The Royal Performer

by Kerrie Noor

  The Royal Performer

  A fairy story for grown-ups

  By

  Kerrie Noor

  www.kerrienoor.com

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  The Royal Performer

  First edition December 09, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 Kerrie Noor.

  Written by Kerrie Noor.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

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  The Secret Apprentice

  Lizzie’s favourite pastimes were juggling and acrobatics, which she loved to do while sliding down her banister, or swinging on a chandelier. After dinner, before the servants even had a chance to grab a tray let alone clear the debris, Lizzie was on the table spinning plates and tossing cups—oblivious to the flying food.

  The rest of the family ducked...

  ‘Watch out, lovers,’ Lizzie would shout in her best cockney voice before propelling herself onto the nearest light fitting and swinging across the room. The family would grab their whisky and run.

  All’s it took was one vodka, a gin, or a couple of glasses of bubbly and Lizzie, roots forgotten, became the real Lizzie; a Lizzie her mother chose to ignore.

  Lizzie was an adrenaline junkie who loved to shock.

  At night as the others slept, Lizzie practised in the kitchen along the steel benches, juggling anything sharp and swirling ladles like batons. She loved anything kitchinie: a cartwheel with a crockpot, a somersault with a saucepan, followed by a few splits on the polished floor.

  Lizzie liked to finish with panache.

  And it was all thanks to a distant cousin, Jimmie Black, who left the family business due to an embarrassing incident with the gamekeeper. He joined a circus, and his name was erased from the family history; which tantalized Lizzie and she kept in contact. Her youth was spent bunking off in disguises from the Lost Properties Department at the palace. Dressed in off-the-peg clothes or Oxfam rejects, she spent her youth loitering around the circus clutching a bag full of leotards.

  Lizzie loved the circus and wanted to be part of it; she wanted to balance on the back of a white stallion in a frilly skirt, swing from the tent tops, and feel the heat of a fire stick as she twirled it about her plump body. Her passion for performing was a bottomless pit, deeper than any feelings for her family or the firm as some liked to call it.

  ‘ I’m sick,’ she’d moan to her nannie and take to her bed. Later, with the good ole pillows-in-the-bed trick and a lizzie is at death’s door, do not even knock note on her bedroom door, Lizzie would escape wearing her favourite red Annie wig or, as the servants were led to believe, the red guinea pig which slept a lot in the corner.

  To Lizzie, lying came as easy as flicking a page in the family album.

  ****

  The Honeymoon and Beyond

  After her marriage to Philip, she insisted on a private celebration of their own involving chandeliers, a leather rope, and a very large polished oak table. Clutching her bouquet between her teeth and sporting a black outfit designed by Cecil B. Demille, she swung from the lights leaving a trail of confetti behind her. Philip’s vision of instructing a shy young girl in the arts of intimacy were shattered as he watched her firm round rump twirl through the air covered in little more than black lace. Phillip was surprised, delighted, and soon learnt to expect the unexpected from his wife. He had a trampoline installed in his bedroom, devised a network of tightropes from his den to her bedroom, and regularly polished the oak table; ready for a repeat performance.

  With just one ring of a bell, he could have her bouncing, swinging, or balancing—rose in her mouth optional—followed by a quick summersault, a cartwheel, and whatever was next on the table.

  And if feeling particularly frisky, he’d give the stairs a good polish, pretend to go out, come back in, toss his hat in the air, and shout, ‘Where’s my girl?’

  Lizzie, with her working class persona, would shout, ‘Oi! Keep your shirt on lover. I’ll be down in a jiff!’ and appear at the top of the stairs juggling jewelled candlesticks and Faberge eggs or balancing a tray of teacakes on her head.

  ‘Afternoon tea, sir?’ she’d say with pose at the bottom. Phil always said ‘yes.’

  And when Philip was feeling down and oppressed with his duties, Lizzie, a woman of surprising intuition, would grab a top hat, slip into her fishnet, and back flip across the hall causing servants to run for cover, grabbing priceless heirlooms on the way.

  ‘Giddy up, our Phil!’ she’d shout before grabbing one of the corgis and flipping it into her top hat for a quick disappearing trick. Phil, appearing from nowhere, would swing a rope her way. ’Lizzie abseiling again,’ the staff would mutter as Philip, clutching his Polaroid, snapped away.

  One picture of Lizzy’s round rear sailing through the air or juggling a fire stick was enough to cheer up any dreary day. On a good day, Lizzie could toss several fire sticks in the air, butter a scone, and retrieve a corgi from her hat, and Phil was always there with his camera.

  In fact, sometimes she even lit the fires herself–if her aim was good.

  Phil had a collection of Polaroid’s, which he shuffled about on his bedroom wall. And he always carried his most recent one in his pocket, which made sitting through any tedious ceremony a breeze.

  Of course, Phil knew all about Jimmie Black; Lizzie told him, spread out on the oak table glowing with pleasure.

  ‘He treats me like an entertainer,’ she sighed, ‘his little apprentice.’ ‘Keep flying,’ he says. ‘And remember, it’s all about entrance and exits.’

