by David Michie
Glancing up from the book she was reading, her eyes met mine—and she smiled. Curled next to Winston, I wagged my stump. It didn’t matter to the Queen that my ear was floppy and so, for the first time that I could ever remember, nor did it matter to me. Inner qualities, not outer appearances. If this was what wellbeing felt like, I looked forward to enjoying more of it.
In the weeks that followed, I adjusted to my new life as a royal corgi. And to my new homes. Palaces and castles with large rooms containing not a single corgi quickly began to seem the norm. I became familiar not only with the royal family, but with the household staff who attended them. It wasn’t long before I had been the Queen’s corgi for longer that I had been the Grimsleys’, so my unfortunate start in life began to recede to nothing more than an unhappy memory. Which, I thought, was where the Grimsleys would remain.
But, my fellow subject, I was mistaken.
One morning we three corgis were in the lady-in-waiting’s Buckingham Palace office, in a favourite sunspot on a sumptuous rug between the desks of Tara and Sophia. Tara was going through the day’s mail, when she snorted in a most unladylike way. ‘Seriously!’ she exclaimed, pushing back her chair, unable to resist stepping over to share a particular letter with Sophia. All three of us looked up as Sophia quickly scanned the letter.
‘Outrageous!’ she agreed, her gypsy eyes flashing.
Both ladies looked directly at me.
The letter was from Mrs Patricia Gwendolyn Grimsley. She had been watching TV news and the coverage of a charity function, when she noticed that one of ‘her’ corgis had joined the royal household. She and her husband, loyal Kennel Club members, were pleased to see their dearest, all-time favourite puppy had been acquired by Her Majesty. How, they wished to know, could they apply for a Royal Warrant, now that they were established purveyors of corgis to the Queen’s household?
‘Never wanted to hear from me again!’ Tara was indignant. ‘The nerve of the woman!’
‘Oh, you’ll have to reply,’ Sophia’s eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘Sign your letter “Lying Toerag, Her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting”.’
The two women burst out laughing.
‘Didn’t she make you promise never to say where you got him?’ asked Sophia.
‘She did. Solemnly.’ Tara returned to her desk. ‘Which makes my decision easy.’
Leaning forward under her desk, she fed the letter into a shredder which whirred noisily.
‘The only royal treatment she deserves is a one-way trip to the Tower of London.’
‘The Queen can send people to the Tower?’ I turned to the other corgis, instantly sensing a reputation as sinister as the shed.
‘She can.’ Margaret’s eyes glowed with fervour.
‘But doesn’t,’ confirmed Winston.
Well, I thought, that’s what makes Her Majesty different from Mrs Grimsley.
It was not long after this that a very different item of correspondence arrived, one which Tara had no hesitation showing the Queen. It consisted of a single, but extraordinary photograph of an elephant silhouetted at sunset. It had been sent from Africa by Anthony Cranleigh, son of the lord. Along with the photograph was a short, handwritten note, which Tara read aloud as Her Majesty admired the photograph.
Your Majesty, I am quite sure this will never reach you, but I just wanted to write it anyway to express my heartfelt thanks. All through my teenage years, I wanted to be a wildlife photographer, but my father kept insisting this wasn’t a ‘proper’ job. He was determined that I should follow him into investment banking. Something you said to him recently made him change his mind. I don’t know what it was, but it has allowed me to follow my dream, for which I am truly grateful. I would like you to have this photograph from my first visit to Kenya.
‘Very nice,’ said the Queen, gazing at the photograph.
Winston and I exchanged a glance.
‘So, that was what that whole thing was about? My floppy ear? Being guided by the right priorities?’
‘Look sharp,’ said he.
CHAPTER 2
I wish I could tell you that, after my move from Slough to Windsor, I lived happily ever after. If only I could report that my life was an endless succession of intriguing encounters by day and cosy fireside dozes with the royal family by night; that the inspiring presence of Her Majesty, the growing companionship of Winston and Margaret and regular bouts of canapé eating in gilded chambers all combined to afford me a life of unalloyed bliss. Alas, I cannot.
It was a huge relief to have been rescued from the Grimsleys and the Queen and all those around her could not have been nicer. However, when I think back to those early days as a royal corgi, a shadow falls over me. More than anything, I am filled with shame.
There really isn’t a nice way to say this, so I will just have to come out with it. I will risk the fact that, within the space of the next paragraph—or perhaps one or two after that—you are going to snap this book shut with a gasp of disappointment. Perhaps a furrow will wrinkle your brow as you wonder why you have wasted so much as a minute reading the work of a canine as deficient as I am. But the facts must be faced. Steel yourself, my fellow subject, for the following painful truth is one that must be addressed: when I first joined the royal family, I was not palace trained.
Instruction of that variety had been a haphazard affair at the Grimsleys. With three litters of pups in one small home, accidents were frequent. We puppies were still emerging into the world; supervision was light and, in the chaos of the house, indiscretions were overlooked or even went unnoticed.
