The Queen’s Envoy
Extracts from the Oh So Secret Diaries of Lord David
By Lord David Prosser
Author of My Barsetshire Diary
~~~~~~~~~~~~
United Kingdom – United States – Australia
Copyright @ 2011, David Prosser
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Title: The Queen’s Envoy: Extracts from the Oh So Secret Diaries of Lord David
Date of Publication: 2011
Printed in the United Kingdom
Table of Contents
Forward by Lord David Prosser
Thursday, January 17, 1991
Who’s the Daddy!
Friday, January 18, 1991
The Solicitor’s Promise
Saturday, January 19, 1991
Lords Above!
Sunday, January 20, 1991
Breaking the News
Monday, January 21, 1991
The Visitor Arrives
Wednesday, Jan 23, 1991
The Wad of Money
Friday, January 25, 1991
The Oil Treaty.....23
Saturday, January 26, 1991
Russian Face Off
Sunday, January 27, 1991
The Threat of the Latex Glove
Monday January, 28, 1991
The Thought of Murder
Wednesday, January 30, 1991
The Theft of Socks
Monday, Nov 25, 1991
Bertie Returns
Tuesday, November 26, 1991
The Frosty Reception
Wednesday November 27, 1991
The Perils of Prunella
Thursday, November 28, 1991
Alvin and the Chipmunks
Friday, November 29, 1991
Lost On My Way to the Kitchen
Saturday, November 30, 1991
Joyous Homecoming
Sunday, December 1, 1991
The Lord and Religion
Sunday, December 8, 1991
The Birthday
Wednesday, December 25, 1991
Christmas Day
Thursday January 2, 1992
Nightmare in Gay Paree, or How I became the Crow
Friday, January 3, 1992
Fashion Parade
Saturday, January 4, 1992
A Chance Encounter
Sunday, January 5, 1992
The Quick Trim
Wednesday, July 15, 1992
Departure and the Birthday Pillow
Monday, October 4, 1993
Sir Bertie and the Indiscreet Letters
Tuesday, October 5, 1993
The Subtle Taxi Driver
Wednesday, October 6, 1993
If I Told You I’d Have to Kill You
Thursday, October 7, 1993
The Heir Hunter
Friday, October 8, 1993
Cold Packs for the Pain
Saturday, October 9, 1993
The Superb Play
Sunday, October 10, 1993
A Walk in the Park
Monday, October 11, 1993
A Royal Blush
Tuesday, October 12, 1993
Hitting the Jackpot at Home
Monday, September 5, 1994
The Results
Tuesday, September 6, 1994
The Pianist
Thursday, July 8, 1999
A Room with a View
Friday, July 9, 1999
Mustapha Asks a Favor
Saturday, July 10, 1999
The Holiday-Day
Sunday, July 11, 1999
Knife in the Night
Monday, July 12, 1999
The Infection
Foreword
By Lord David Prosser
I know that most biographies will enthral you with the childhood and early life of the subject. Some will entertain, some will enthral and others will thrill. Mine would only bore.
Suffice it to say that I was born, was schooled and then I worked. That way I shall not bore you Dear Readers, and we can get to the meat of this, my life.
We shall start this story at my rebirth, when all things changed and adventure began. So, Dear Reader, I offer you my world from when it was new and a Lord was born. So, let's view some of my diary entries from that time.
I would like to thank the following people to whom this book is dedicated.
Ilil Arbel, without whose prodding I might never have written. Blame Her!
Gary Morgenstein, for letting me bend his ear and for accepting my friendship.
Kenn Gold, for taking a chance on an unknown writer and publishing a new work.
Lis Eastwood, for ensuring my English was the right side of the channel.
Pauline Yudowitz. The word NICE was written for her, someone who prompted me to try and encouraged me despite reading a chapter.
Michael Frankel, for being a good brother and letting me insult his cars.
James Parris For his real friendship and good humour
Lee James, Jen, and my Brother Dilwyn for being my family, poor fools.
My nieces Karen and Joanne for their constant nagging which kept me indoors a lot.
Lady Victoria, with thanks for suggesting I have a sense of fun. Enjoy it.
My wife Julia and Daughter Yvonne, for being who they are and supporting me when I was a starving writer by keeping the sandwiches and coffee coming.
Thursday, January 17, 1991
Who’s the Daddy!
What an excellent birthday. I had taken a few days off work to make this a long weekend. By 10 am I had followed Ysabel round the house and the local streets carefully removing all signs that said '40 TODAY', as I considered that I could manage without the advertising. At age fourteen, I don't think she understood the full meaning of discretion.
