The Queen's Corgi

by David Michie

  That evening, having travelled to Windsor, the Queen was joined by Charles for a private dinner. Having not seen each other in person for several weeks and with Charles being no fan of lengthy telephone conversations, there was much to catch up on.

  ‘Did you enjoy Sandringham?’ he asked, knowing how much his mother usually enjoyed her time there.

  ‘Very much. I spent quite some time at the stables. It’s wonderful to see the new bloodlines coming through.’

  The two of them were sitting in the dining room of her apartment, with a butler in attendance and we three corgis lying at their feet. Charles had been known, in the past, to slip the occasional unwanted morsel of food under the table and Winston had positioned himself for exactly such an eventuality. ‘Were the horses pleased to see you?’ asked Charles, a hint of mischief in his tone.

  ‘So Cameron told me.’ This was evidently something of a running joke.

  ‘Frisky?’ confirmed Charles.

  ‘That’s the effect he claims I have on them, just by being at Sandringham.’ Her Majesty sounded doubtful. ‘You know, I’ve been reading a book that makes me wonder if there might be something in what Cameron’s always said. It seems that animals are much more aware of things than we generally give them credit for.’

  I cocked my head at him. Winston tilted his own grizzled features in a knowing fashion. Margaret showed little interest in the conversation. ‘There’s some pretty convincing evidence about things like dogs knowing when their owners are coming home.’

  ‘Really?’ said the Queen.

  ‘There was a study involving video recorders in people’s houses. They would show the family pooch getting up and going to the front doormat within minutes of its owner leaving work to come home. The owners varied their routine and changed their leaving times and so on. The uncanny thing is how consistent it was, not just for one or two dogs, but for a whole lot of different pets. They seemed to have this way of knowing. It doesn’t seem too far a stretch to suggest that maybe the horses can sense certain things too.’

  Looking Winston in the eye, I remembered back to the morning that Michael had visited. How the Queen’s oldest and wisest corgi had suddenly looked up from where we’d been resting in the office of the ladies-in-waiting and made his way downstairs. There had been no need for bells or whistles. Winston had simply known. And sure enough, as soon as we found our way downstairs, we had found Michael.

  ‘When you ride a horse over time,’ observed Her Majesty, who is an experienced rider, ‘you can develop a very definite sense of connection. Especially when you and the horse do a lot of things together—jumping and so on. It goes beyond the mechanical, the physical.’

  ‘The jockeys often say they communicate by visualising a particular result.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what’s that if it isn’t some form of telepathy?’ asked Charles.

  The Queen digested this observation in silence, before she murmured, ‘Whatever you do, don’t share your thoughts with anyone who might . . .’

  Charles groaned. ‘I know. The whole thing would be turned into a circus. The media would have me holding seances with the corgis in between chattering away to my plants.’

  ‘Exactly. Better to keep one’s mouth shut and provide a silent symbol of continuity.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Charles.

  ‘I was reminded of just that by Michael only recently.’

  ‘Ah, Michael.’ Charles’s tone was wistful. ‘When am I going to meet him?’

  ‘You will,’ said the Queen.

  ‘You’ve been saying that for nearly thirty years.’

  I looked at Winston in astonishment. Michael was not only a regular visitor to the Queen, but he enjoyed a position of rare privilege and trust. So why hadn’t he met Charles? Did this mean that the royal corgis were better acquainted with one of Her Majesty’s closest advisers than the heir to the throne?

  ‘I’ve been saying it,’ the Queen said simply, ‘because it’s true.’

  Winston returned my look with an expression of amusement and very deep enigma. Like Charles, I wondered if royal life was always so very mysterious. And why Winston had missed the morsel of lamb that Charles had generously slipped onto the dining room carpet!

  CHAPTER 3

  There is, in Buckingham Palace, a wardrobe that only a handful of people know about. Its very existence is one of the Queen’s most closely guarded secrets. Its purpose would shock even her closest aides and it is the source of her security team’s worst headaches. Not that there’s anything especially unusual about either the wardrobe or its contents. It’s the use to which those contents are put that few people would believe.

