by Kate Klimo
Blimey, I said to myself. Here I am, up with the blooming birds.
At length, we landed with a bump. The hatch creaked open. The footman lifted me up and carried me outside. My nose twitched. We were in a new place. It smelled different—and yet somehow delightfully familiar.
We climbed into another motorcar. As the wind blew through the top of the window, I raised my nose and sniffed. I smelled heathland and honeysuckle. I smelled gorse and heather and the wavy hair grass of my distant youth. I heard the chirp of a wood lark and the melodic song of a warbler. I knew exactly where I was. In the place I was born: Surrey.
And so it came as no surprise when the automobile pulled up to Rozavel Kennels and my dear Thelma stepped out to greet me.
“Hello, Sue!” she said. “Welcome back! You’re looking hale and hearty. And I’ve got just the mate for you! I hope you’ll like him.”
His name was Lucky Strike. He was a dashingly handsome Pembroke corgi, one of Thelma’s champions. Thelma left the two of us alone to get acquainted.
You’re a bit of a celebrity here at the kennel, Lucky Strike told me admiringly.
Is that so? I pretended not to know what he was talking about.
They say you’re a princess who lives in a palace.
My mistress is the princess. I am merely her faithful companion, I said, with what I hoped was becoming modesty.
Said Lucky Strike, I’m honored to meet you.
Charmed, I’m sure, I replied.
With a sniff here and a sniff there, Lucky Strike and I struck up a beautiful friendship.
I stayed at the kennel. Like Lilibet, I soon grew plump and contented. Unlike her, however, I did not suffer the morning sickness. In fact, I was hungry and ate enough for three! Two months later, I gave birth to two lovely pups. Lilibet named them Sugar and Honey. What adorable little darlings they were! They were all head and clumsy paws. And I knew that, from then on, whenever Lilibet went away, I would always have company. In my private quarters at the kennel, I lay on my side while my puppies suckled.
Drink up and grow strong, my babies, I told them. You have your father’s powerful chest. And my fine ears. And only great things lie in store for you.
They gazed up at me through pale, milky eyes.
We just want to snuggle here next to you, said Honey.
We love you so, dear Mummy, said Sugar.
The love I felt was quite unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Afterward, we would fall into a deep sleep, with me lying on my back and my babies draped over me.
When the pups were old enough to travel, we returned to the palace. Lilibet hovered over my basket and cooed at us.
Is she the One? Sugar asked.
Yes, I said. I think you’ll find that she possesses a gift for understanding corgis. In time, you will come to understand her.
As my pups grew stronger, Lilibet was the only human I permitted to pick them up and stroke them.
I must say, it was a most satisfying experience, having a family of my own. After all, Lilibet was busy with her human family now. And while I did not know it at the time, her life was about to get ever so much busier.
Not long after I whelped my puppies in 1949, we all moved into our redecorated quarters at St. James’s Palace. My, but the staff had grown! All of Lilibet’s former servants joined us there—including dearest Bobo. There was Philip’s valet, a chef, and kitchen staff—plus a small army of butlers, footmen, and chauffeurs. Tiny Prince Charles even had his own staff: two Scottish nurses—a mean one named Helen and a gentler one called Mabel. He also had his own footman who served his meals and made sure the royal baby carriage was oiled and in fine working order. Imagine if you had a servant whose job it was to maintain your bicycle!
Philip very much wanted to continue his career in the navy. He had been attending school in the hopes that he might one day be captain of his own vessel. That fall, he was made second-in-command of one of His Majesty’s ships. The only hitch? The ship’s port was on the tiny island of Malta, in the Mediterranean Sea! When doctors informed Lilibet that it would not be safe to bring young Prince Charles to such a place, she decided to join her husband.
She left Prince Charles with me and the pups and the nurses at St. James’s. This may seem odd to you. If your own parents went swanning off somewhere and left you with the servants, some might say they were being neglectful. But no one thought this about Lilibet and Philip. They were just behaving like royals. And if you haven’t gathered this by now, the royals do things differently than the rest of us, don’t they?
