The Queen's Corgi

by David Michie

  ‘Who?’ She pretended not to have been listening. I could tell she was just being officious and knew exactly who he was talking about.

  ‘The one with the loud shirts,’ he continued.

  ‘Nelson Mandela.’

  ‘That’s him. He called her Elizabeth. Don’t think she minded so much in his case.’

  My mind was bursting with questions. ‘Apart from having a title, is she just like other humans?’ Winston snorted. I came to know that this most Winstonian of characteristics—somewhere between a sigh and a cough—could mean any number of things: surprise, amusement, outrage or, as at the moment, a combination of world weariness with a sense of profound wisdom.

  ‘She is and she isn’t,’ he answered after a while.

  I was to learn that Winston sometimes spoke in riddles. He was the kind of dog who was happy to point you in a particular direction, but who preferred you to work things out for yourself. ‘She has a human body, but she was born into extraordinary position and power. You don’t think that happened by chance, do you?’

  The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t thought about it at all. The idea of being a Queen was an entirely new concept to me.

  ‘She is by far the best informed person in Britain.’ Margaret glanced across as the sous chef made his way out of the room. ‘For over sixty years she has been regularly briefed by intelligence agencies, the military, bankers, prime ministers . . . the most powerful people in the land.’

  ‘From time immemorial her family have been the knowledge holders of all the esoteric traditions of Celtic culture’—a faraway look came into Winston’s eye—‘handed down through the generations. At the top end of a fishbowl, everyone knows all the concepts. Some embody the dark and others the light.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘These things,’ he said mysteriously, ‘are better seen than explained. Keep your wits about you. Look sharp.’

  There was a pause, while I digested both my breakfast and the intriguing reality in which I found myself. But there was another question I just had to ask: ‘Why all the red carpets?’

  ‘Why indeed,’ intoned Winston.

  ‘Red is the colour of royalty.’ Margaret was matter-of-fact. ‘Of strength and power.’

  ‘It is also the symbol of bloodlines and lineage,’ observed Winston.

  ‘Champion pedigrees.’ I confirmed.

  ‘Yes.’ He regarded me closely, scrutinising my features as though trying to make up his mind about something, before finally saying, ‘For those who embody the esoteric path, the same energies may return to the same bloodlines.’

  This was a great deal for a corgi new to the household—and a pup at that—to try to understand. ‘Well,’ I mused after a while, ‘does all this mean that we are unlike other corgis?’

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘We are Her Majesty’s representatives.’

  ‘Ours is not so much a position,’ intoned Winston, ‘as a sacred duty. World without end.’

  ‘Amen.’ Margaret, finished off, with a lick of the lips.

  Winston and Margaret explained that even though we were the Queen’s corgis, I shouldn’t expect to spend much time with her every day. A relentless calendar of activity meant that for much of the year she had little time to herself. But she would try to include us in as many of her activities as possible.

  As it happened, that very first morning we were with Her Majesty when she received a visitor—my first witnessing of a royal audience. I watched in fascination as Lord Cranleigh entered the room and approached where the Queen was standing, the three of us at her feet. Margaret bared her teeth ever so slightly as the large, tall, silvering man in the dark suit came closer, before bowing very deeply.

  ‘How do you do?’ The Queen extended her hand for the briefest handshake, before gesturing towards a chair. The two of them sat, joined by the sovereign’s private secretary, a genial man called Julian. Tea was brought in and a discussion followed about Her Majesty’s forthcoming visit to the Lake District.

  Taking my cue from Winston and Margaret, I lay down on a nearby oriental carpet of great antiquity. While the two other corgis dozed through what, for them, was just another day at the office, I rested my face between my front paws and watched the Queen intently.

  Something about the atmosphere of the room—of the whole castle—felt special and otherworldly. Later I was to discover that it was the oldest and longest-occupied castle in Europe. Its history was almost tangible, along with the design of this room with its very high ceilings, tall windows and sumptuous fittings. It was a very large chamber lit only by the light of a window and the picture lamps that blazed above large, gilt-framed oil paintings of the Queen’s ancestors. There was the sense of being in an inner sanctum, a place from which you could experience an unusually rarefied view of the world. In time, I came to know that the feeling didn’t actually come from the castle or its fittings—it came from the presence of Her Majesty. And it was a presence she encouraged others to share.