Not so at Buckingham Palace. Or at any of the royal residences, come to that. I shudder to remember how, on my very first morning, I relieved myself and produced a rapidly growing puddle on the highly-polished wooden floor directly outside the Queen’s private rooms. On that occasion, security had scooped me up within moments and taken me to the small garden outside the staff scullery downstairs. This was where all such activity was to occur.
Several similar incidents happened over the next few days. On each occasion, one of the staff whisked me outside. I cringe when I remember my behaviour. I suppose as a puppy I didn’t yet have full control of my bodily functions. Nor was I at all clear about what part of the property was the den and what part was not the den at Windsor Castle. Or at Buckingham Palace. Or at Balmoral or Sandringham. It was all so confusing! The only consolation was that my various mishaps hadn’t occurred in the presence of anyone who mattered. By which, of course, I mean the Queen and her family. Or at least, they hadn’t happened yet.
But then came the time that Kate and a very young Prince George were making a visit to his great grandmamma at Windsor. The two were shown into a sitting room, to wait briefly while Her Majesty finished an official engagement. We three corgis offered an enthusiastic welcome, enjoying the lavish affection Kate bestowed on us.
Perhaps it was because I was the newest, and by far the smallest, addition to the household that Kate seemed especially indulgent of me, fondling my ears and rubbing my tummy with gusto. As all three of us corgis scampered about her and George, my excitement quite got the better of me. Suddenly, I was peeing on the carpet. ‘Oh dear, I think someone’s having an accident!’ laughed Kate.
A butler quickly seized me as Winston glanced askance and Margaret looked positively scandalised by my behaviour. I was taken outside to the scullery garden. By the time I was returned to the room a short while later, the Queen and Kate were sitting on a sofa with little George between them. Evidence of my incontinence formed a dark stain on the carpet, but if Her Majesty noticed, she made no mention of it. Nor did her attitude towards me seem to change in any way. Had I got away with it?
It was during those earliest days at Windsor that I met one of the Queen’s most intriguing advisers. His visit wasn’t like the others in Her Majesty’s official calendar, all of which would be confirmed weeks in advance and discussed at the start of every day with her private secretary, Julian. It happened on an ove
rcast morning, when heavy mists veiled the river Thames and much of the castle was cloaked in gloom. It was one of those days in which the momentous events and historic figures of the past seemed invoked, unseen but living presences in this ancient royal castle.
We three corgis were snoozing at Tara’s feet after our morning walk, when Winston raised his head as though in response to a bell. Ears pricked up and head cocked to one side, he was tuning into some sound which was inaudible to me. Turning to Margaret and me he said, ‘Michael’s here,’ before jumping to his feet and making for the door. Because Margaret followed suit, so did I.
‘Do they serve canapés when Michael visits?’ I asked, wanting to demonstrate my evolving knowledge of how things worked around here.
‘Of course not!’ Margaret responded firmly, looking at me as if I were mad even to suggest it.
I realised that she was in one of her ‘difficult’ moods and hastened my pace to catch up with Winston.
‘Who’s Michael?’ I asked.
‘That, dear boy, is a question to which we’d all like to know the answer.’
‘But you’ve met him before?’
‘Many times.’
‘Then you must have some idea?’
Winston snorted, realising that his enigmatic answers were wasted on a pup. ‘You were at this morning’s diary meeting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Julian mention a visit from Michael?’
‘No.’
‘Does the Queen ever receive unscheduled visitors?’
‘Um . . .’ I thought I knew the correct answer, but I was feeling less than confident after Margaret’s fierce response to my question about canapés.
‘Never!’ Winston provided the answer with a decided ‘ah’ about the second syllable of that word. ‘She does not. She is the Queen. Nobody just drops in to see Her Majesty. Nobody, that is, except Michael.’
‘And you’re sure he’s here?’ I was following Winston down a long corridor.
‘Quite sure.’
‘But, I mean, how do you know?’
‘I’m tuned in,’ said Winston. ‘Just as I expect you will become too, dear boy.’ He seemed to have made some judgement about me and was paying a compliment. I wagged my stump.
Winston continued, ‘We dogs hear sound frequencies that humans cannot.’
‘Really?’ This was news to me. ‘Like magic?’
‘Not magic,’ said Winston. ‘It comes from within.’
He shot a glance over his shoulder towards Margaret and I realised that he was drawing me into his confidence. ‘It evolves quite naturally over time. Of course, some of us are more receptive than others. We need to be open to it.’ Margaret, I gathered, was not open.
We emerged in a hallway at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Queen’s private apartment. They were the very same stairs that Tara had ascended when she’d first brought me to Windsor Castle. The figure in the hallway had his back to us when we arrived, but hearing the sound of our paws on the carpet, he turned. ‘Ah, the welcoming committee!’
He was a substantial man, tall and broad shouldered, but the most immediate thing I noticed about him was the lightness he conveyed. Perhaps it was the enlivening quality of his very clear, blue eyes. Perhaps it was the inviting warmth about his features. As Winston scampered briskly towards him, Margaret bypassed him, seeming more interested in a newly-installed pedestal table. ‘And you’ve joined them!’ It was as if he recognised me from somewhere before. ‘What fun we’re all going to have!’
