Mrs. Queen Takes the Train

by William Kuhn

  “Two tours. About two years in all,” said Luke.

  “The newspapers made it seem as if Basra was quite quiet and the Americans had all the fire.”

  The way she had put it chilled him, as if she knew his history before he’d told her. He was determined to gloss over the complexities of what he knew of the British and American armies in the Iraqi desert. “Yeah. Well, there was plenty of time for messing about. It wasn’t all house-to-house reconnaissance with daggers drawn.”

  Luke looked for a new, less serious direction to the conversation. He chuckled to himself, remembering an incident during what seemed interminable afternoons of doing nothing. “Someone took a picture, I think it was a Yank with the camera, actually. It was the lads wearing carnations and fooling about with long cigarettes. Rather foppish I’m afraid. It got into one of the papers.”

  “And what were you playing at?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think we were pretending to be mad dogs and Englishmen in the noonday sun. Something like that. Showing the Americans how tough we were.”

  [Mary Evans Picture Library/IDA KAR]

  “And apart from imitating Noël Coward, you also went in drag for theatricals on Saturday nights to entertain the men, I imagine?”

  There had been some of that, but Luke didn’t know Anne well enough to confess to it. There was a sort of military code that prevented him speaking to her too intimately about what had gone on in Iraq. “Well, now, we did have theatricals.”

  “Of course you did. It’s a trademark of Englishmen serving abroad.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh yes. Make a tour of our embassies, and no matter where you stop, Cairo, Dubai, the Philippines, it doesn’t matter. There will always be some sort of amateur version of a West End play being performed.”

  “Well, ours weren’t West End plays, exactly.”

  “Oh. What were they?”

  “Um, music videos, karaoke. Boy George, a bit of Madonna, sometimes a Stones medley.”

  “What fun. And I suppose you had cameras to film it all?”

  There were cameras, and Luke wasn’t proud of everything he’d performed that the camera had captured. But she did seem to know who Madonna was, and that was a start. “Some of it filmed, yes, but in the Guards archive with a fifty-year seal on it, I’m afraid, Lady Anne.”

  She laughed appreciatively. “I suppose you made some good friends out there.”

  “Well, it was good times with some of them, yes. I did have mates out there. But they went away to different units. They’re all over the country now. And here I am on secondment to the Royal Household, doing Her Majesty’s washing up.”

  “A very great privilege it is too, young man,” said Anne severely, but then, twinkling, she caught his eye and added, “for both of us.”

  “No doubt, your ladyship.” He stretched out the last word and gave it a comic pronunciation, “lee-adie-ship.”

  “And do you see some of your chums sometimes?” Anne continued.

  “Not as often as I’d like. They sometimes ring up of a Friday night when they’re feeling drunken and rowdy. We have a laugh. But it’s not the same.”

  “And no one in the Household appeals, do they?”

  This was cutting near the bone. What did she mean by asking about his friends? How had she perceived his loneliness so distinctly?

  “Well, blokes are more solitary than birds, I expect.”

  She knew he meant this to be a batting away of the ball she’d tossed him, but she could also intuit his suffering about something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  “Quite a few come back changed by the war, I believe. Posttraumatic stress disorder. Lots of divorce. Lots of depression. Lots of drinking. The three D’s. I do some hours on an army helpline when I’m not up here or somewhere else with the Household. Gives me something to do. Lots of my family were in the army too. In fact, I think all of them come back changed in some way by the fighting, and not always for the better.”

  Luke felt the gravitational force of her compassion, the magnetic attraction of someone who understood army ways, and knew a little about Iraq without his having to tell her. “Well, when you’ve changed, if you’ve changed, you can’t always say how or why yourself. Others outside see it, but you just feel like you’re carrying on the same as ever. Still you.” He thought for a moment, and then admitted, “Maybe a lonelier you, or an angrier you, but you yourself, well, you’re not the best judge.”

  “I see that. Yes.”

  “As for post traumatic whatsit, I don’t think there were too many what you’d call traumas out there.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t believe you.”

  Luke wasn’t used to receiving such flat negatives from the Household. They usually went out of their way to make a charming apology before they said, in their silkiest manner, “No.”

  In the midst of his surprised silence, Anne said, “You see, it’s just that the helpline is busy all night long with men who can’t get over what happened to them. And sometimes the worst thing that happened to them was that they had to leave their lives for a year and spend it in the desert in an air-conditioned tent, with a group of other men whom they didn’t know and didn’t choose to be with. I believe that’s trauma enough for most people.”

  “It’s a volunteer armed force. They didn’t have to go. It’s what they signed up for.”

  “They didn’t know what they signed up for. How could they know till they got there? And no one signs up to die. Death was close enough out there for plenty of them to see what it looked like. And that’s traumatic too.”

  Luke felt as if he’d been driven into a corner, and not by some insurgent with a gun, but by an old woman from the army helpline. He wasn’t sure which was the way out to keep this talk on a polite plane. He would, after all, have to work with her again. He struggled and then admitted his failure to find a conversational exit. “Give.”

  “What?”

  “I give in. What do you want to know?”

