Falling for Prince Charles

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  The topic open for discussion would appear to be the Future King of England’s engagement to a commoner, a foreigner, a Jew, and a cleaning lady—all rolled into one.

  Erika Swythe was speaking now, but that was nothing new. Erika Swythe had been addressing the topic, heartily, for some two hours now.

  “Now, then, the ways I understands it, is that this Archbishop character says that this is all hunky dory. And it’s a fine thing to say that wot people be doin’ behin’ closed doors is their own business, but that only holds true if wot they’re doin’ isn’t everyone else’s business. If you take my meaning. Why, just the other day, I tol’ my son, Bernie, I says: ‘Bernie, don’t you dare put your filthy drawers out on the line without puttin’ some soap on ’em first, or I’ll whack you with my fist.’ Those were my exact words, yes, they were. And he did, too. If you ask me, the whole world would be a much better place if corporals were punished. And that goes double for some o’ them wot think they’re better’n the rest o’ us. If they had to bend over and take it every now and again like we do, well, you can bet they’d think twice first, they would. You’d better believe it…”

  26

  The Queen’s own private dick, who operated under the title of Chief of Security, wasn’t having a very good afternoon. He quaked before his boss, as she stood there, holding the damning sheets with both hands.

  “You were responsible for vetting Ms. Sills—or, perhaps One should say Miss Silverman? The toilet bowl cleaner?—HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE KNOWN? Was there not any information on her passport—like her NAME, for instance—that might have tipped the hand? The report of your initial investigation stated nothing about the fact that she is JEWISH. Was your snooping so lackadaisical that it failed to turn up this rather salient tidbit of information?”

  “Actually, it… it did, Ma’am.”

  “It WHAT?”

  “The information was there.”

  “It was there and you failed to mention it? Why?”

  The Chief of Security cleared his throat nervously, coughing into a fist that was clenched tightly enough to strangle a plover.

  “It, er, didn’t, er, seem worth mentioning at the time.”

  “My son, Heir to the Throne, has been escorting this… this… woman all over the Kingdom, with the intent of marrying her, and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning to Us that she just happened to be of the Jewish faith, or that her chosen field of economic endeavor just happened to include PLUNGING HER ARM IN AND SCRUBBING UNDER THE RIM OF TOILET BOWLS?”

  The Chief of Security squirmed. “But she seemed like such a nice girl, Ma’am. And, you know yourself, the Prince hasn’t looked so happy in years. If ever, come to think of it. And, besides, Ma’am,” he added hastily, “it wasn’t as though I’d found out that she was an axe murderess or anything drastic like that. Now that, you can be certain, I definitely would have reported.” The Chief of Security thrust back his shoulders, pretending an indignant response to the perceived offense to his dignity that even he could not quite convince himself that he felt.

  This was the worst day in the history of Palace Security since that scandal in the early ’80s, when those idiots had fallen asleep at the switch, allowing that nut Michael Fagan free entrée into the Queen’s boudoir, compounding their colossal boner by refusing to respond promptly when summoned by their Monarch for assistance in the removal of the intruder. Why, they’d all but turned down Her Majesty’s sheets for the man. Surprisingly, the Queen had taken that entire episode quite well. Considering.

  Her reaction to this, on the other hand, was much stronger—not to say, angrier, in a very Henry VIII sort of way. And the entire matter was being laid at his feet.

  “Not an axe murderess? Oh, my, We are grateful,” his boss was saying now.

  The Chief of Security breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  “We must content Ourselves with THAT, must We? Not an AXE MURDERESS? The next thing One knows, there will be strange men IN OUR BED AGAIN!”

  The injustice of it all! he thought to himself, as he shifted his bulk from one bunioned foot to the other.

  His mother was right: he should have become a bobby instead. Might as well serve the common good. For all of the gratitude he was getting around here.

  27

  If the episode involving Fleet Street had shared similar characteristics with an unpleasantly thorough rectal exam, the ensuing encounter with The Firm was fast taking on the flavor of the Inquisition. They were once again all back in the Queen’s Royal Closet, only this time, there wasn’t any banquet awaiting any of them—unless, of course, you consider Sizzled Daisy to be a newfangled R.F. version of missionary stew. For, they had her submissively seated in a chair—albeit with comfy cushions—while they most politely took turns circling around her, like cannibals with good party manners. As she squidgeed around in her seat, Daisy realized that the balance of power had definitely shifted again.

  “Did you really touch my son’s person with those… cleaning lady’s hands?” the Queen asked.

  “You’re a fine one to go around telling others how to act, when you yourself are no more than—” and here the Queen’s little sister’s cheeks filled up with air, like a balloon, while she strained to think up a scathing enough epithet to affix to her own accusation, “—no more than a product of imagination.”

  “I say, Aunt Margaret,” Prince Andrew generously conceded, impressed, as he stood there with his hands in his pockets, “that was rather articulately put.” Then he began to circle Daisy, thoughtfully, yet eager to ask the one question that had been burning in his mind for some time now, but which he had never had the chance to query her about before. For, while he had danced with Daisy before, had enjoyed ample opportunities for leering at her, he had never really felt that he’d had the right opening for asking his question. But now, thankfully, he could finally put it to her.

