Chain Reaction

by Gillian White

  The Prince himself eyes up the contenders. ‘I wouldn’t touch those with a barge-pole, give me some credit,’ he sniggers. The rest of The Family just frown, look away and say nothing. There but for the grace of God…

  There are meetings almost every day with the Press Secretaries, the Private Secretaries and their secretaries, the Equerries, and even the Lord Chamberlain comes back from his holiday on the Nile so great is the fuss and so dangerous the threat to the Throne. And all because of this chit of a girl…

  Conceited men of all shapes and sizes, each as loquacious as the other, some stout and lively, some thin, bespectacled and earnest, meet with their coffees at a chosen hour after breakfast. ‘We must make contact with the wench somehow,’ says Sir Hugh gravely, trying to ignore the critical stares as he sits at the end of the long oak table, sick with shame and disappointment. The carpets and curtains in this room are all of bright green tartan. Twigs and enormous fircones fill the silent fireplaces which, in the winter, crackle and burn so merrily with gigantic logs collected from the estate. But now the French windows are open and a grey squirrel, frightened by something, scurries off down the russet path and dives into the thyme. Sheep nibble the tufty turf on the slopes. In the distance the mountains lie in shawls of purple and pale mauve. Protected by the castle’s vast stone walls they are on the edge of an uninhabitable world where civilisation dwindles away. If only Sir Hugh was out there with a stout ash-stick in his hand and not in here trying to defend his perilous position. ‘We have to communicate in order to know what she intends her next move to be. Perhaps we can increase our offer in exchange for her future silence…’

  ‘From all I’ve heard,’ says one of his supercilious superiors, making some notes on a sheet of foolscap, ‘she wouldn’t give you or young Dougal here the time of day. Some fellow rang me this morning to say he was bribed by a Harley Street quack to take part in a decidedly fishy business at the exclusive clinic where he works as a nurse. Unfortunately this blasted character has also been in touch with the newspapers.’

  ‘I can’t think to what he might be referring,’ says Sir Hugh quickly, his vanity pricked and his worst fears surfacing. ‘I hope you are not suggesting—’

  ‘I am suggesting nothing,’ the speaker snaps back impatiently, ‘merely stating, Sir Hugh, that you and your friend have already done enough. It might be better if, from now on, you take a back seat.’

  ‘It might be preferable to kick them out of the bus altogether,’ chuckles Lord Tickle, the Crown Equerry, a thin and active little man. ‘Unless they pull their socks up. Silly asses, both of them, overreacting like that.’

  ‘Gentlemen, please.’ The Lord Chamberlain’s quavering voice brings the meeting once more to order. His wrinkled, bejewelled finger wags in the air. ‘Let us remember why we are here and bear in mind the grave responsibilities now resting on our shoulders. I have to agree with Sir Hugh, I’m afraid. Contact must be made with the lass before the press get hold of her and exploit her for all she is worth.’

  An elderly gentleman in the corner of the room brandishes a rolled up copy of The Times as though, like the conch, it will enable him to speak uninterrupted. A high-pitched wind whistles down his nose as he warns the exclusive group, ‘Word has it that there’s to be a high-society wedding at The Grange with every blooming newspaper in the land well represented. And the television. And the radio. And the satellite channels…’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Godfrey,’ someone retorts with hostility. ‘We all know that without you rubbing it in.’

  ‘We’ll just have to hope the friend she is with, a Miss Belinda Hutchins, will manage to smuggle her off the premises before the fireworks begin.’

  ‘Or that she manages to remain incognito.’

  ‘That would be quite impossible. Her face is known throughout the land.’

  And so the arguments pass to and fro, and all because Sir Hugh has mishandled the situation. Anxious and preoccupied, his exhausted brain twisting and burrowing, how he would love, for the sake of his career, for the sake of Lady Constance, for the sake of his Grace and Favour home, for the sake of his crippled father, oh how Sir Hugh would love to be able to redeem himself and thus find favour once again. On the fact-sheet before him he re-reads the name of the promoter of the hideous musical event—Walter Mathews. Could it be the same Walter Mathews who shared Sir Hugh’s dorm at school? That spotty little fat boy with the moneyed American folks? Nobody approved of him, naturally; he was a foreigner, ever the outsider. Sir Hugh had influence over him then, so why not today? Could it be the same chappie? There’s always the remotest chance; it’s worth a try. He daren’t mention anything yet in case he trips up again, but he will corner Dougal after the meeting (how quiet the normally precocious Dougal is, all of a sudden), and have a word. Maybe Lovette could do some digging but time is quickly passing and whatever needs doing needs doing fast. In the meantime Sir Hugh decides he finds Dougal’s silence impertinent.

