by David Michie
Michael chuckled. ‘A reminder to keep our feet on the ground.’
‘Hmm. He’s still very little and in training,’ said Her Majesty, far too polite to refer directly to what I was doing. ‘There’s no point trying to stop them midway through.’
‘Quite so, Your Majesty,’ agreed Michael.
Then he added after a pause, ‘He has yet to become an alchemist.’
The Queen looked puzzled. ‘A corgi? Turning base metal into gold?’
‘A metaphor for personal transformation. The true purpose of alchemy is about reining in our baser instincts,’ he nodded towards me, ‘and realising our highest potential.’
‘I never thought alchemy had anything to do with me or with corgis,’ she replied. ‘It seems I was mistaken.’
Michael nodded. ‘It’s another universal archetype. The idea actually comes from an ancient Egyptian word for the black earth of the Nile. It was only from such darkness that life, in all its richness, could spring forth. In the East there is a similar concept: no mud, no lotus. Only through suffering is transcendence possible.’
‘So we should all strive to be alchemists?’ confirmed the Queen.
‘Indeed.’
Outside, great banks of grey clouds suddenly lifted and, for the first time that morning, a shaft of sunlight broke through. ‘We can give purpose to our dissatisfaction when we find a way to use it, when it gives rise to a flowering of exquisite beauty.’
They seemed to have come full circle, back to Her Majesty’s feelings when Michael had first stepped into the room, except that now there were the stirrings of new possibilities.
‘Thank you, Michael, for your inspiration.’ The Queen smiled, rising from her chair. ‘You bring fresh hope.’
Opposite, Michael brought his palms to his heart and bowed briefly.
They turned to where I crouched, ashamed, beside my deposit. ‘I’d better summon help,’ said Her Majesty.
‘Quite so.’
As they walked to the door, I joined the two other corgis following them. Winston shot me a consoling glance, which made me feel only worse. Margaret ignored me completely.
‘Just one thing.’ The Queen paused for a moment in the reception room outside her office. ‘The transcendence you speak of, that’s public service, is it not?’
‘It may well take that form, Your Majesty. And you use your position to give comfort and inspiration to many. But it doesn’t have to be about the grand gesture or the trappings of state. It is my deep conviction . . .’ Michael seemed to be communicating with more than words alone, ‘. . . that doing small acts with great love is our most precious gift—and not only for those we are helping. It is a wonderful paradox that when we help others, we ourselves are the first to benefit.’
Michael then left and the Queen summoned a footman to remove all evidence of my wretched lack of toilet-training. We followed her to the office of her lady-in-waiting while this was happening.
If you are concerned, my fellow subject, that this chapter will provide an exhaustive listing of my every bowel movement as a puppy, allow me to put your mind at rest. In the weeks that followed our meeting with Michael, I continued to have accidents, oversights and mishaps. Eventually, however, I got the hang of it through a combination of self-control and learning what was, and was not, our den. Looking back, you might even say that the meeting with Michael was the lowest point in my palace training, were it not for the fact that it was only through my lack of self-control that we discovered the true meaning of the word ‘alchemy’ and how it signified one’s life purpose.
For my own part, I needed to control my impulses. To learn that there was a time and place, which did not include the polished, wooden hallway flooring or ancient Persian carpets that bedecked the various royal residences.
As for the Queen, her life was already the embodiment of so much of what Michael had said: the power of symbols; deeds, not words; transcendence through service to others. But I detected something new in the weeks that followed. Something that hearkened back to his wisdom about doing small acts with great love.
For several weeks each summer, while the royal family was elsewhere, parts of Buckingham Palace were opened to the public. Every day from late August through September, long queues would form from early in the morning, as people from all over the world eagerly awaited their chance to visit the most famous royal residence in the world. The tourists included groups of all kinds—the elderly, schools and a wide range of nationalities—whose passage through the palace was managed by a security and visitor team with well-practiced efficiency.