We had an excellent lunch at The Flying Pig, and I even indulged in a pint of bitter. Needless to say, I wore my birthday gifts for the occasion.
From Ysabel, fluorescent orange socks with 'Who's the Daddy?' written on them, and a heavily flowered shirt in turquoise designed to make me 'cool'.
From Julia a pair of jeans indicative of her urge to bring me into the twentieth century. Also, a new waistcoat which was reminiscent of our old brocade curtains but which she knew I loved, which reminded me to check to see if we still had the curtains later.
We got home at about 4.00 pm just in time to catch the phone ringing. It was my solicitor’s secretary asking if we would be available to call in at twelve o'clock the following day. I was off work with no set plans so I agreed.
Recently I had learned that my father's, mother's, brother's son, whom I couldn’t decide was my second cousin or my first cousin once removed, was ill and close to the end. His name was Enoch (pronounced E-noch rather than Ee-noch as some say) and I'd never met him but it was likely that I would be asked to make his funeral arrangements.
The rest of today was quiet, interrupted only by people phoning with birthday wishes and the usual jokes about my life going downhill from here on in. An episode from X-Files and I was ready for bed, that is, once I could persuade the damned cat to unoccupy it first.
Friday, January 18, 1991
The Solicitor’s Promise
Julia drove me into Barchester and we arrived at Mr Figg-Newton's at 12.00 prompt. He was waiting for us in the recept
ion and ushered us into his room. I was fully expecting to hear about the death of my... relative, but was surprised when he said, “Well, Mr. Prosser, what are we to do? It seems your little bump in the car last week occurred with the wife of a councillor of Praisewater close to where you live. She's suggesting the damage was quite severe and is considering court action. What would you like me to do?”
I saw Julia's expression which looked explosive so I quickly responded to the question.
“Mr Figg-Newton”, said I. “I want you to accept that my wife was not responsible for the accident. We were both in the car when it happened, and not only was our car not moving, it was actually in a parking bay at the local supermarket. I should point out that this idiot woman actually caught our rear light but all she sustained was a small scratch along the side of her car”.
“I see”, said Mr Figg-Newton. “So her claim that her front light and bumper were damaged is untrue?”
“Indeed”, I said, “she cornered sharply in the car park, hit our rear light with the passenger side of her car and ran on a few feet leaving scratches. I have no doubt that she's had another accident since then and is hoping to find an idiot to pay for it all”.
“I shall look into this further”, said Mr Figg-Newton showing us to the door. “I shall be in touch anon”.
Julia was seething somewhere just south of the boiling point. It wouldn't take much for her to drive into Praisewater and seek out the councillor and his devious wife. I distracted her with the thought of some new shoes and more so with a new bridle for the horse.
At 3.00 pm we were home again. Though we hadn't stopped on the journey, I noticed she glanced at the Praisewater Council offices as we passed through.
I settled on the couch for a while with a coffee, Oscar having appropriated my chair, or, what he actually considered to be one of his. I was glancing through the local paper while Julia adjusted the bridle and Ysabel, now home from school, taught Joey the budgie how to drink from her cola tin in order to watch him having hiccups.
At 4.00 pm the phone rang. Again it was Mr Figg-Newton's secretary asking me to call again on the following day at 12.00. I was surprised to find him working on a Saturday but I agreed to go.
After dinner we had a game of Trivia which I won, having a good memory for such fluff. I refused to play Monopoly on the grounds I never won and always ended up declaring myself bankrupt after about twenty minutes, while everyone else had multi storey hotels on their Water Works just waiting to catch me. And I swear my criminal record must have been second to none, considering the amount of times I had to “Go Directly to Jail without passing Go”.
Saturday, January 19, 1991
Lords Above!
I attended Mr Figg-Newton at 12.00, fully expecting him to require a written statement about the accident. He'd surprised me by asking to see me alone and so I passed my wallet to Julia, feeling its fear the while, and told her to go round a shop she liked and I'd catch her up - hopefully before my wallet expired from lack of funds.
Mr Figg-Newton ushered me into his office with a “Please enter and sit sir”, which I found strangely formal. I did so.
“You are aware that your relative has been ill”, he said. I nodded agreement. “It is my duty to inform you that he has passed away, My Lord”.
“My Lord? Mr Figg-Newton, what do you mean?”
