees. “Look, I’m sorry,” he met Flora’s eyes, then looked away, “that the old geezer that was your grandfather snuffed it, but what’s that to do with me?”

  “Did you by any chance wander off on your own that day, away from the rest of your group?” said Vivian.

  “Who’s been telling you that?” Boris clung to his defiance by way of a shield. “Have you been up to the school to see Mr. Ferncliffe?”

  “I happened to meet him on the train coming up to London,” said Fl
ora. This boy does know something, she thought, with a clutch deep inside. Maybe he heard noises from inside the garderobe—sounds indicating someone was in trouble, but he didn’t go in and check and now he’s been sick with remorse.

  “Old Woolly Wig—that’s what we call Mr. Ferncliffe—couldn’t have told you anything. Because,” Boris tried hard to sound nonchalant, “there’s nothing to tell, except that I did sneak up to see my Great-Aunt Mabel, and why shouldn’t I? I was hoping to get a fiver out of her, if you must know. But the old bat threw a fit when I went into that room in the tower so I cleared out fast. Gran says,” he directed this to Vivian, “you’re Sir Henry’s nephew.”

  Boris breathed a little easier. It had been smart to say that, he decided, because it wouldn’t do to let on that he had seen Mr. Gossinger and heard him talking to his uncle that day. That would only incur more questions, which could lead to disaster. At the thought of what could happen, Boris broke out in another of the sweats that had forced him to stick his head under the bathroom tap before coming into the room. Would they, he wondered, let him take his CD player to prison with him?

  “Your grandmother said Aunt Mabel gave you a present to bring back.” Vivian hadn’t overlooked the sheen on the boy’s face and the way he kept wiping his hands on his pants knees.

  “Well, it wasn’t for me, and, anyway, it was stupid. Gran gave it to the church bazaar.”

  “Here we are!” Nudging open the door, Edna appeared with a tray, which was swiftly taken out of her hands by the ever-courteous Vivian. “I toasted up some more crumpets because the ones I made before you came had gone hard as rocks. Having a nice chat, were you?” Her eyes switched to Boris, who was helping himself to more peanuts.

  “We were talking about the Queen.” Flora decided to shift the truth, partly because of something about Boris—the scowl that didn’t go with the round cheeks and freckles tugged at her heart—and also because if she started to dwell on her grandfather’s final day she might end up ruining the tea party. “When you said Her Majesty is coming to Bethnal Green it got me and Vivian talking about the letter I wrote her a few weeks ago. No, we’re not best friends or anything like that,” Flora said, laughing at the surprised look on Edna’s face. “It was about my grandfather’s silver polish.” And she proceeded to explain about the Royal Warrant as Edna passed out the teacups.

  “Well, what a lovely thing for a grandchild to do,” said that lady, with a meaningful look at Boris. “And I’m sure you’ll hear something encouraging before very long, dear. I’ve always thought the Queen has the kindest heart possible; it’s her hair that makes her look so stern. I’d love to get my hands on it, soften it up a bit. Such a pretty girl she was!” Edna sat down on the settee next to Boris. “I remember how she looked coming off that plane when she came back from Africa after her father died, her eyes all misty and sad, and all of us knowing she’d never be young again. Only twenty-five years old, it doesn’t bear thinking about. And I don’t believe a word of it when people say she never played proper mum games like bubbles in the bath with her children and always put those dogs first.”

  Flora smiled. “You’re like my grandfather. Mrs. Bellows, who was the housekeeper at Gossinger Hall when I was growing up, used to say that in Grandpa’s eyes God came second only to Her Majesty. If you can believe it, I was quite jealous as a little girl of his devotion to the Queen. I remember kicking and screaming when she came on the television once and Grandpa interrupted the game of Ludo we were playing to watch her ride in an open carriage to the Opening of Parliament.”

  “Did you get sent to bed?” Boris let his scowl slip.

  “I can’t remember anything else except that I was obviously a horrible child.”

  “But the Queen doesn’t know that.” Vivian accepted a crumpet from the plate that Edna was handing round. “And unless one of us here blabs your past, it shouldn’t ruin your chances concerning the Royal Warrant.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Flora, shaking her head, “that my letter probably won’t do the trick. What I really need to do is get a tin of the polish to the Queen. But short of smuggling myself into Buckingham Palace, I can’t think of a way. And I really wouldn’t want to end up like Reggie, being carried off in ignominy by security guards.”

  Now, why had she gone and said that? It meant explaining to Edna who Reggie was, which Flora didn’t really mind doing, but she did begin to feel that she was becoming one of those awful people who hog the conversation to make themselves sound important.

  “Ugh!” Boris said, showing more interest in his cup than in the abridged story about her long-lost father. “There are tea leaves floating like drowned flies in my cup!”

  Vivian and Flora had each found themselves chewing on the occasional tough morsel, or sipping around them.