On one such day, the Queen had to cut short her stay at Sandringham to meet the Commonwealth secretary-general in London, where she would sign into effect a new trade agreement. The meeting, to be held at Buckingham Palace, was not expected to take more than twenty minutes, after which the Queen would travel on to Windsor.
Arrangements for the brief visit to Buckingham Palace by Her Majesty and the secretary-general caused the Queen’s head of security, Huchens, no end of concern. A large, muscular Highlander in his early forties, he was a former senior figure in the SAS and had received several decorations for gallantry from the Queen herself. Margaret had told me approvingly how he possessed what she termed ‘gunfighter nerves’ and had no startle reflex at all. The loudest explosion could happen right beside him, or he could be on the receiving end of the direst threat, and his expression would be completely unaltered. Only the best of the best could be entrusted to take care of Her Majesty’s security.
Allowing large numbers of unknown people close proximity to the monarch always presented a danger. The age-old protocol of flying the royal standard over the palace when Her Majesty was in residence was quickly dismissed. Working out how to get the Queen and her VIP visitor in and out of the building on a day when it was open to the public presented a logistical challenge that the burly Scot pondered from every angle.
On the day in question, Her Majesty, accompanied by all three royal corgis, was whisked into the palace and upstairs to the stateroom, where she was to meet the secretary-general. While waiting, she made her way to a glass door that overlooked the line of people about to be admitted to the palace. From behind a sheer curtain she watched as a group of a dozen or so teenage schoolboys in the blazers of St George’s Boys’ School restlessly pushed and shoved each other, despite the futile protests of their female teacher. Beside the Queen, we three corgis watched as a particularly large boy jumped on the shoes of a pale, bespectacled and much slighter fellow. Even from the upstairs window, the pain being inflicted by the brute was quite evident. Her Majesty shuddered.
There was little time to contemplate the horrors of schoolboy bullying, however, because within minutes the Queen’s guest was being announced. He and a small entourage swept into the room for a most cordial meeting, during which Her Majesty signed the new trade treaty into effect. It was one, declared the secretary-general, which would improve the economic prospects of literally millions of people. By abandoning trade tariffs and taxes, many more businesses would be encouraged to increase their trade, as well as the number of people they employed, leading to better conditions for many.
Within half an hour, the secretary-general was leaving and the Queen was standing by for a signal from Huchens, who was with her in the room, to advise that the coast was clear to return downstairs to her waiting car. Standing, handbag over her arm, Her Majesty looked out the one-way glass of an internal door, facing down a staircase to the hallway below, through which a steady stream of visitors passed. A decorative red rope looped across the bottom of the stairs, with a Private: No Entry sign.
As it happened, the same unruly gang of schoolboys we had previously watched outside were now passing through the hall and had somehow become separated from their teacher. This time, the fruity tones of the bully rose up the stairs. ‘Simpson, you wuss!’ He cracked the boy over the head. ‘Seeing you know all the kings and queens of England, go up there and have tea with Quee
nie.’
‘Dare ya!’ a colleague challenged him.
‘Yeah—you great girl’s blouse!’ Another kid jabbed him in the ribs.
‘Double dare ya!’ challenged the bully again, knocking him in the back of the leg so he almost collapsed.
‘See if the Queen of England gives a shit about ya!’
Moments later, pale and frightened, the dishevelled Simpson was stepping across the red rope and fleeing up the stairs. He was evidently prepared to do almost anything to get away from his tormentors. As soon as he was out of sight of the group, Simpson stood behind a pillar, panting heavily.
The purpose of the red rope at the foot of the stairs was in fact purely ceremonial, because all of the doors at the top of the stairs were securely locked. Not that Simpson knew this as he stood, crumpled and harassed, waiting for his colleagues to go further through the hallway. Only a short distance away, on the other side of a glass door veiled with curtains, the Queen had been closely following everything that happened.
‘Huchens,’ she asked, as they continued to stand waiting, ‘will you bring that boy to me?’