He told me that my cousin had been Lord of the Manor of Bouldnor, and, as the eldest male and because there was no named successor, the title now fell to me. Though it did not make me a Peer of the Realm, and did not come with an estate, I retained the rare privilege of being able to grant a market should I so wish. At that I think I felt a little underwhelmed. He did remind me that the bearing of a title carried certain duties to which I had given no thought, and I rapidly developed a feeling of responsibility. I received a document from him verifying the transfer of the title and made to leave.
He stopped me with a gesture. “By the way”, he said, “I almost forgot. I phoned the other driver this morning. I accidentally referred to you as Lord Prosser before I'd told you, and she suddenly decided to take no further action. Said she'd pay for the repairs herself. Edna something or other, strange woman. A good news day all round for you”.
I met Julia at the store and we headed for the coffee bar. I was pleased to see not too many bags and my wallet breathed a sigh of delight as it was returned safely. I sat her down and went to order two lattes. By the time the young lady on the counter had run the verbal gamut of all the choices available with and without syrups, I'd almost changed my mind. Eventually I ordered two plain lattes. I returned to the table and sat down.
“Right My Lady”, I said to Julia, “your latte is on its way”.
She looked at me a little oddly.
“Lady Julia Prosser of Bouldnor, may I introduce myself? Lord David Prosser of Bouldnor, delighted to make your acquaintance”.
By now I could see she was considering that her next purchase should be a strait jacket pour moi, so I gave her the news. Ever the pragmatist, all she replied was, “Well, we've not lived in the village very long. The locals will adjust”.
We had in fact only moved in a month ago to be closer to my job in Local Government as the daily travelling was getting to be too much. It occurred to me then to wonder how my employer and colleagues would react when I passed on my news. I guessed they'd react quite well if I kept the cheering down as I handed in my notice.
Julia and I, (Ysabel having gone to a friend for the night) decided to celebrate with a visit to the local pub. Lady J, as I now called her, had a red wine and I had a half pint of the local brew which is guaranteed to have you on your knees doing Toulouse Lautrec impressions after two glasses.
Smiley Jackson, the landlord of the Fursty Ferret, brought the drinks to the table.
“On the house, My Lord”, he said. (Twenty years later and I still don't know how he knew).
After two glasses of wine and three halves of local brew, Lady J took me home. Somehow I seem to have learned a new song about a mademoiselle from Armentieres?
Sunday, January 20, 1991
Breaking the News
Lady J was busy phoning round to let the family know what had happened. My nieces were delighted, especially when she explained I was still Uncle David to them. Her sister Mumu is married to Baron Caslav, and while he was delighted at the news, she seemed less so. That was not unusual as they are very competitive girls. There is no doubt that they love each other dearly and if either were in trouble the other would be there, but the rest of the time, sight or sound of each other could make a person’s hair stand on end. There are barbs in every sentence they speak to each other, just waiting to entangle any fool stupid enough to try and intervene. I remember Mumu saying “Oh how nice dahling, now you can join the upper echelons of society”. Julia later translated this for me to mean “at least you won't be peasants anymore”.
We ate at home that day as I had a slight headache, which I put down to the shock of the previous day or so. I spent much of the day lying down and contemplating my future. Julia spent much of the day on the various phone calls and Ysabel taught Joey how to play football with an old ping-pong ball.
Monday, January 21, 1991
The Visitor Arrive
I took Lady J her bucket of coffee quite early this morning in case she decided to go to the stables. Oscar decided to say he loved me by entwining himself around my ankles on my way out of the bedroom. Down I went.
My head now on a level with his, I received a head butt and a miaow loud enough to remind me I hadn't fed him. That's what I love about Oscar, his subtlety.
I had a shower after feeding the cat and although I knew it wasn't yet eight, I heard Lady J take a phone call. As I came out to get dressed she told me she'd received an odd call from a man asking that I made sure I was available and at home at 9.00 am.
As Julia went off to see to her horse, I settled with a coffee to wait. At 9.00 promptly there was a knock at the do
or. I answered it to find on my doorstep a gentleman dressed in a smart pinstripe suit.
“Good morning, My Lord”, he said, “I am Bertram Threadneedle, and I should be most grateful for a few minutes of your time”.
I invited him in and waved him through to the lounge. I just knew that wherever he sat it would leave his suit covered in grey hair from Oscar as all seats were of course his. He declined a coffee so I sat down to finish mine while he talked.
The Queen's Envoy (The Barsetshire Diaries) Page 1