My pups and I loved being in the nursery, but only when Mabel was on duty. When Helen came on, we made ourselves scarce. The hatchet face on that one! It was enough to freeze the Welsh blood in our veins! I’m sure she was only safeguarding the royal tot. But I say, really now! Didn’t she know that none of us would ever harm a hair on his dear little head? Hadn’t I drummed that lesson into my pups’ furry little heads from the moment they were weaned?
You mustn’t ever hurt bonnie Prince Charles. Even if he tugs on your fur or pulls your tail, you’re not to turn on him.
What about the other humans, Mum? Honey asked.
You must mind Lilibet and the king and queen—the princess’s mum and dad—for they are your royal sovereigns. As for everyone else, if they bother you, issue a warning growl. If they persist, you have my permission to nip them. Try not to draw blood. Simply make clear that you are not to be trifled with. Sometimes it’s the only way to get humans to behave.
That Christmas of ’49, with Lilibet still away in Malta, I and my pups and Charles went to Sandringham to spend the holiday. Sandringham—yet another of the royal residences—was a big, drafty old pile in Norfolk. But we found ourselves surprisingly cozy there: Sugar and Honey and I, the little prince, the king, the queen, and a modest staff of over a hundred.
How the royal grandparents doted on Prince Charles! I confess that I worried about the king. As happy as he was in the company of his grandchild, I sensed he was in great pain. He reeked of sickness. He had wasted away to a mere shadow of his former self.
What I gathered from the queen, who heard it from her daughter, was that Lilibet was having an absolutely smashing time on Malta. On that faraway island, she wasn’t a princess. She was simply a sailor’s wife. She could do whatever she wished and go wherever she wanted—with no nosy crowds or reporters or photographers pestering her. After five long weeks on Malta, my little lady returned at the end of the holiday. And, oh, how my corgi heart soared.
“Susan!” she told me as she held me and stroked my furry tummy. “I’ve been having such a good time. I drive myself all over the island. Imagine—no chauffeur! I go out alone to get my hair done. Sometimes I shop with my girlfriends. And at night, Philip and I dine and go dancing. And the orange trees on that island! They smell simply heavenly.”
I did not see very much of her during her all-too-brief stay. She was busy visiting with Prince Charles. And by March of 1950, she was gone again. This, as I had come to learn, was life with Lilibet. I was proving that even a dog can develop a Stiff Upper Lip. I tried to make the best of it. And, when the queen, who was just as fond of corgis as Lilibet, took Honey to live with her, I accepted that, too, with good grace.
When next Lilibet returned to us, in May, she was that way again. Yes, dear reader, she was with child. I knew the signs. The pale cheek. The bulge in her tummy. The morning sickness. Fortunately, the little prince was too busy toddling about to sit on his mother’s gradually shrinking lap. Once again, I enjoyed that privilege. Late that summer, Lilibet gave birth to a female pup: Anne Elizabeth Alice Louise.
Shortly after Charles’s second birthday, in November of that same year, Lilibet again left for Malta. And we spent a second Christmas at Sandringham. Being reunited with Honey was great fun. The three of us tore around the halls of the castle until we were quite tuckered out. Then we lay down and caught our breath before leaping up and tearing around some more. Every so often, on
e of us would leave a little squirt at the base of the Christmas tree. After all, what are trees for? Jolly good fun!
As we sat around the tree one night, catching our breath, the queen read a letter. I could sense that it had come from Lilibet because the writing paper smelled of her special sweetness. The queen folded it up with a smile on her face.
“You know,” she said to the king, “I think our daughter likes being the wife of a common sailor. She and Philip are having the time of their lives.”
“That will all stop when she comes to the throne,” the king said glumly.
“I think Lilibet has the gift of being able to enjoy herself whatever the circumstances.”
If the king was gloomy, it was only because he felt so ill. He had a terrible cough, and the hand he reached out to pet me with often burned with fever. How he worried me, the poor man!