  I discovered this for myself on that very first morning, when the conversation took a sudden turn in my direction. Arrangements for the Lake District having been duly discussed, the Queen rose to her feet, thus signalling to Lord Cranleigh that his audience was over. As the two men made their way to the door, the Queen stood. Winston and Margaret roused themselves and went to see them off. I followed.

  ‘Ah—a third corgi!’ observed Lord Cranleigh.

  Julian glanced in my direction. ‘Joined us only last night.’

  ‘The ear,’ the Lord murmured under his breath as the two men reached the door.

  ‘What’s that?’ Her Majesty’s hearing was much more acute than many imagined.

  ‘I was just saying . . .’ Lord Cranleigh turned, struggling to find the right words, ‘your new corgi’s ear . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it’s not sort of . . . it isn’t entirely . . . the way it’s presenting . . .’

  ‘It flops.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that all your other dogs being normal, I’m a bit . . . surprised.’

  ‘His hearing is just as good as the others. He’s quite normal.’

  ‘Quite so, ma’am,’ Lord Cranleigh agreed very quickly.

  ‘Being young, he’s in need of reassurance.’ The Queen took a few steps towards where the men were standing. ‘If we want him to grow up happy and well adjusted, he needs our affection and support. That’s what really matters.’ She spoke deliberately. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Cranleigh?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. Without question.’

  ‘It’s important not to get sidetracked by the superficial.’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘When we make judgements about things based on appearance, instead of on what really matters, we get into trouble.’ She was holding Lord Cranleigh’s eyes firmly, but not without warmth. ‘Our own wellbeing and the wellbeing of those around us depend on being guided by the right priorities, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Absolutely, ma’am. Quite so.’

  Julian ushered Lord Cranleigh out of the room and we three corgis made our way back to the Queen.

  Winston sidled up to me. ‘That wasn’t about you, by the way.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Her Majesty is always well briefed about visitors.’

  ‘It sounded like it was about me.’ I was bewildered.

  ‘All in good time,’ he said enigmatically. ‘Look sharp.’

  Early that evening, there was an award ceremony for The Prince’s Trust in the Waterloo Chamber. This was a room usually closed to the public, Margaret told me, as we accompanied Sophia from the Queen’s quarters to the chamber. Sophia shared an office with the Queen’s lady-in-waiting and helped arrange the charitable engagements of senior members of the royal family. While Tara, the epitome of English beauty, was always immaculately dressed with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and an aura of calm
self-assurance, Sophia, a few years younger, was more vivacious and impulsive. Her dark good looks and high spirits livened up the atmosphere at the palace and it was clear that the two women enjoyed a warm friendship.

  There was something enigmatic about Tara, however, which Sophia saw as her job to resolve: the absence of a boyfriend. Despite being showered with invitations to social events every night of the week, apparently, for some reason, whenever Tara became involved with an eligible man, the relationship never lasted.

  As soon as Sophia announced she was going to the Waterloo Chamber, Winston had sprung from where he’d been dozing beside her desk. ‘Winston is very keen on award ceremonies,’ I observed to Margaret as the two of us followed. ‘Not the ceremony. It’s what happens afterwards. Young ones always think they’re being very daring when they sneak canapés to the Queen’s corgis. Winston takes full advantage.’

  The Waterloo Chamber was magnificent, a huge wood-panelled room with an ornate, vaulted ceiling, red and gold carpets and massive oil paintings in gilded frames. A steady stream of visitors was pouring in, with young men awkward in suits and ties plus young women teetering on heels evidently bought especially for the occasion. Glancing about, they seemed overawed by the majesty of the place, as they were guided towards rows of chairs.

