by David Michie
‘When you say something that’s not in harmony with what you subconsciously believe, muscular resistance is much lower.’
‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Tara, suddenly engaged. ‘Can we try it again?’
Justine resumed her pressure while Tara said My name is Sophia, her arm collapsing down as quickly as the first time. ‘Kinesiology uses this principle, applying it according to five different elements throughout the body.’
‘You keep asking questions?’
Justine shook her head. ‘All you need to do is lie on the sofa and breathe.’
Moments later, after answering a few questions about her overall state of health, Tara was lying on her back, head resting on the arm of the sofa and focusing on her breath. Justine perched on the coffee table and was pressing on Tara’s wrist with one hand, while moving the other in curious, slow dancing movements, some distance above her body. I sat at Justine’s feet, watching the proceedings intently.
‘I’m not picking up any physical issues,’ she said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Would you like to see if there’s anything on an emotional level that may need attention?’
‘Fine.’
The process went on for a while before Justine asked Tara to focus her gaze to one side then the other, while all the time she pushed down gently on Tara’s wrist. Sometimes, I noticed, it would be less resistant than others, but I had no idea why that was the case. Perhaps it was something to do with the position of her other hand above Tara’s body? And was she holding something in it? After a while, Justine gently pulled back. ‘We can probably stop there,’ she said.
Tara resumed her previous sitting position. Apart from touching her wrist, Justine had had nothing else to work with. What information about Tara could she possibly have gleaned? Justine responded to Tara’s look of curiosity with a smile.
‘As I said earlier, no physical problems, except perhaps a little dehydration.’
Tara’s expression remained unchanged.
‘Emotionally speaking, I did identify a fairly strong sense of rejection.’
‘What?’ Tara laughed in disbelief.
There was compassion in Justine’s eyes as she nodded. ‘A feeling of deep loss in a relationship. Something that perhaps has made subsequent relationships difficult? It has probably made you want to push people away, if you fear they may get too close?’
‘I can’t believe . . . !’ Raising her hands to her face, Tara was suddenly struck by Justine’s discovery. ‘But that was years ago.’
Justine nodded. ‘Ten to fifteen years ago is my guess.’
Tara gazed into the mid-distance. ‘Fifteen,’ she confirmed. ‘And you got all that from . . . ?’
‘Our bodies never lie. All the landmarks of our emotional lives—our beliefs—become part of our physical being.’
Tara held her gaze evenly. ‘I hardly know what to say.’
‘It surprises most people. It came as a big surprise to me when I discovered it. The main thing is to use this in a helpful way. Once we become aware of buried issues, we can deal with them at source.’
‘You’re saying we can sabotage our own relationships without realising it?’
‘The subconscious mind,’ Justine said tactfully, ‘is far more powerful than the conscious one. You know the tip of the iceberg image? Most of our behaviour is automatic, operating without the need for conscious thought. When an idea becomes lodged deep down, like the idea that we are unloved or unlovable, then even if we really want a relationship to work, we will follow the established script. This makes us act out in ways that fulfil that programming, perhaps by choosing incompatible partners or behaving destructively when things are going well.’
‘My goodness!’
‘The important thing is to apply a remedy. To replace the negative programming with positive expectations.’
Tara glanced towards the door of the office, which was ajar.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Justine.
‘No, no.’
‘This work takes us straight to the heart of things.’
Tara was shaking her head. ‘I would never have even guessed, all these years later . . .’
Justine nodded. ‘Perhaps it helps you make sense of certain things?’
Tara held her gaze.
‘Usually it’s what we say or do, when we’re not being mindful. When we’re distracted or stressed out . . . instead of behaving as we’d consciously like to . . . our subconscious programming shows through.’
‘And other people get mixed messages?’
‘Exactly,’ said Justine with a nod. ‘And when our words conflict with our behaviour, it’s what we are doing that other people pay attention to, not what we are saying.’