I believe it was the king’s declining health that finally brought Elizabeth back to the fold. She arrived just in time to stand in for her father at a parade of the British Royal Army on palace grounds. It was a ceremony steeped in tradition called the Trooping of the Color.
From a window of Buckingham Palace, we all looked down upon the parade grounds, where Lilibet sat upon a big brown horse. She wore a tunic like the soldiers and a cap with a long white plume. I fretted, as did her mum. Lilibet always sat astride her horse, just like a man. But today she rode sidesaddle, like a lady, with both legs slung off to one side. It was probably all in the name of tradition. But what good was tradition if you fell off a horse? Still, she rode with grace and confidence at the head of a long parade of stiff and sober-looking soldiers.
We watched as she drew to a halt, back straight and chin high. In her left hand, she clasped the reins and her crop. With her right hand, she saluted the men as they filed past her for inspection. We were all bursting with pride for our Lilibet.
But the absolute highlight of the day was when his great-uncle Mountbatten boosted the young prince Charles in his arms so his mum could look up and see him at the window. The wee lad lifted his chubby little hand and saluted her.
I say! Ripping good show!
It was February 1952, and my little lady and Philip had just left for another tour in the name of the king. This time, they were off to Africa. Sugar and I were at Sandringham with the grandparents the king and queen, the little prince and princess, and, of course, my Honey.
Our host, His Royal Majesty King George VI, was in excellent spirits. He went out to pursue what had always been, since he was a lad, his favorite blood sport—shooting rabbits.
He must have had a wonderful time because that evening, when he went to bed, he swore to his servant that he would get up tomorrow and go out shooting more rabbits.
I knew the moment I awoke the next morning that something was wildly amiss. Ears perked, I listened. I heard the servants tiptoeing about. I rose from my bed and prowled around, the pups at my heels. Nothing was as it should have been. Servants went about drawing drapes and covering mirrors in black cloth. They spoke in grave whispers. My nostrils twitched. The house smelled different.
It was the smell of death.
What’s happening, Mum? Sugar asked fearfully.
The king is dead, I said in reply. There will be no more rabbit shooting for His Majesty.
Sugar sniffed. I suppose the rabbits will be happy.
Honey let out a forlorn little sigh. But all the rest of us will be very sad. He was always so good to us.
Poor Lilibet! Sugar burst out. She has lost her dear papa!
She will be quite undone when she finds out, I said.
What will happen now? Honey asked.
She will no longer be a sailor’s wife. My little lady will be queen of England.
What does that make us? Sugar asked.
Why, the queen’s corgis, of course, said I.
—
When Lilibet arrived at Sandringham, she looked pale and so very sad. She greeted her sister, Margaret Rose, and her mum, the king’s widow. Her mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. She wept, not just over the loss of her husband but also for her daughter Elizabeth, who was frightfully young for a queen. Lilibet was just about to bid farewell to her father’s body, when she noticed me. I was standing faithfully nearby, expecting nothing, ready to give my all if called upon.
“Susan!” she cried, and swept me up in her arms. I expected her to weep into my ruff. Instead, she murmured, “How I’ve missed you! You should have been there with us in Kenya, my darling. We were staying in a hotel built into a giant fig tree. From its branches, we looked down into the bush upon all sorts of wild animals: rhinos and monkeys and elands and impalas. You would have been quite beside yourself. Then I saw a herd of elephants. They were pink, Susan! Imagine you, herding a pack of pink elephants. And then someone told me that they weren’t pink at all. They had merely been rolling in some pink-colored dust. But I like to think that I saw pink elephants. Oh, Susan, my dear!” She sighed. “How dreadful this all is! Everything will be different now. But I must step up and do the best job I can.”
Later, I overheard one of the maids say that Lilibet was now the fortieth monarch to sit on the English throne since William the Conqueror. When she emerged from the royal bedchamber, the servants all bowed and curtsied before her. They looked at her differently now. She was no longer the king’s daughter, a carefree child of the household. She was a brave young woman taking on a very serious job. The other royals even treated her differently. She (and I) now entered every room first, followed by Philip and then everyone else. And from that day on, dear boys and girls, she ceased to be Lilibet to me and became Elizabeth, Her Royal Highness.