  For my own part, it was my first public appearance as a Queen’s corgi, one for which I was entirely unprepared. From having been the very least important dog in a house of over twenty and painfully aware of my inadequacies, suddenly I felt very special. There was a ripple of excitement as soon as people saw the three of us strutting across the carpet. Many smiled and pointed. Others tried to coax us to them. From being an outcast only the day before, about to be taken to the terrifying fate of whatever awaited me in the shed, suddenly I was a star! ‘We are Her Majesty’s representatives,’ Margaret had said. Now I understood exactly what she meant! The simple fact of our presence made people feel closer to the Queen herself, giving them the sense that she might step into the room at any moment.

  I kept hard on the heels of Sophia and, along with Winston and Margaret, sat next to her in the front row of seats, near a small stage on which several council members of The Prince’s Trust faced the audience. They were, Margaret told me approvingly, all highly-successful businessmen.

  One of them, a bouncy-looking man with a mane of silver hair, was soon opening proceedings by introducing, as a VIP guest, a leading expert on happiness. ‘Oh, spare us!’ snorted Winston. ‘A speaker.’

  ‘I’d like to congratulate every single one of you who is here this evening,’ began the visiting expert, a friendly-looking man with short, dark hair and glinting spectacles, who spoke with what I later discovered to be an Australian accent. ‘Each one of you has not only found your way out of unemployment, but you have completely turned your lives around. Tonight is a celebration of that achievement.’

  Several Prince’s Trust committee members applauded enthusiastically. ‘What I’m here to talk about this evening is the more important question underlying what we all do. It’s a question each one of us has to answer in his or her own particular way. But there are some common threads. The question I am talking about is: how can we lead happy and purposeful lives?’

  From the silence in the room, the speaker evidently had everyone’s attention. ‘The ancient Greeks didn’t have just one word for happiness, they had two: hedonia and eudemonia. It’s unfortunate that, in everyday English, we no longer make the same distinction because there’s an important difference. Hedonia is happiness we get when we take from the world. Chocolate. Parties. Stuff. It’s all coming from outside ourselves. Eudemonia, on the other hand, is the happiness we get from what we give to the world. The concern we show for others when we offer our time, skills, support. It’s a different quality of happiness that comes from within.’

  The VIP expert went on to talk about how the two kinds of happiness differ. How hedonia focuses on me and the pleasure I get. How the focus of eudemonia is on others and the happiness we experience from helping them. How hedonia tends to be short-lived; the more we experience it, the less it delivers. ‘The first slice of cake is one thing,’ he observed. ‘How about the second, the fifth, the tenth?’

  At Sophia’s feet, Winston was fidgeting. ‘Amateur!’ he snuffled. ‘But I take his point.’

  ‘By contrast, the inner contentment of eudemonia is more enduring,’ the speaker noted. ‘And that feeling is not diminished by repetition. If anything, the more we keep giving, the more profound our sense of wellbeing.’

  I found the visiting expert’s talk very interesting. Enlightening even. I had never heard such ideas expressed in the time I’d been growing up in the Grimsley household. The lives of Mr and Mrs Grimsley, it was plain to see, were given over completely to hedonia. Hardly surprising therefore, that they were often so miserable and that the only solace they seemed to find was an altered state of consciousness courtesy of The Crown.

  ‘Go for both!’ urged the speaker at his conclusion. ‘Enjoy the pleasures of this world, but don’t neglect your inner wellbeing. Don’t be seduced into believing that there’s some direct connection between the material world and your own feelings of contentment. If wellbeing is what you want—and it’s what we all want—you will only achieve it by (paradoxically) focusing on the wellbeing of others.’

  Later that evening, we three corgis retired with the Queen and Philip to a private sitting room, where the royal couple were soon engrossed in books they had recently obtained from the City of Westminster’s travelling library. Our bellies were full—in Winston’s case, with a great many honey mustard cocktail sausages. Coals glowed in the fireplace. A sense of peace pervaded the room. This was to become one of my favourite times in the daily rhythm of palace life, with the activities of the day behind us and the Queen to ourselves.

  Three baskets had been laid out to one side of the fireplace, two of them furnished with well-worn, tartan rugs, the third newly installed for me. Following the example of the other corgis, I stepped into ‘my’ basket and lay down, trying to get comfortable. It was snug and protected, with just the right amount of cushioning. I could see both my fellow corgis and our human companions. The room was perfectly cosy. But something was lacking.