  “Or are they flies?” Boris dipped in a finger and inspected it upon withdrawal.

  “If you aren’t the limit!” Edna got to her feet. “Showing me up in front of company! I should have sent you off with a clip on the ear ten minutes ago. And don’t go playing any more of that loud music. Mr. Phillips wants you to take him a cup of tea, I forgot to tell you that when I came in. But it’s no wonder my mind’s like a sieve these days, with all your carrying-on.”

  “I hate that miserable old blighter!” Boris banged down his cup and kicked the coffee table leg for good measure.

  “That’s enough of that. Remember, he helps pay the rent here.”

  “Well, I wish he was dead!”

  “And don’t you go spitting in his tea.”

  “No, I’ll put some poison in it instead.”

  “Who’d be a grandmother?” sighed Edna as the door banged shut on her grandson. “I tell you, I have to touch up my hair every day to keep the gray from coming back.”

  “Please don’t feel bad,” said Flora.

  “It’s hard not to get upset, and I am sorry about the tea. I ran out of bags, you see, and had to borrow some of the loose stuff from a neighbor. And hunt high and low as I did, I couldn’t find my strainer. That’s what I get, I suppose, for giving away the one I had to the church. But I was that upset at the time. A horrid dirty old thing it was, black as the inside of a chimney. Fancy, I thought, Mabel having the nerve to send that back with Boris. I suppose she thought I’d believe it was an antique and be so pleased I’d wet my knickers.”

  “What was it like?” The heat from the fire was really getting to Flora now, making her feel quite faint. “I mean, what shape was it?”

  “Round,” said Edna.

  “Oh!” said Flora and felt the ground settle under her feet.

  “I mean the inside of the strainer part and the cup underneath was round. The handles on either side made it a sort of oval. That was another thing,” Edna was back to feeling put upon, “it was shaped like a bird and Mabel always knew I couldn’t abide birds.”

  “Was it ...” Flora knew without looking that Vivian had also tensed in his chair. “... Was it shaped like a swan?”

  “Why, yes, I’d say that was it,” replied Edna. “Is there something I need to know about that tea strainer?”

  “Don’t upset yourself,” said Vivian. “If it’s the one we think it is,” he stood and reached for Flora’s hand, “it’s already been missing for two hundred years.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I don’t understand why Lady Gossinger would send that tea strainer to her sister. Unless she didn’t know it was the one that had belonged to Queen Charlotte and created such an uproar when it disappeared.” Flora and Vivian were walking back to Wishbone Street in a drizzling late afternoon rain.

  “Of course she knew! She must have heard Uncle Henry describe it a hundred times.” Vivian was clear in his own mind why her Ladyship had taken such a treacherous course of action. Mabel had been beside herself with rage about Uncle Henry’s plans for Gossinger and had taken her petty revenge, one which had the added spice of being accomplished without her husband being any the wiser. “What an opportunity to l
augh up her sleeve each time he brought up the subject of the purloined tea strainer!”

  “But how did she come to have it?” Flora wrapped her arms around herself to make up for the folly of not having worn a jacket.

  Vivian, without breaking pace, shrugged out of his and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Yes, that’s the real question. The Family has searched Gossinger from top to bottom over the last two hundred years looking for that piece of silver. I know I did as a child.”

  “Me, too,” said Flora. “And now that we know it really does still exist it’s gone again, bought by somebody at the church bazaar who probably paid a pound for it and has no idea at all of its value. Or the fact that it rightfully belongs to the Royal Family.”

  “I am so angry,” Vivian ground the words out through his teeth, “that I was about to walk us under a bus. One gets used to the heady roar of traffic and I wasn’t looking both ways. Sorry about that.”

  “There has to be something we don’t understand about what happened.” Flora slipped her arms into the sleeves of his jacket and wrapped the fronts across her chest, missing the look he gave her. “Perhaps Lady Gossinger sent the tea strainer to Edna by mistake. Couldn’t it be this way, that she had just found it and had it wrapped up waiting to surprise Sir Henry, and also had another package to send her sister of about the same size, and just got them mixed up?”

  “You do believe in fairy tales, don’t you?”

  “I don’t like to judge someone without knowing all the facts,” Flora responded as they turned onto Wishbone Street. “And Edna did tell us that Lady Gossinger rang up to ask if Boris had given her the present and Edna told her she had sold it at the bazaar. Perhaps her Ladyship was about to ask for it back because she realized she’d made a terrible mistake.”

  “What we need to do is pray,” said Vivian, “that whoever bought it didn’t decide it was a piece of junk, as so often happens with bargains when you get them home, and pitch it in the dustbin.”

  “We have to think positively,” Flora agreed, “but I suppose that’s hard to do when you’re getting drenched to the skin. Won’t you take your jacket back?”