Her Majesty’s head of security said nothing, but wore a somewhat quizzical expression, as he unlocked a side door and made his way outside.
The schoolboy was aghast to be confronted by Huchens who looked, all six feet four of him, every inch the SAS warrior. ‘I didn’t mean to trespass, sir!’ he spluttered.
‘This way, young man.’ Huchens guided him by the arm along the landing. ‘There’s someone who wishes to speak to you.’
When Simpson was ushered into the room and found himself only a few feet from the Queen, his shaken expression became more complicated—a mix of the surreal and extreme nervousness.
‘How do you do?’ said Her Majesty.
With the utmost formality, Simpson folded his right arm over his waist and bent almost to a right angle. ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he said when once again upright, before correcting himself, ‘I mean, ma’am.’ Then, unnecessarily correcting himself again, ‘Your Royal Highness.’
‘Majesty,’ Huchens directed him in a stage whisper.
‘Your Royal Majesty.’ The boy was tying himself in knots.
‘Just Your Majesty,’ corrected Huchens.
The Queen glanced at Huchens with an expression of droll censure.
‘What is your name, young man?’ she asked.
‘Andrew Simpson.’
‘And tell me, are the other boys always so . . . beastly to you?’
He seemed greatly relieved to discover that the Queen was on his side. ‘Some of them didn’t want to come ’cos it’s school holidays. But I won the group visit for the school as a prize.’
‘Really? For what?’
‘Being able to recite all the kings and queens of England since 1066, Miss . . . er . . . Your Majesty.’
‘That’s quite an achievement.’ There was genuine approval in the Queen’s voice. ‘I wonder how you manage.’
‘I place each name in a different room of an imaginary palace. Memory technique.’
‘And what made you want to learn them?’
‘I want to study at Oxford.’ In the pause that followed the boy’s face clouded. ‘But . . .’
Her Majesty stepped closer, fiddling for a moment with the strap of her handbag. ‘Go on,’ she urged him with a nod.
‘Jenkins and the others . . .’ he gestured.
‘The bully?’ confirmed the Queen.
‘Yes. He says he’s going to make my life a living hell next term, Your Majesty. He says he’s going to play the bagpipes every single study break, so I fail the entrance exams. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
Simpson seemed to have got over the shock of finding himself in the presence of the Queen and was talking more freely. ‘Bannerman had a nervous breakdown when Jenkins had it in for him. He had to leave school. And Weaver is still on antidepressants. You should see Jenkins turn the fire hose on the freshers when they’re in the changing rooms!’
‘What does your headmaster say about all this?’
‘Miss Thwaites.’ The boy looked even more forlorn, as he tilted his head downstairs. ‘Every time she tries discipline, Jenkins’s father goes ballistic. He’s a rich businessman and is on the school board.’
‘I see,’ said Her Majesty.
Andrew Simpson was a pitiful sight—intimidated by the prospect of months of bullying ending in academic failure. Approaching him, I sniffed his ankles and wagged my stump in a consolatory way.
‘Bagpipes?’ queried the Queen. ‘Most unusual.’
‘He’s the leader of the school band. He’s very loud.’
‘Hmm.’ Her Majesty stepped even closer and looked her unexpected guest in the eye. ‘You know what bullies want to do Andrew, don’t you? They want to destroy your self-confidence. To make you believe that you can’t do something. To give up hope.’
Following her intently, the boy nodded.
‘Well, let me tell you something.’ Her tone changed to one of defiance. ‘I don’t personally know anyone who can recite the complete list of kings and queens of England since 1066.’
The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
‘It’s a very impressive achievement and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go on to greater things. You may have an annus horribilis ahead of you. But you will get through it. A few years from now, Jenkins will be nothing but a memory, but you will have a degree from Oxford. How would that make you feel?’
‘Pretty amazing.’ Her Majesty’s uninvited guest pushed his spectacles up his nose, as he drew himself up.