  I discovered this unseen dimension of Her Majesty’s activities within a few months of joining the royal family. Winston and Margaret had been left at Windsor that particular week, having come down with a tummy bug for which they were both being treated. This was why I was the Queen’s only metropolitan corgi—and how I was to become the unwitting cause of one of the worst security breaches in recent decades.

  It began on a beautiful April morning. The Queen rose earlier than usual and spent some time looking down the Mall towards Trafalgar Square, taking in the verdant greenness of St James’s Park, the flowerbeds adazzle with the yellow freshness of daffodils. A light breeze rippled through the open window and brought with it the stirrings of spring.

  There is a particular quality about Buckingham Palace, especially those front rooms that face directly onto the Mall. While Windsor Castle, steeped in royal history, lends itself to withdrawal, reflection and mystic communion with the spirits of kings and queens down the ages, Buckingham Palace is the royal family’s shopfront. Being the epicentre of a throbbing metropolis, it is not only the heart of the nation, but also of a global Commonwealth. When gazing down the Mall, it is as though you are directly facing a main artery of the world. And when it is Her Majesty who is standing there, she gives new life to a flow of energy, a charge that sparks down invisible pathways as powerful as they are ancient and leaps across synapses, channelling through countries and continents, strengthening ties and renewing connections, returning back as an impulse of gathering vibrancy and force.

  The Queen stood at the windows, looking out for a very long time. Then she made a decision. Instead of breakfast, she summoned Huchens. ‘I’d like to make an excursion.’

  ‘Very good. I’ll see to the arrangements.’

  Huchens had answered with his usual Scottish burr but, as I watched, I noticed his face blush a shade pinker. What was it about an excursion that perturbed him? ‘When would Your Majesty like to go?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I see.’

  I whimpered softly and the Queen looked at me. I could tell that something was up. An ‘excursion’—whatever that meant exactly—sounded like something I would very much like to be a part of. The same idea evidently occurred to Her Majesty. ‘Huchens, would the security dogs be available?’

  I had met these great, prowling beasts. Two German shepherds and a doberman with whom I, and the other corgis, maintained a wary upstairs-downstairs relationship. Huchens glanced in my direction. ‘I can see where you’re going with this, ma’am. I’ll make enquiries.’

  Her Majesty nodded. ‘The Bow Room in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Very good, Your Majesty.’

  Moments later, I followed the Queen to her dressing room and to the wardrobe that was kept permanently locked—except, I was discovering, for when Her Majesty went on an ‘excursion’. Curious to know what she needed to retrieve, given that she was already dressed, I watched her extract the key to the wardrobe from a hidey-hole in a drawer, undo the lock and reach inside. Was it age or excitement that made her hand tremor slightly?

  As a corgi, I am no expert on the clothing worn by humans. As a male dog, barely out of puppyhood, I was perhaps even less sensitive to such matters. Nevertheless, even I was astonished by the transformation I witnessed. Her Majesty changed into a pair
of faded, blue Levis and a plastic anorak, before slipping into a pair of robust Nike trainers. This, even I could tell, was no apparel for a Queen. Not even Mrs Grimsley would have been seen in such attire.

  Next, to my astonishment, Her Majesty retrieved something dark and hairy from the wardrobe and tugged it over her head—a wig! This was followed, a short while later, by a cap with the intertwined initials NY emblazoned prominently on the front. Finally came the large and obviously fake Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. The transformation was complete!

  As she donned her disguise, I noticed the Queen’s posture changing. Her usual regal reserve was replaced by a casual jauntiness. Like a shapeshifter, she seemed to be morphing into a different kind of being.

  ‘Come on, little one!’ She leaned down, hands on her knees, with a playful expression. ‘Walkies!’

  It started well; better than well. Being outside on a glorious day, free from the constraints of being inside with all the usual protocols, we could all simply enjoy being alive on a spring morning. A number of secret servicemen had already been deployed by the time we left the security of the palace. I was some way ahead of the Queen, my own identity, if not disguised, then at least distracted by the presence of the two German shepherds with whom I trotted politely, our leashes in the hands of a plain-clothes policewoman, Detective Lewis.