  Bending down so that his face was level with hers, he asked his question with a patently admiring incredulity. “Did you really say that books on tape were the literary equivalent of the vibrator?”

  Before he could achieve the fulfillment of an answer, however, his sister had to go and shove her big nose into things.

  “Mummy, does this mean that I can’t take Daisy to Africa with me?”

  “Except for that one dance in Scotland, I never even got the chance to play with her,” Edward added, petulantly, waging an internal debate on whether or not he should stalk off to phone Jodie to tell her that there was going to be a slight change in the script.

  “What is wrong with you people?” Daisy cried in exasperation. She was having some trouble digesting the fact that while her own relationship with Charley lay shattered at her feet, the only thing that they seemed to be concerned with was their own petty problems.

  “You people are like a bunch of caged animals,” she continued. “Sometimes, I think that you spend too much time together, all cooped up in this place. In fact, I think that you all should just get—”

  “DON’T YOU DARE!” roared the Duke, sighting along his extended arm with its accusatory finger, as though it were a fencing sword. “Don’t even think about it! After all of the faith and trust I put into you… Now we shall probably have to all go back to watching Oprah.”

  “For goodness’ sakes,” Daisy objected, “don’t do that. Most of you are already skinny enough as it is. Besides, when people watch those shows, they always end up feeling like they should change something, the only problem being that the things that they end up wanting to change are the wrong things. But you of all people should be able to appreciate how damaging it can be. A human being is not something to be molded like… like… oh!… like Jell-O and bananas!”

  “Jell-O?” the Queen Mother asked, showing a sincerely caring interest. “What’s that, dear?”

  “Oh, Mother,” her daughter—the Queen—cried, throwing up her arms in defeat. Circumstances had fast spun completely out of her con
trol.

  There was only one individual left in the room who had not as yet spoken. Approaching Daisy, he did so now.

  Wearing an even more puzzled expression than his customary one, Charles, with the utmost of gentleness, took both of her hands into his own.

  “Why, Daisy? Why did you lie about your name… your religion… your job? Why did you lie to me?”

  She gave a tiny Max-like shrug of the shoulders—a gesture perfected from childhood years of watching the Grinch with her non-Jewish friends—and made an attempt at a winning half-smile.

  “Because it seemed like a good idea at the time?” she wincingly responded, more as though she were asking than telling, really. “Besides, who could get a word in edgewise? I mean, I thought for sure that, with those ears and everything, you’d be a good listener. Turned out to be not much different than any other man. Given a wide enough opening, you just go on about yourselves forever. And I never really intended to lie; it was just that I coughed and you heard me wrong and by the time I went to fix it, it was too late. And you were the one who just automatically assumed that my father must have been some kind of homburg honcho, some kind of pharaoh of the fedoras or something. And I never lied about my religion, but the chain just got lost and besides, you never even asked. Sometimes, I honestly think that you people just think that everybody else thinks the way you do. And, as for my job… oh, yeah, right. Like I’m really going to go through life saying, ‘Daisy Silverman, glad to know you. But, hey, don’t shake the hand until I’ve told you where it’s been.’ I mean, come on! Give me some credit. And, anyway,” she added, with a small sad sigh, finishing up on a listless note. Having peaked early, she’d plumb run out of steam. “Your life was always much more interesting than mine was.”

  “That does not answer the most important question!” The Queen was attempting to wrest the control of events back again. “WHAT DO YOU INTEND TO DO ABOUT THIS?”

  Daisy nearly wilted under the unforgiving glare of the Queen.

  “CHARLES?” the Queen insisted, making it clear by the focusing of her attentions, that she had no longer any interest in the world in hearing anything Daisy might have to say about anything. Ever. “There are traditions, protocol, procedures to be followed. Attention must be paid… Of course, everything can probably still be fixed up, provided, that is, that she is willing to remain in the background, with her legs crossed and her mouth shut. NOT like…”

  Triumph and disaster were both now very real concepts for Daisy. Having seen how she dealt with the one, it was anyone’s guess how she would deal with the other.

  Daisy Silverman bestowed one last wistfully longing look upon the face of the man whom she had come to adore.

  Then she bolted.

  28

  Daisy was running through the palace again.

  Only this time, she was fully conscious of the fact that she was running for her life.

  How had she ever gotten herself into this mess in the first place?

  If only she had been content to stay at home with her two hands wrapped safely around a good book, she thought to herself, instead of taking her chances with stupid lotto tickets. Herbert had always warned her that no good ever came from living off money that you didn’t earn yourself. Unless, of course, your daddy gave it to you.

  If only Charley really had been all ears, like he had promised. Okay, so maybe everybody wouldn’t have lived happily ever after, with the first Archbishop/Rabbi ceremony for a Windsor ever taking place in Prague, but still, at least then everybody would have known where he or she had stood and could have acted like responsible adults accordingly. Yeah, right.

  If only she had been genetically predisposed to be a seeing person, instead of a smelling person. If only the Queen had been possessed of any senses at all. If only…

  Hey, wait a second here.