  Getting out of my basket I made my way towards Winston’s. Watching me, I could tell he knew what I hoped for. As he showed no objection, I climbed in and curled up next to him. The Queen and Phillip exchanged glances, as I felt the warmth of his body next to mine. This was what I needed. The comfort of corgi. ‘Tell me Winston, how did you get your name?’ I asked, sleepily.

  ‘Ah, dear boy, how we get our names.’ He sighed. ‘One single name can mean so many different things. There are outward meanings and inner, esoteric meanings . . .’

  I thought he was going to leave me in a state of deep and continuing mystery. But I really didn’t mind because he’d called me ‘dear boy’, so I was warm with the glow of acceptance. But from the basket next door Margaret said, ‘We royal corgis are all named after national leaders. In Winston’s case, it was his courageous defence of Queen and country that gave him his name.’

  ‘Well,’ he said pensively, ‘that was part of it.’

  ‘Do tell!’ I urged him.

  ‘We were with Her Majesty on a beach near Balmoral,’ he told me, chest rising, ‘minding our own business and enjoying the weather. Suddenly two rottweilers appeared from nowhere and raced towards us. I bared my teeth and went on the attack.’

  ‘Rottweilers?’ I couldn’t believe he’d take on two huge, powerful dogs with such fearsome reputations. ‘Did you see them off?’

  ‘Security stepped in,’ he said. ‘But I showed the Queen how far I’d go. I’d fight them on the beaches.’

  From the basket next door, Margaret cleared her throat. ‘There’s that other story too,’ she said.

  ‘Another?’ I wondered if Winston had also pursued German shepherds in the fields; or bared his fangs at dobermans in the streets.
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  Margaret was quick to disillusion me. ‘He has a penchant for cigar stubs,’ she said.

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ insisted Winston. ‘I was trying to get to some pizza. One of the staff had dumped the contents of an ashtray on top of it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Margaret sounded unconvinced.

  ‘And you, Margaret?’ I intervened, not wishing a pleasant moment to turn ugly. ‘How did you come to be named?’

  ‘For my constant vigilance in the service of the Queen,’ she replied snippily.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ chortled Winston. ‘The real story is that she attacked a famous trade union leader at a garden party.’

  ‘Only a nip to the ankles.’

  ‘There was a lot of blood.’

  ‘Well, it was downright theft,’ she snapped. ‘He’d stuffed his overcoat pockets full of apple Danish.’

  I imagined the trade union leader, limping across the lawns of Buckingham Palace, his coat pockets filled with contraband pastries and socks drenched in blood; the rottweilers halting in their tracks on the beach; Winston snuffling for pizza in the midst of burnt-out cigars.

  ‘I wonder what I’ll end up being called,’ I mused.

  It was a while before Winston answered, ‘These things aren’t usually rushed.’

  ‘Nor should they be,’ chimed Margaret.

  Winston exhaled sleepily, while I closed my eyes, snuggling up closer.

  ‘Quite so,’ said he.

  Dozing in our baskets, I reflected on all that had happened during that eventful day. The meeting with Lord Cranleigh that morning and what the Queen had told him. The psychologist that evening and how he’d made the same distinction between outer and inner. The more I mulled it over, the more it occurred to me how both of them seemed to be saying the same thing. The Queen used plain words, but I recognised now that when she’d said we shouldn’t confuse outward appearance with inner qualities because our wellbeing depended on it, she had been hinting at a much deeper truth. One with an importance going well beyond the floppy ear of a single corgi, but one that most certainly included me too. It was thanks to the Queen’s understanding of the true cause of happiness that prompted her to dispatch Tara to my rescue, when she’d heard what I was about to face at the hands of Mr Grimsley. Tara’s neighbour’s daughter, having just been to The Crown, had told Tara over the fence what she’d just heard Mr Grimsley saying. Tara, in turn, had told Her Majesty. Acting on her concern for others—in this case me—the Queen had been engaged in the pursuit of eudemonia.