This conversation reminded me of the very similar one I’d overheard between the Queen and the positive dog trainer. Both dogs and humans, it seemed, shared the same ability to sense when things weren’t quite right. Both could detect when what someone was saying was merely an act.
Justine shrugged. ‘We’re all works in progress. It takes courage to be open about our flaws, but that’s what makes us authentic. Winston Churchill’s black dog, for instance.’
Over by the fireside, one and a half ears pricked up momentarily. Black dog was not a phrase I’d heard before and it confused me.
There was a long pause as Tara regarded Justine carefully. ‘I only wish I’d known half of what you do when I was your age.’ She smiled.
‘Thank you!’ Justine glanced down modestly.
‘You’ve given me a lot to think about. And I think your services could be invaluable to many who come into contact with the Trust.’
That night was one of the rare occasions when Her Majesty enjoyed dinner, just for the family, at Buckingham Palace. Winston, Margaret and I were in attendance, lying on the carpet a short distance away from the table, ever watchful of our younger family members who might, in a soft-hearted moment, surreptitiously slip us a morsel from the table.
‘What was that about Winston Churchill having a black dog?’ I quizzed Winston, flopping beside him and fixing Kate with a look of winsome adoration.
‘Not an actual dog,’ said Winston. ‘Figure of speech, dear boy. It means he suffered from depression.’
‘Do black dogs get very depressed?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’
I mulled it over. Up until that point I hadn’t known that humans might associate the word ‘dog’ with a feeling of unhappiness.
‘I suppose we do make humans unhappy sometimes,’ I remarked plaintively.
Winston looked over at me, cocking his head. ‘You’re not still dwelling on the A of C?’
‘It’s just . . .’
‘Let go! Move on! Like that woman this afternoon was saying, if you wait till you’re perfect before you accept yourself, you never will.’
I leaned over and nuzzled Winston, licking his neck. Sometimes I was convinced that he was the wisest dog in the world.
I can’t say whether what happened next was deliberate, but the timing seemed significant. Only moments later, a cloud of the most noxious stench rose up to engulf everyone in the room. Charles’ reaction was instant. ‘Winston!’ he spluttered, rising to his feet and flapping his hand across his face to no avail.
‘I think we should go next door for a few moments.’ Her Majesty rose, leading the way with quiet dignity, while the butler produced a cigar lighter from his pocket and unleashed a gas-consuming flame.
Margaret and I both looked at Winston askance.
‘Better out than in,’ he explained.
‘But really!’ Margaret was deeply unimpressed.
‘We all have our flaws,’ he snorted. ‘Embrace them!’
Several months later the Queen paid a visit to the Archbishop of Canterbury at his official residence, Lambeth Palace. It was a Friday afternoon and we were on our way to Windsor. On arrival, Police Detective Lewis took us for a walk in the Archbishop’s garden, while the Queen went inside t
o discuss matters of the church.
It wasn’t a lengthy meeting—barely long enough for the royal corgis to leave our collective mark on the most important trees and shrubs. A vibration from Detective Lewis’ phone in her pocket summoned us to the side door from which Her Majesty would be leaving the building.
It was a perfectly tranquil day as the ancient, wooden door opened to reveal the Queen and Archbishop in quiet conversation. When he looked out and saw the corgis, the Archbishop immediately smiled. ‘Oh, I’ll have to call Mitzy. She will be pleased.’
Moments later the two humans and one poodle emerged. Mitzy skipped over to greet us, barking excitedly and frantically wagging her tail. She had exchanged wet-nosed greetings with all three of us before the Queen and Archbishop joined us, the A of C bending to pat us warmly.
It didn’t escape my notice that neither Mitzy nor the Archbishop had shown a moment’s hesitation in wanting to greet me. Nor was their warmth in any way contrived. It was as if the Highgrove moment had never happened. Or if it were remembered, it seemed to be of no importance at all.