The Queen’s words, combined with the fact that he was being personally advised by the monarch in Buckingham Palace, seemed to be filling Andrew Simpson with new purpose.
‘You must never forget that you are a very special person.’
In an act of unusual friendliness, the Queen placed her gloved hand on the boy’s arm. His eyes were gleaming. ‘In all the years that Buckingham Palace has been open to the public, I have never received a visitor until today. Isn’t that right, Huchens?’ She glanced over.
‘Correct, Your Majesty.’
‘Don’t forget that, Andrew Simpson.’ She smiled as his lips trembled and he blinked back tears.
Huchens’ phone bleeped and the head of security gestured to the Queen that all was ready for her departure. Realising that his audience was over, Andrew grasped at his blazer pocket in some frustration. ‘I wish I’d brought some paper; I’d really like to ask for your autograph,’ he said.
‘Write to me care of Huchens,’ replied the Queen, extending her hand to shake his. Then somewhat mysteriously she said, ‘I’m sure our paths will cross again.’
Some minutes later, we three corgis were sharing the back of a Range Rover driven by Bradshaw, the Queen’s regular London driver. Huchens occupied the front passenger seat. The plan was for us to make our way out of a side entrance, where unmarked police cars idled in waiting. As we were proceeding slowly in that direction, something caught Her Majesty’s attention: the group of St George’s boys were walking towards the front gates. ‘Bradshaw!’ commanded the Queen. ‘Over to those schoolboys. I’d like a word.’
Huchens raised his eyebrows. ‘We must exit through the side gates,’ he confirmed with Bradshaw.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Her Majesty, ‘but a minute’s delay is of no consequence.’
The boys had to clear the driveway to make way for the Range Rover that drew to a halt in their midst. As the tinted glass of the rear window lowered to reveal Her Majesty, the effect on the group could not have been more instant or dramatic. I know—I was sitting on the back seat right beside her and watched as every last one of them regarded her with an expression of stunned incredulity. ‘I’ve just had a nice meeting with your prize winner, Andrew.’ The Queen nodded towards where he was standing. ‘He tells me there are some boys at the school who wish to disrupt his studies.’
Her gaze moved from one end of the group t
o the other, before pausing on the class brute who was standing, shirt untucked from his trousers, the knot of his tie tugged halfway down his chest. ‘Jenkins?’
The boy opened his mouth several times, but no words came out of it, before he finally managed in a hoarse tone, ‘Yes, your um . . . Queen Elizabeth.’
‘I want you to make sure that no harm comes to him.’
Jenkins had turned remarkably pale.
‘Can I rely on you?’
‘Yes.’
She studied him with an inscrutable expression for quite a while before saying, ‘Andrew tells me you’re rather good on the bagpipes. If you behave yourself, we might arrange to have your band to the Braemar Gathering.’
Jenkins glanced at Simpson somewhat nervously. ‘That would be . . . very nice.’
‘No doubt Andrew will report back to me next time I see him.’ Her Majesty turned and nodded once to the headmistress. ‘Miss Thwaites.’
‘Your Majesty.’ The headmistress was clearly startled to be addressed directly by the Queen, taking several seconds to recover her composure before performing a somewhat stilted curtsey.
‘Oh, and Jenkins, I think you’ll find that I’m the Queen of the United Kingdom, not the Queen of England. And I do actually give a . . . whatever it was you mentioned.’
Pressing a button, the tinted window rolled back up and she disappeared from their view. ‘Drive on, Bradshaw.’
Huchens waited for Bradshaw to clear the palace, accompanied by the usual police escort, before he turned to the Queen. ‘That was very nicely done, ma’am, if I may say so.’
‘You may.’
‘I don’t think the boy will have any more trouble.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Her Majesty. ‘You know, Huchens, I came here today to sign into effect measures that will bring economic relief to millions of people. But what just happened was curiously rewarding.’
‘For everyone involved.’
‘Small acts with great love.’
‘Quite right too,’ he agreed, with a very Scottish roll of the ‘r’.