  Phil laughed, telling Lizzie her entrance was the best he had ever seen. To him, Jimmie Black was a hero who ignited his Lizzie. After her visits, she always came back happy and adventurous with her imagination as colourful as that peculiar guinea pig that slept on her dressing table.

  ****

  The Burning Question

  For years, Lizzie's antics had gone unnoticed by her mother, a round-faced, cheery-looking woman, whose permanent smile and tilt of her head gave folks the idea she was deaf. Gran was, on the most part, a kindly woman who liked to see people happy. But she did have her limits.

  At night after a respectable amount of gin, Gran (as she was called by those close) often wandered about the palace. Passing the servants with a regal wave, she liked to breathe the evening air, make sure everyone was smiling, and perhaps sit by one of the open fires Lizzie seemed so keen on. There she would ponder about horses, racing, and her daughter...

  What gave her such a glow?

  And why did Philip smirk so at the mention of leather?

  She had watched her daughter sail through four pregnancies with all the ease of a futile peasant. She had seen Phil’s face, normally as glum as a winter’s evening, light up at the mere mention of ‘I wonder what Lizzie’s doing up in her room?’

  Lizzie was a mystery to Gran, along with many other things: the high crockery bill, a floor so polished you could apply your lipstick staring at it, and new burn marks about the fireplaces every night, even in the summer. She looked around the living room and counted the fire extinguishers. Somehow fourteen seemed a little excessiv
e. Gran’s womanly intuition worked overtime, and Lizzie sprung to her mind.

  ‘Eddie!’ she called to one of the servants as he raced by clutching a fire blanket. ‘What are all those dark marks on the wall about. How did they get there?’

  Eddie ran his fingers across his bald parch and talked of an overzealous servant lighting a fire so big one could roast a hog on it. Gran didn’t see the joke.

  ‘But it is on the ceiling, Eddie. Was he juggling it?’

  Eddie laughed a little too loud to be casual.

  Gran sat and stared at the fire, vague conversation of the past floated back to her. There were the servants’ constant reference to trampolines and the like in Phillip’s room, which at the time Gran had put down to either a young man’s overabundance of energy or the installation of a television in the servants’ quarters, heightening their imagination?

  Then there were the refusals of Annie, the maid, to go anywhere near the couple’s floor at certain times.

  ‘It’s the rope,’ she said to Gran. ‘It appears from nowhere like a snake. And besides, he’s always polishing things. I am hardly needed.’

  ‘Polishing? What on earth is that?’

  ‘And there is the leather!’ said Eddie. ‘I thought this family was trying to go green!’

  ‘That’s just the prince, dear,’ Annie said.

  Gran finished her gin. Coping with more than one servant at a time was such a trial.

  ‘I can live with the ropes,’ continued Eddie. ‘I can cope with the constant use of fire blankets, but could you speak to them about the daily slide down the banister.’

  Gran closed her racing guide, ‘Banister? They slide down the banister?’ She sighed. ‘I guess I’ll have to talk to her now!’

  Once Gran found out about her daughter, and that she was the last to know, Gran felt it was her duty to show suitable distaste. She called Lizzie into her inner sanctum preparing herself for the giving of a good dressing down.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ she said. She always said Elizabeth when trying to show disapproval. ‘Do you really think it appropriate for the servants and the like to see you with your dress above your head and your suspenders on show?’

  ‘I don’t wear suspenders, Mother.’

  Gran sniffed.

  ‘ Although I have been known to wear the odd G-string when Phil is a bit down.’

  Gran closed her eyes. Sometimes Lizzie could be so earthy. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’

  Lizzie said nothing.

  ‘Do you think I am blind?’

  Lizzie looked at her shoes.

  Gran asked her daughter how long this swinging lark had been going on and when Lizzie muttered something about school days, Gran nearly choked on her gin.

  Lizzie looked away.

  Gran’s hand shook a little as she poured herself another, this time skipping the tonic. ‘This is all due to that damnable Steve, isn’t it? And that bloody wig he gave you! I told George to throw it away, but would he listen? Oh no, not George. Whatever makes Lizzie happy. Let her think it’s a guinea pig, where’s the harm? That’s what he said.’

  Gran glanced over the rim of her gin and looked at her daughter.

  ‘He always spoiled you and now look where it has got you; swinging about the palace, underwear on show for all to see. And the fires! What do you think we are made of, money? Coal does not come cheap you know.’

  Lizzie continued to look at her feet.

  ‘And where is Steve now? Prancing about on some bit of high-wire dressed in tights I suppose.’

  ‘He lives in a home for ex-circus people. ‘

  Lizzie thought about her cousin who had turned into a whisky-swilling, groin-scratching old cynic whose only memory of the past was stuck up on the walls behind his bed; photographs of a dashing young man with a glint in his eye for anything that moved and was over the legal age.

  Lizzie told her mother in diluted form her past. She spoke of her passion for white stallions, standing on their strong backs twirling batons to the cheer of the crowd. She reminisces about the joy of acrobatics and mastering the art of ten somersaults down the stairs to the applause of Philip and the ‘staff.’

  Gran listened...stunned and confused. She thought ropes were for scouts, leather for horses, and fire was for sitting by. It never occurred to her that lighting one could be so...exhilarating.