For a while we dogs were allowed to scamper on the lawn, before the time came to get back in the car. Her Majesty and the Archbishop exchanged waves as our car pulled away.
That day’s drive out to Windsor was a time of some reflection. I wondered how it was possible that something of so little importance to others could assume such great significance in my mind. How self-doubt could grow so easily, if left unchecked. I thought how past events could continue to affect us, even if we didn’t realise it, as had been the case for poor Tara.
But at least there were ways to leave the past behind—the advice of the kinesiologist had confirmed that. And in the meantime, recognising that we all have flaws was a vital part of self-acceptance. Being who we are, without pretence, is vital in allowing us to be authentic.
I remembered Winston’s sage advice—Let go—feeling a wave of palpable relief pass through me. And so I did. The only moment that mattered was this one, sitting on the car seat next to the Queen and my fellow corgis on a beautiful Friday afternoon, with England’s green and pleasant land sliding by, as lovely as it ever had been.
Later that afternoon, Her Majesty was being consulted on forward planning by her secretary, Julian.
‘The Braemar Gathering.’ He nodded towards a folder on her lap, containing paperwork. ‘Does that all look in order?’
The Queen glanced down, reading a margin note she’d previously made.
‘Ah yes.’ She nodded. ‘We need to have a word with Huchens.’
Moments later her head of security was in our midst, imposing and formidable.
‘Did you have a chance to enquire about that schoolboy?’
‘Simpson, ma’am; who was being bullied by Jenkins?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I spoke to his mother last week. Jenkins has changed his attitude entirely. He has become Simpson’s greatest protector. Mrs Simpson says her son’s study is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop.’
‘Very good.’
‘In fact, some sort of friendship has struck up between the boys.’
The Queen raised her eyebrows. ‘Even better.’
‘In that case,’ she nodded towards Julian, ‘we should invite Jenkins and his band to Braemar.’
‘The massed bands, ma’am?’ enquired her secretary.
‘Yes,’ she replied. Before saying uncertainly, after a moment, ‘No.’
Then, responding to Julian’s enquiring expression, ‘I’d like to put him in the spotlight, so to speak, just for a short while.’
Julian pondered for a moment before suggesting, ‘You could give him a solo.’
‘Splendid.’
‘Is there anything in particular you’d like him to play?’
Her Majesty thought about this for a while, frowning in contemplation, before Huchens volunteered: ‘A Scottish Soldier?’
She considered this briefly, before shaking her head.
‘Scotland the Brave,’ Julian offered, somewhat obviously.
It was a moment before she looked up, first at Julian and then her security chief. ‘Under the circumstances, I think it should be Amazing Grace.’
CHAPTER 6
You may very well be wondering by now if there are any limits to the Queen’s patience when it comes to her corgis. Not only did she observe my incontinence without comment. She shrugged off the worst security breach in several years—one caused by my impetuous behaviour—as though it was of little consequence. And you will have noticed that not a sharp word was spoken, even when I humped the Archbishop of Canterbury’s leg.
Is there nothing, you may very well ask, capable of provoking Her Majesty’s wrath?
Let me assure you, my fellow subject, that even though the Queen is a model of restraint and forbearance, she is mostly definitely human. Possessing the firm expectation that others will act in accord with their highest purpose, there are certain things guaranteed to incur her disapproval, as I learnt on the day of the garden party.
There is always a decided frisson at Buckingham Palace in the lead-up to a garden party. Even though the Queen entertains regularly . . . involving everything from receiving her prime minister each Wednesday evening to hosting banquets for visiting heads of state . . . garden parties have a particular quality to them. Perhaps it is the outdoor setting, away from the pomp of red carpets, gilded chairs and crystal chandeliers. No doubt it also has to do with the kinds of people who attend—not the rich and titled, but rather a wide cross-section of people from Britain, the Commonwealth and even further afield. Almost all of them tend to be bitzers.