  “You lost someone out there, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me.”

  “An American. On loan to our unit. Meant to be helping us liaise with some of their units. Only with us for a few months. Didn’t understand all the regimental horseshit. I mean, excuse me. I mean . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “Only that most of the American units don’t have quite the same traditions, or history, or dress, or funny ways of doing things that we do in the Guards. They’re not used to it. As if having been recruited in the seventeenth century to fight for bloody Charles the Second is going to keep you alive in Iraq. And Andrew, well Andy he was, Andy didn’t understand any of it, but living with us he saw it, and the others ragged him for not getting it right. And I guess I was the first one to tell him to pay no attention and, well, we got along.” This was not the full story, but it was a true part of it.

  “You gave him a hand, did you? Taught him what he needed to know to get along with these Trobriand Islanders?”

  “That’s what it was. He didn’t understand the first thing about the lingo or which fork to use or how to have his gear pressed.”

  “All of the first importance among the Trobriand Islanders.”

  “Well, yes, as you know.”

  “I do know.”

  “It might have been easier for me to be friends with him, to get close to him, because he wasn’t one of us. You sometimes kind of, well, let your hair down with foreigners, don’t you? Anyway, he went out one day on a patrol. They were in a convoy of Humvees. They drove by an explosive device on the roadside. It went off. His vehicle rolled over. He’d been up top and it rolled over on top of him. Died right there. I wasn’t even with him. They brought him back to the base. He was already in a body bag when I found out. I went over. I could have taken a look. I had the
right. It would have been okay for me to unzip the bag.”

  “You wanted to remember him as he was.”

  “Maybe that was it. He was a happy young man. Short hair. In his twenties. Already going bald, but handsome. Always making jokes. They teased him about not knowing Guards’ rules and regs, but they loved him because he was always life of the party. Kept everyone laughing.”

  “And you loved him too.”

  “I did.” Luke turned away with the dishtowel in his hand. He couldn’t face her, this little woman with blue veins in her forehead, no-nonsense manner, and flashing eyes. He could not now suppress half of a sob, which he tried to make resemble a clearing of the throat.

  “I know you did,” and then she did something quite as shocking as having led him into this emotional thicket to begin with. She reached out with her yellow rubber gloves and pulled him toward her, turning him around, clasping him in her arms. Her head with its white hair only came two-thirds of the way up his chest, and the water and suds from her gloves rolled down the back of his tweed jacket.

  A moment later the distant bark of a dog let them know that The Queen was nearby, and hearing that, he moved hastily away from her. He picked up a wineglass, which he began drying and judging against the light. “What will Her Majesty think of us, eh? I don’t think we’re meant to be liaising during our downtime, are we?”

  “Well, she might be quite jealous, if she knew,” said Anne, going back to the sink with a smile.

  The popularity of Rajiv’s photographs of the Dutch state banquet had mystified the editors at the tabloid newspaper. The tide of royal popularity seemed to be shifting back in a positive direction without their having anticipated it and they wanted to wait for more definitive indications of popular mood before publishing anything further. Rajiv was under the impression that he’d produced good work and was anxious to do more. He was in the shop a month later, in mid-November, wondering why the editors had stopped replying to his e-mails, when another young woman came in the door. He couldn’t believe the flame color of her hair or the clotted creaminess of her skin. She had on riding boots as well as a hoodie with skull and crossbones on the back. As she looked at rounds of Camembert, he thought of ways of taking her picture without her noticing. Might he just hold up his phone as if he were trying to improve the angle of light on the screen and snap her photo with the sound of the shutter clicking turned off? But then he surprised himself. “May I help you?” he said and then added in a hurry, “What amazing hair you have.”

  He could see in an instant that it was the wrong thing to say. She gave him a practiced half smile. Clearly she got that compliment once every two days. What he’d said was unoriginal, too obvious, almost an irritant. “I mean we have some cheese rinds that color. Smelly ones.” He’d meant “smelly” as a desirable characteristic in a cheese, but she bridled, thinking he was referring to her smell. But then she saw his broad grin and immediately gave him a more natural smile, as if allowing an insult from a friend.

  “Look, I need an unusual cheddar. Elizabeth likes it.”

  “Who’s Elizabeth, then? Your girlfriend?” This was very bold indeed. Rajiv was aware that he wasn’t very good at talking to girls his own age, much as he wanted to please them. With boys his age, the way to their hearts was to insult them, mildly, but deliberately. Maybe this would work with a girl too.

  The young woman with flame-colored hair was annoyed. She did not have a girlfriend, but she had nothing against women loving women. On top of that, his question was far too personal. “Elizabeth is a horse, actually,” she said, her face darkening and her voice cooling. “Likes cheese. Especially cheddar.”

  “Never heard of a hoss like cheese before,” Rajiv said, using what he took to be a John Wayne pronunciation of “horse.” He’d seen that the girlfriend remark hadn’t worked. This was his desperate attempt to regain her favor. “But cheddar goes with apples, and I know hosses like apples.”

  His struggling with a false Texas accent and all those “s” sounds made her smile again. “Well, this horse does. Likes cheese, I mean. Is a bit spoiled. Gets whatever she wants.”