  That night, Gran sat at the top of the great banquet table, squeezed into a pale blue evening gown with an annoying sash stretched across her chest. Her back was close to one of Lizzie’s over-the-top fires, and she was sweating uncomfortably. She fanned her face with a Historic Scotland placemat while listening to the drones of a governor of some godforsaken peninsula about how ‘the abandonment of white was the ruination of cricket’.

  She let out a long sigh. Who cares?

  She stared at the chandeliers. Was swinging the secret of a happy marriage? Did juggling brighten up a dull day of ceremonies? She stared at her lukewarm wine. All those days wearing hats she hated, gloves that made her hands sweat, and shaking hands with someone whispering in her ear.

  ‘That’s the manager of so-and-so charity, mam.’

  ‘Ambassador of so-and-so country, mam.’

  ‘The leader of so-and-so, mam.’

  She felt let down. Maybe twirling a few oranges might help; although who was going to watch her, she had no idea.

  After dessert, she refused the coffee and drams claiming ‘One felt dizzy’ and headed down the long corridor to the kitchen.

  It took her a while to find the light switch and even longer to take in what she saw. She had no idea that so many things were required for cooking. She poked at packets and ran her fingers across the shiny pots. Master Chief and British bake-off had a lot to answer for she thought, pulling open a large dishwasher and allowing it to snap shut again.

  Finally, she came across the larder. She pulled open the door, fumbled for yet another switch, and walked in. Perhaps there is something jugglie she thought, maybe an orange or plum?

  She began to rifle through the shelves and was just in the process of sniffing a jar of cinnamon when a footman coughed from behind.

  ‘Mam, the health and safety officer is here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘There have been complaints about things...’

  ‘And what has that to do with oranges and me?’ said Gran as she put on her sweetest smile.

  ‘Mam, the palace is opened to the public and people do not want to be tripping over ropes and the like or looking at burn marks.’

  ‘This is a job for the man of the house,’ said Gran, clutching a bag full of oranges. With a small skid on the polished floor, she headed for her room.

  ****

  The Return of the Health and Safety Man

  In the end, it was suggested by those who ran things that a ban be placed on all acrobatic sessions in the palace except public holidays and birthdays, which was completely useless to Lizzie and Phillip as public holidays were a workday for them.

  ‘How are we to swing and wave at the same time?’ said Lizzie. ‘I mean, there are no ropes and such on the balcony, are there?’

  Phil took a sip of his now flat real ale for real men and sighed. How would he get through the day let alone next week’s birthday celebrations?

  Lizzie, spurred on by Phil’s downcast face, took things into her own hands. She decided if the only time she could practise her talents was on a public holiday, so be it. And with a don’t knock I am at death’s door note on her bedroom door, she bunked off.

  Phil was all for it, stating that they wouldn’t even be missed if they weren’t on the balcony. What with the pipe bands and horses down below and their children and grandchildren filling up the balcony, who was going to miss them? And it’s not like Hello or even Woman’s Weekly were knocking at their door anymore. Lizzie said, ‘We’re old news. We haven’t been snapped in weeks.’

  Phil set up his ropes for a quick Lizzie swing.

  Lizzie was poise
d and ready with a new red, white, and blue outfit she had purchased on eBay. She slid down the stairs, grabbed a rope, swung to a chandelier and then, with a few cartwheels, ended in the kitchen. She was just contemplating a new twist on the old splits position for Phil’s camera when a footman coughed from behind.

  ‘Mam, the health and safety officer is here.’

  ‘Who?’ said Lizzie. She turned to see a round man of five foot nothing enter with a clipboard and a suit too large for him. He didn’t smile or bow but looked straight into Lizzie’s eyes.

  ‘There have been complaints...’ he said.

  Lizzie looked up with her best coquettish smile which no one ever noticed. ‘And what has that to do with me? Is this not something for the man of the house?’

  ‘Is that not you?’ he said with a blank face.

  The health safety officer had no time for such an argument. He was fed up working his way through the various barriers and guards explaining who he was. No one, as far as he was concerned, was above the laws of health and safety. And if members of the public were at risk of rope tripping, then it was up to him to save them.

  ‘Mam,’ he said, ‘the man of the house in these modern times is but a figurative term, and you, it would seem, is it.’

  Lizzie was speechless.

  ‘Is the palace not in your name, the council tax?’ he said.

  Lizzie was now confused. She looked at Phil, he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Isn’t there a servant for such things?’ she finally muttered.

  The health and safety officer didn’t hear. He was busy looking about the kitchen and could tell with just a glance that something fishy was going on.

  ‘What is the purpose of this harness?’ he said. ‘And you do know that leather can’t be sterilised.’ He fingered a chain swinging from a hook and sighed.

  ‘You feed the public from this kitchen. It must be fit for that purpose and that purpose alone,’ he said. ‘It seems that the floor is of a high polished standard, possible for dancing.’ He caught Lizzie eye. ‘Maybe the splits?’

  ‘As if one would split, so to speak, before an agar,’ said Gran, entering the kitchen clutching a gin.