  As it happened, the dog handler wasn’t around at that hour of the morning, but because the purpose of the German shepherds was unofficial, that absence wasn’t thought to matter. Detective Lewis, it was believed, could easily handle a walk in the park.

  Some distance behind us, Her Majesty was accompanied by Huchens. There were more plain-clothes policemen behind them. As we made our way through the leafy luxuriance of Buckingham Palace Gardens, I took in the beautiful shrubs and trees of so many different shades of green. The fountains in the ornamental lakes were gushing plumes of silver in the morning light. There were some people about, but we seemed to be sharing the gardens mainly with teeming birdlife. This included several rafts of ducks—a kind of bird I had never seen before. I was fascinated to watch them swimming in the ponds. As they dived below the surface, only their bobbing tail feathers protruded and I became even more intrigued.

  We had completed a wide circuit of the gardens and were on our way home, when the temptation simply became too great. Twelve ducks stood in the middle of the lawn, a fair distance from the ponds. From some part of my being that I didn’t even know existed, I felt a sudden, urgent instinct to herd them. Should they not be in the pond, rather than on the grass? The way they were waddling around and preening themselves was deliberately provocative. Impertinent! As a herding dog, was it not my civic duty to tidy the place up? Not to mention that it would be enormous fun.

  I gave a jolt. A split second before I did, Detective Lewis’ phone vibrated in her pocket. At that vital moment, she was caught off guard. To my own very great surprise—and joy—I was free!

  Tugging the leash from her hand, I raced across the lawns and was rewarded almost instantly with a loud squawking of alarm. Some of the ducks quacked into immediate take-off, shedding feathers as they went. Others were lurching frantically towards the pond, as fast as their orange galoshes would take them. Barking with excitement, I raced in a wide arc, rounding them up like a seasoned pro. I was thrilled. Energised. Empowered. Within seconds, there wasn’t a single duck remaining on the grass.

  There were, however, quite a number of passers-by who had turned to watch my vigorous performance. People crossing the gardens on their way to work stared in my direction. Several early morning tourists paused and pointed. The word ‘corgi!’ floated on the breeze. In the next instant came the word, ‘Queen!’ It was then that I began to realise what I’d done.

  Several men materialised from the atmosphere. I recognised them immediately as special branch detectives from the palace. They were approaching rapidly from either side, while Detective Lewis and the two German shepherds hurried towards me. I looked about to see that Huchens had changed direction. His SAS training kicked into action and he was leading Her Majesty from the scene of my hot pursuit, well clear of where she might be noticed by association. Rather than returning to the palace through the gardens, he was leading her instead towards a pavement.

  I was very quickly apprehended and my leash held much shorter and with noticeable firmness. Detective Lewis was evidently in no mood to play. In fact, any sense of springlike zest had evaporated.

  Even though the morning was just as clear and wonderful as it had been before my sortie, things seemed to have somehow shifted into a minor key. The rays of the sun felt cooler. The wind felt more bracing. Tension emanated down the leash from the police detective. The German shepherds were unsettled—I could see it in their disdainful, but somewhat envious, expressions.

  The plain-clothes special branch officers seemed to vanish as mysteriously as they had appeared. Detective Lewis was leading us in the direction of the pavement, some distance behind Her Majesty.

  There were very few people on the pavement so early in the morning and those who were took absolutely no notice of the Queen. Walking, hunched-up over their phones, or caught up by whatever was playing through their earbuds, they walked right past the Queen in a state of total self-absorption. Her Majesty gestured that Huchens should step ahead of her, to avoid blocking the whole pavement. And so we continued down a short distance of pavement outside the garden walls, on our way back to the palace.