  She pulled herself up short, looking at the thousands of images of Daisy through the doors of the Principal Corridor, as her reflection bounced back at her from out of the mirrors situated at the opposite ends of the hallway.

  Was she beginning to go off on one of these co-dependent types of tangents, trying to pass herself off as a victim? Was she blaming any and all outside agents for her own circumstances? Was she, was her very life, becoming—heaven forfend—Oprah fodder?

  She decided to take charge of her life and thus, began to run again. She sprinted towards the jasmine refuge of the Yellow Suite. She flew over the tiresome, tedious, infinite, endlessly ongoing red.

  And as she flew, she found herself allowing for one last, teensy-tiny “if only” outward-agent responsibility type of question.

  So, okay, even she knew all about her cruel stepsisters by now; how the press had exposed her; how Parliament had demanded her excisement, as though she were some sort of painful boil on the bum of the British Empire.

  But who the heck was her cruel stepmother then? For it only stood to reason that there had to be one still lurking in there, somewhere in the woodpile. Who had tipped her hand, started the ball rolling, made it possible for the other two to really give it to her good?

  Was it the nefarious Duke, him with all of his poisons? Or the Archbishop of Canterbury who, for God alone knew what reason, had failed to take to her in the way that others usually did? Could it be perhaps the Queen herself, Daisy wondered, her mind flashing on a memory of that gently uncompromising profile?

  (It really was a good thing, that she didn’t know about the Master of the Household’s wife’s little sis’s burning need to rid herself of her virginity—again—back in August. Else, that might have set her off on a whole other string of “what ifs.”)

  Well, no matter, she finally shrugged. Very soon, she would be outta here.

  29

  Daisy had already begun packing, when Pacqui called.

  “I told you so,” were the very first words out of his mouth, after the palace switchboard had patched him through.

  “Oh,” she muttered in frustration, casting about for something equally searing to say. Somehow, “go put a sock in it” didn’t seem sufficient to the occasion. And she really was at the end of her rope, otherwise she never would have spoken so witheringly to such a good friend, one who had really only ever held her best interests at heart.

  “Why don’t you just… ooh!… go to an embassy party or something!” she shouted. Then she slammed the phone into its cradle.

  • • •

  Bonita finally caught up with Daisy at Heathrow Airport.

  “Lose something, dear?” she cried, tossing an object into the air, where it flew, shining over the heads of all of the others who were queuing to board the plane.

  Daisy, dropping her carry-on and, relinquishing her place at the head of the line, leapt, snatching the luminously radiant thing out of the air just at the nick of time, right as the ephemerally shimmering object was about to make its exit, disappearing into the windy gap between the boarding tunnel and the terminal.

  “What the heck…?” Daisy gazed, dumbfounded, at Rachel’s Star of David, where it lay across her palm.

  “Might need it later.”

  “Where did you…?”

  “Where you’re going.”

  “How did you…? You weren’t even there today.” Daisy’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh… It was you! You turned me in. You snitched to the press. You sent the message in a box.” Daisy stared at Bonita, her own eyes wide as double-latte saucers. When she spoke again, it was in a voice that was peculiarly reminiscent of Shecky Green. “You’re my evil stepmother?”

  “Only one you’ve got,” said Bonita, who was ready to move on to another topic.

  But Daisy was not yet ready to renounce her role as Inspector Javert. “You were the one who started them telling all of those lies about me—”

  “No, Daisy, I was the one who finally told them the truth.” Bonita was at long last throwing personal pronouns incautiously to the four winds.

  “But why? I hadn’t meant anybody any harm.
And, besides, it wasn’t as though I really did any of it on purpose.”

  To this, using the exact same words that had been passed down through the ages—from Eve to Medea to June Cleaver—coined for the all-purpose duty of verbally alibiing the compulsion to wipe baby’s bottom or eat one’s children or interfere with one’s progeny’s choice of prom date or otherwise engage in general meddling around in the growing child’s affairs, Bonita responded, “Did it for your own good.”

  Daisy merely shook her head in childless mystification.

  “Besides, somebody had to stop you. You’d gotten way out of control.”

  The public address system, overhead, announced last call for Daisy’s flight.

  Daisy looked at Bonita and thought about Charley.

  Once upon a time, she had made a single pile of all of her winnings. Now the time had come for her to risk it all on one last game of pitch-and-toss. Now it was time to return to her beginnings.

  Daisy kissed Bonita on the cheek.

  Then she hopped on the plane.

  30

  Meanwhile, back at the palace…

  After years of dedicated service, Sturgess was finally giving his employer a piece of his mind. And, really, he only had his best interests at heart.

  “Snap out of it, Sir. This is real life now, not a rehearsal! Ye canna sit on ye’re thumbs for the rest of it, Sir, just a waitin’ fer things ta happen ta ye. YE’RE NOT SOME BLOODY TWIG IN SOME BLOODY STREAM. Go after her, Charley!”

  31

  For the first time in a very long time, Daisy found herself giving thanks for the meal she was about to eat. And what food! Creamed chicken, six peas, four julienned carrots, and a square of plastic cake with pretentious delusions of chocolate that should have been embarrassed to even call itself by that noble name.