There is an informality about such events. A spontaneity far removed from the carefully scripted speeches of most public events. For this very reason, those who were comfortable in their own coats—like Winston—welcomed the opportunity to mix and mingle. But those who feared what might happen when members of the public were given free access to palace grounds and certain public rooms—like Margaret—became increasingly anxious.
For weeks leading up to the event, she would raise her snout with an air of foreboding, as though, at this very minute, hawk-faced trade union leaders in smoke-filled cellars were plotting their raids on the dessert trolleys. Whenever Julian, Her Majesty’s secretary, brought up the subject of the impending garden party at morning briefings, Margaret would lift her head from the Persian rug, lips quivering, to reveal her bared teeth.
On one of our daily walks, I somewhat naively asked Margaret what she had against garden parties. Her expression turned very severe as she spoke of things well beyond my comprehension. Eyes bulging and saliva flecking the sides of her mouth, it was clear that she felt very strongly about the matter. Her diatribe only came to an end when I asked her about a phrase she’d used. It had a pleasant sounding rhyme to it, but I knew from the way she spoke that it was a Very Bad Thing.
‘When you say reds under the beds, who exactly do you mean, Margaret?’ I asked.
‘The Socialists!’ she snarled. ‘They want to bring down the monarchy! To drive us out of Buckingham Palace.’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ It was the first time I’d heard of such a notion and it seemed preposterous. For the first time, I found myself becoming alarmed.
‘Because they are communists! Red!’
‘And . . . and these reds,’ I wanted to be clear. ‘Is it the flowerbeds they’re under?’
‘Oh,’ she snapped, tugging at her lead to get away from me. ‘You stupid boy!’
I was quite used to Margaret’s displays of ill temper. They always seemed to involve a matter of principle. But they rarely lasted for long.
She continued her deep wariness in the days leading up to the garden party. I didn’t bring up the subject again with her, for fear of once more exposing my apparently deep ignorance. Although I did ask Winston what he thought. ‘Margaret says that reds under the beds want to drive us from the palace,’ I told him. ‘Is it true?’<
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Winston snorted contemplatively before saying, ‘It is true. But I wouldn’t make too much of it, dear boy. They’ve been saying the same thing for a hundred years and it hasn’t happened yet. You know . . .’ he drew himself up, as he always did when about to impart a special piece of wisdom, ‘a life lived in fear is no life at all.’
But for a single phrase, my fellow subject, the course of that year’s garden party may have taken a very different turn. And who knows where things may have ended up?
It was less than half an hour before the Queen was to make her public appearance that I made my way through her suite. She was in her drawing room with Julian, being told about some of the guests who had been invited that day, including a group of Chelsea pensioners. Outside the sun was shining with skies only partly cloudy—a wonderful day for the event.
I knew that Margaret had already taken herself downstairs. Visitors were already trickling in through the gates and she was no doubt scrutinising them rigorously. Winston lay sprawled under an occasional table next to the Queen, snoring softly. Not feeling in the least bit sleepy, and needing to fill in the time until we accompanied Her Majesty downstairs, I found myself idly wandering through the Queen’s private suite of rooms. These included a spacious dressing room, never of much interest to a corgi, as well as her bedroom. I was strolling past, when I glanced through the bedroom door.
This was when I saw the thing: red and on her bed! Its audacious, scarlet plumage was quivering in the afternoon breeze.
I froze. Paw midair, I could hardly believe what I was seeing! Was this not exactly what Margaret had warned of? And on the very day of the garden party? The brooding menace that threatened to chase us out of our beloved home. No longer was it under the bed—it had already advanced to the top of it!
I set off like lightning. Racing to the bed for Queen and country. Leaping onto it. Launching myself at the loathsome fiend and tearing into its bright, red feathers. While initially it remained inert, as soon as I had it in my jaws, it responded with a painful sting. A rubber-like cord unravelled round my snout like a tentacle, delivering a sharp, metallic thwack to my nose.