  There was one small intersection that we needed to cross and, as we approached it, the traffic lights were red. Rather than risk exposing the Queen by letting her stand on the corner, Huchens slowed his pace right down. There was only one shop on that particular stretch of the street. Palace Newsagency was a tiny store, not much bigger than the Grimsleys’ shed, with a door to one side and a hatch that opened directly onto the pavement. It was framed by that day’s newspapers, neatly tucked into racks. There were also many glossy magazines, their headlines prominently displayed.

  One of these caught Her Majesty’s eye as she walked by at the greatly reduced speed set by Huchens. ‘Equestrian world shocked . . .’ began the headline of Racing News. The Queen halted, angling her head slightly in an attempt to read the first paragraph. What precisely was the cause of the upset, she wondered? She paused only for a few moments—seconds perhaps.

  However, in that very brief time, an Indian man appeared from inside the shop. He was wearing a flowing white shirt, his head completely bald, with a radiance about his features. Touching his forehead, throat and heart with his folded hands in rapid succession, he bowed and said, ‘Would you be liking this magazine, Your Majesty Elizabeth?’

  By this stage, Detective Lewis and we dogs were only a few steps behind her.

  ‘Oh, um . . .’ I very rarely heard her Majesty hesitate. ‘I think there’s been a mistake’ she said, in her unmistakeable voice.

  ‘Please.’ He was already taking the magazine from the rack and handing it to her. ‘With a thousand blessings.’

  ‘Well, thank you!’ She accepted it, before Huchens had stepped back to guide her away firmly by the elbow.

  He was leading her across at the green light, when one of the plain-clothes detectives slipped into the shop.

  ‘That, um, wasn’t supposed to happen,’ he said.

  ‘Not to be worrying,’ replied the newsagent. ‘Her Majesty Elizabeth is interested in the horses.’

  The detective nodded briskly, ‘I mean her unscheduled visit.’

  ‘Oh.’ The other shrugged, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. ‘I know she likes to walk in the gardens.’

  Suddenly perceiving a much graver security risk, the detective frowned. ‘You do? How do you know?’

  ‘I can tell she is walking close by sometimes.’ The man smiled enigmatically. ‘I can sense it here.’ He touched his heart.

  ‘Well.’ The detective coughed. ‘That’s not my remit. But regarding today’s visit . . .’

  ‘Don’t
you be worrying,’ the newsagent reached out and touched him confidentially on the arm, ‘my lips are completely sealed.’

  After we returned to the palace, Her Majesty and I went upstairs, where she changed into more queenly attire. Huchens hadn’t said anything about the duck-chasing incident, but it was evidently on the Queen’s mind when she emerged from her dressing chamber looking her usual, regal self.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your little romp this morning, young man.’ She bent to pat me. I looked up at her adoringly, wagging my stump. ‘Huchens wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all. I fear we haven’t heard the last of it.’

  She was quite right, my fellow subject. We had not.

  The two of us went downstairs for our respective breakfasts. It wasn’t long after we had finished and as I was resting at Her Majesty’s feet, that Huchens arrived in her sitting room. ‘About this morning’s security breach, ma’am,’ he began, rolling his ‘r’s’ severely. ‘I wish to undertake a full root and branch review.’

  He went on to detail how Her Majesty’s safety had been gravely compromised, as a result of being accompanied by an untrained and ill-disciplined puppy. He maintained that the police detective’s handling of me had been a serious and avoidable error. He emphasised that the Queen’s disguise had—as he had so often cautioned in the past—proven to be utterly unconvincing. Even the newsagent’s comment about being able to ‘sense’ when the Queen was walking was reported with grim concern.

  Looking up from her morning newspaper, Her Majesty took it all in her stride. ‘Well Huchens, I know it’s your job to worry about these things, but there’s no need to overreact. You neglected to mention the main fault, which was that I stopped to read a headline.’ She nodded towards where the magazine was lying on a nearby table.

  ‘That was . . .’ Huchens searched for the right word, ‘regrettable.’

  ‘What of it?’ the Queen said with a shrug. ‘The puppy couldn’t resist the ducks. I couldn’t resist the headline. We discovered our local newsagent to be psychic. No harm done.’