As he bent to pat Winston and me, I nuzzled his hand, taking in his scent. It was an herbaceous and strangely compelling aroma that seemed to connect him to an ancient, more pastoral time. His appearance was that of a mature man, with snowy hair and a lined face. However, as I looked directly into his eyes for the first time, I felt drawn to a state of timelessness. Along with the lightness was a feeling of ineffable peace. Even in those first few moments, I realised that Michael was unlike anyone I’d ever encountered.
He began making his way up the stairs to Her Majesty’s apartment. Pausing on the landing, he regarded the soldier in chain mail with solemnity, the two acknowledging each other with respectful inclines of their heads, before Michael continued upwards. We entered the private apartment and made our way to the door of the Queen’s office.
Before Michael had even knocked on the door, we heard Her Majesty’s voice: ‘Michael, is that you?’
‘Indeed, Your Majesty.’
‘Do come.’
As he stepped into her office, the Queen rose from her desk. Her visitor bowed. ‘Your timing is, as always, impeccable,’ she said.
When other people had come to her office, she would show them to one of the armchairs, before sitting on another. But she made no attempt to suggest where Michael should sit. Instead, she returned to her chair at her desk, watching as he stood at the window looking out at the swirling grey mist, his back towards her.
‘Difficult week?’ There was a gentle understanding in his rich, bass voice, as he looked out over the shrouded landscape.
‘Like wading through treacle,’ said Her Majesty. ‘Sometimes one can’t help questioning why one’s doing this.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Would people, in fact, prefer it if we weren’t here?’
At the window, her visitor nodded slowly.
‘It’s about relevance, Michael.’ I had never heard the Queen express her doubts so freely. In fact, had I not been sitting at her feet, I wouldn’t have believed anyone who told me that she could even entertain such dark thoughts. ‘One sometimes feels like such an anachronism,’ she continued. ‘From a rational point of view, there is no place for a monarchy at all.’ She sighed. ‘It is utterly undemocratic. There is no logic to it. And yet . . .’
After a pause, he turned from the window to face her, his blue eyes seeming almost luminescent in the darkness of the room. ‘And yet,’ he repeated, ‘reason gets us only so far. Few of our life’s most important decisions and none of mankind’s grandest undertakings are driven by reason alone. The greatest works of art; the most important scientific endeavours; the building of empires; the pursuit of love, dreams and passions—none of our most significant endeavours is propelled by mere logic. You, my Queen, are so much more than what you can or cannot do. Your mere presence is one of the most universal and powerful symbols of mankind.’
Just as I had never heard Her Majesty voice any reservations, I had never heard anyone speak to the Queen with such sweeping authority. There was respect in his voice, to be sure, but a guiding purpose that seemed almost fatherly. ‘You are the embodiment of continuity and the wellbeing of your people. You represent stability and hope. Whatever your own personal reservations, as sovereign you are a beacon for the forces of light in a degenerate age.
‘This land and the culture that springs from it have been a cradle of ancient spirituality since time immemorial. For thousands of years, our people strove to live in harmony with the spirit they found in everything. God was present in nature and they sought Him in holy, healing places: in caves, springs and mountains, in rituals and pilgrimages, through which they placed themselves in resonance with those who’d been before.
‘Most Christian experience has been of this same, intuitive nature. The Mass chanted in a language that only the priests knew; the soaring spires, the stained glass and the incense—what was all this if not an invocation to experience a more transcendent state of consciousness? Divine presence?
‘In only a few hundred years, most of it has been lost. The current obsession with the material world, with consumerism, can make one feel that somehow our people have taken the wrong turning.’
‘Haven’t they?’ interjected the Queen, her voice cool as stone on that grey morning.
‘Complete immersion can be useful to discover something’s limitations,’ Michael said wryly. ‘And we are already witnessing the return of the pendulum to a greener and more balanced way of being. Spirit is being redis
covered.’ His voice was tremulous with feeling. ‘No longer called spirit, but energy. Einstein and the quantum scientists have shown that matter and energy co-exist. That energy is in everything. Our true purpose in life . . .’ he paused, ‘is to awaken to our own energy and use it for the wellbeing of all.’
In the stillness, we considered the importance of what he had just said, before he told Her Majesty, ‘You already know this, of course. Your special role is to inspire it in others. You do it so well, holding up a mirror to them, inviting them to see how they match up to their own purest nature.’ The Queen reflected on this in silence.
‘You play the most vital part in an esoteric lineage which reaches back for a millennia. Like your ancestors, you do so through symbols and ritual. Is it a coincidence that the language and culture of this small island has such a sweeping influence on the rest of the world?’
There was a lengthy pause before Her Majesty finally spoke, somewhat wryly. ‘Thank you, Michael, for reminding me of my most awesome responsibilities.’
It was at this precise moment, when I was listening to the most profound words I’d ever heard spoken, that I felt a sudden and unaccountable urge. Getting up from under the Queen’s desk, I walked some distance towards a bookshelf, where I squatted and began to relieve myself. And it wasn’t just a puddle.
As it happened, both Winston and Margaret were dozing next to the Queen’s desk. But Her Majesty and Michael both looked at me. ‘Oh, dear,’ said the Queen.