  “Like you?” he said, sending her a smiling glance under his eyebrows. Then, without allowing her time to react to that, he began showing her all the shop’s dizzying array of cheddars. She was in difficulties because she’d come away from the stables without adequate information. All she knew was that one afternoon a while ago The Queen had swept up some leftover cheddar from her lunch and brought it over to the Mews. She’d discovered that Elizabeth loved this cheddar and asked Rebecca to make sure the Mews bought some more to give to the horse as a treat. All Rebecca could find out from the palace kitchens was that the cheddar on The Queen’s cheese board had come from Paxton & Whitfield. So she’d walked over with instructions to buy more cheddar from Paxton & Whitfield without realizing that there would be sixteen different varieties available.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know what sorts of cheddar have been sent over to the palace lately, would you?”

  “Oh, my dear! You want the same cheddar that The Queen has, do you?” Rajiv saw this as rich teasing material. He put his hands on his hips and smiled at her as winningly as he knew how.

  Rebecca knew very well that she could hardly disclose the nature of her errand or the eventual destination of the cheese. She was a nervous young woman, more at ease with animals than people. Talking to people, even people in shops, required an effort from her. She had never been much interested in boys before, mainly as a defensive posture because in school they had never been interested in her. Flirting with boys was certainly beyond her ability. She began to retreat. “Well, I might have to look around a bit. Thanks, anyway.” She turned to go.

  “Hang on a minute. I’ve got just the thing for you. They carved up a big round of cheddar for the Dutch state visit a little while ago. Smashing pictures in the papers. I expect that’s the one you want. It’s right here. One of our best. I might slice you just a little wedge of that? Bring it back if Elizabeth doesn’t like it.”

  He spoke so quickly and seemed to care so much about regaining her favor, that she couldn’t help but smile and nod her head “yes” to give her assent. When he was giving her change from her £20 note, he added, “I’m actually an amateur photographer. And I don’t suppose you’d allow me to photograph you giving Elizabeth her cheddar?”

  She couldn’t tell him where she worked, or that The Queen preferred to give Elizabeth the cheese herself. On the other hand, his bad cowboy accent had made her laugh and he had her attention.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said.

  “What about I photograph just you, then?”

  “No,” she said again.

  “What about we never see each other again as long as we live?”

  She smiled, though she hadn’t intended to.

  “I’m Rajiv. What about you tell me your name?”

  She couldn’t say no again. “Rebecca,” and she held out her hand to shake his.

  “What about we meet for a totally harmless, no-photos-allowed cup of coffee one afternoon?” he said to her.

  She gave him one of her e-mail addresses, but then turned on her heel and left quickly, as if she’d already regretted what she’d done.

  Having celebrated his forty-fifth birthday, William de Morgan decided that romantic love was pretty much out of the question for him now. He’d had his share of sex, and even love once or twice, but as he looked at himself in the mirror, he could see plainly that the passage of time was having its effect. His sagging neck began to look as if it would be better covered up with a very high Katharine Hepburn style collar. He didn’t want to complain about his fate. He’d had more than enough fun in his twenties and thirties. The number of sexual partners he could recall easily topped those of his married friends, and he believed some of these early-married husbands, straight as they were, envied him some of the
sexual variety he’d experienced. Unlike them, he’d also been free to come and go, move on and move up, as he pleased. His career had prospered.

  But he envied his married friends for having someone to share the events of the day with while cooking supper together. He would have given up some of his sexual variety for their mutually sustaining coupledom. He wondered whether, perhaps, something in him didn’t prevent him from settling down.

  He poured more than tea into The Queen’s teacup. He poured everything he had, all of himself, and that meant there was little enough time or energy or interest at the end of the day to put into finding and keeping a lover. He knew how the cloth should look on the silver salver. He knew how to hold the cup up to the window so that the light caught its eggshell fragility. He knew how to disappear so noiselessly that The Queen hardly knew he was gone. He had no idea where to look for a man. It had been that way for many years now, and he didn’t expect it to change now that he was middle-aged.

  There were attractive men in the palace, and having grown up in the provinces in a dull town, he liked upper-class men. Plenty of good-looking men fit that description where he worked, mostly army officers on loan. They came and went, often serving no more than two years or three. Of course he noticed them, from the corner of his eye, but it was his job not to let them know he was looking at them; on the whole, they were blind to people they thought of as “servants.” And these young officers in their twenties and thirties generally knew better than to call such as William that. Sometimes they got wine poured on their crotches by mistake as a way of teaching them not to use that word. “Oh dear, I am sorry, sir!” William never disciplined ill-mannered young men in that way, but some of his colleagues did. If a young captain didn’t know already, he quickly learned that William, or anyone else who waited at table, was “a member of staff.” After they got that right, they no more gave it a second thought than they did about having their wineglass silently refilled. They were thinking about what to say next to the person on their right and were worried about not missing the moment when the table would turn, and they must shift to the person on the left. It was a complex, choreographed performance. They were onstage. As far as they were concerned, William merely set the scenery and kept the lights on.