We moved back to Buckingham Palace: Philip and Elizabeth, Charles and Anne, the servants and myself and Sugar. My little lady did not have the crown yet. But with or without a crown, she behaved like a queen and got right down to business. As did we dogs.
Under this new arrangement, Sugar and I—and Honey, when the Queen Mum was in residence, which was often—were given our own quarters. It was a room down the hall from Elizabeth’s, right next to the page’s pantry. As it happened, this was all the Queen Mum’s idea. Her thought was that dogs living in a palace were royalty. Three cheers for the Queen Mum!
Every day, the bell rang to signal that it was mealtime. A page put out a plastic sheet over the carpet outside Elizabeth’s sitting room. He set out silver bowls with our names engraved on them. It took seven people to feed us.
The Palace Clerk typed up the day’s menu and posted it on the kitchen wall. The menu changed daily. My lady consulted on every detail. We never ate food from a can or a bag. We ate steak and rice, poached chicken, and braised liver. When we were at Windsor or Sandringham or one of the other country residences, we ate game—mostly rabbit from which the bones had been removed. We never, ever ate the same thing two days in a row. Elizabeth simply would not stand for it. One time she heard a rumor that someone had served us meat that had been thawed from the deep freeze. She had a stern word in the kitchen over that little bit of carelessness, I can tell you! It was fresh food only for us.
Down in the kitchen, the Royal Chef supervised the preparation of each meal. His assistant carried it to the door. He was met there by a footman, who bore the tray upstairs and over to the corridor outside the sitting room. Then the page took the tray from the footman and filled the bowls on the mat. Sometimes, Elizabeth did the honors. When the weather was fair, we ate outside on the terrace overlooking the gardens.
Immediately following every meal, we went out for Walkies in the garden. When we came back inside, we waited impatiently while the footman dried off our paws with a towel. And then we would drag him back upstairs to the royal apartment to see Her Highness.
We usually arrived just as Bobo did with Elizabeth’s tea tray. We burst in the door behind her, nearly toppling the old girl, and dashed over to greet our adored mistress.
Elizabeth kept a special stool by her bed just for us. We leapt up onto the st
ool and from there onto the bed, where we gave her good-morning kisses.
“Hello, my darlings!” she said, holding us in her arms, wreathed in corgi fur.
No matter how busy her day, Elizabeth always had time to snuggle with us.
We lolled about while she took her bath, which Bobo drew for her at just the right temperature, not too hot and not too cold. Afterward, Bobo helped her dress and did her hair. Then Elizabeth did our hair—or, rather, our fur—giving us each a good brisk brushing. While she groomed us, she often listened to a small portable radio, on which a man with a deep voice spoke of vastly important matters. Elizabeth never wanted to be out of touch with what was happening outside the palace. She carried the radio with her into the private dining room, where breakfast awaited. She liked a boiled egg or toast with a pat of butter from the royal dairy. We watched her eagerly, and she never failed to toss us a bit of buttery toast. She always aimed for me first, then the pups. Age, as I was coming to know—just like royalty—has its privileges.
While she nibbled on toast and sipped Earl Grey tea, she would scan the newspapers, always reading the sports papers first, keeping up with the horse racing news. We were just finishing breakfast when that horrible noise started. It happened every day at exactly the same time, but we never got used to it. We leapt up and ran to the window and complained bitterly.
Down below, a man in a swinging plaid skirt blew into a vile instrument called the bagpipe.
Why, oh why, must we listen to this every day? yowled Sugar.
Why must he play so loudly? howled Honey.
Elizabeth’s great-great-grandmother Queen Victoria started the tradition, I explained to them. And, as you know, the royals are all about tradition.
This is one tradition I wish they would do away with, Sugar moaned.
If I ever get my paws on that bagpipe, Honey groaned, I’ll rip it to pieces, I will.