  There are other topics which must be discussed at this most delicate time, like Her Majesty’s untimely involvement in the political life of the State regarding a certain personage, one Mrs Irene Peacock, who seems to have shut herself in her home and to whom the Monarch sent a somewhat foolhardy reply. That particular Lady-in-Waiting wants a good slap on the wrist. Lindsey Marigold Stokes really ought to know better by now.

  Unfortunately, the letter in question has been exploited to the hilt, nailed to the door of the dwelling in question and photocopies of the document circulated most generously. Every member of the meeting reads the Queen’s reply thoroughly.

  ‘Apart from the few bumptious old fools who always take up the cudgel, this seems to have met with an almost euphoric response on the part of the general public,’ says the Equerry with a brave smile. ‘Not to be sneezed at in the present circumstances, I would suggest, and certainly not a matter to be regretted. Indeed, so concerned is the country in general with the fate of this stubborn old woman that this impetuous reply is probably the best thing that could possibly have happened. Or so the polls are telling us.’

  ‘Out of order,’ gasps the Lord Chamberlain, once more raising his palsied hand.

  The Chief Press Officer takes up the argument. ‘It might well be out of order but it’s a jolly good thing it happened. Without it we might well have seen a revolution by now, the people are so angry at the way things are moving.’

  ‘Not a subject for jest, old boy.’

  ‘I assure you I am not jesting,’ says the Chief Press Officer severely. ‘They are lining up to ask questions when Parliament returns.’

  ‘And what do you suggest?’

  The bald man with the red bow tie pauses for effect, pleased to have the attention of the room. ‘Another letter has been received from the old lady in question, gentlemen. Apparently she left it with a friend before she took her outrageous action. The instructions she gave were that the letter should only be posted seven days after the siege began. I have copies of the letter here; if I pass them round, perhaps you will read them.’

  Bloodthirsty pictures of stags and crags and otters and rivers, various prey in their killing grounds, frown down upon them as they read. A few stuffed and speckled fish peep out between the reeds of their glassy coffins.

  Eventually—‘She’s a cunning old bird, that’s obvious, putting forward such an absurd notion.’

  ‘Read it again, please, gentlemen, and then tell me if you think the notion quite so absurd. Read and bear in mind the public reaction to this little drama, and ask yourselves if this might not be a good way to restore faith in a system which most people now, as the result of Prince James’ unfortunate behaviour, seem to consider to be over-privileged, immoral and distanced.’

  There’s another brief silence and a rustling of papers and then Sir Hugh speaks up. ‘You’re not trying to suggest, I sincerely hope, that the Queen should respond to this blackmail threat and go and knock at this woman’s door like a neighbour in slippers and headscarf? Good God, man!
Where will it end?’

  ‘That is the question we are all trying to answer, Sir Hugh,’ says the Press Officer quickly. ‘Please consider the idea carefully before you dismiss it out of hand.’

  ‘The thin end of the wedge,’ warns the Equerry.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ answers the PR expert. ‘This particular incident is quite unique.’

  ‘Never! There’d be demands sprouting out for Regal visits to every Tom, Dick and Harry who happened to find themselves in trouble. By Jove, everyone would start blocking themselves in and making threats and before we knew it—’

  ‘But couldn’t we make it clear that this was an exception to the rule, unlikely ever to be repeated? Merely a private visit by Her Majesty, who happened to be moved by this one most upsetting circumstance.’

  ‘What about the political implications?’ somebody comments significantly.

  ‘You have just pointed out yourself that Parliament is in recess. If we’re going to do it, now’s the time, when anyone who’s anyone is out of the country. There would be the most tremendous public response.’

  There comes an unpleasant wheezing sound from the corner of the room. ‘One hell of a risk.’

  ‘The time has come, I’m afraid Sir Godfrey, where risks are inevitable.’

  ‘Hell, man, it is County Council policy to advise the elderly to sell their homes in order to pay for care,’ says a flurried Sir Hugh, slipping into the pause. ‘There’s no money in the bloody kitty. The blighters have run out, squandered it on the feckless poor and the work-shy instead of on wars and weapons and Windsor Castle and other essential expenditure…’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Sir Hugh, and let the rest of us think! This does seem a most dangerous precedent to set, but I realise the circumstances are unusual, and bearing in mind this latest unfortunate scandal, it could well be a way of minimising the damage.’

  Sir Hugh sits back and straightens his tie. Is Dougal daring to smirk beside him?

  And so the argument goes on, with some talking and some slumped in thought, listening and changing their minds, then changing them back again… A servant in black with a bright white apron brings in fresh coffee and a welcome plate of shortbread biscuits.

  After a communal lunch of shepherd’s pie and rice pudding with blackberry jam, the meeting breaks up and Sir Hugh and Dougal retire to their apartment, a small suite of rooms devoid of luxury and comfort as are most of the rooms in the castle. Sharing a suite with Dougal is upsetting for Sir Hugh, but there it is, he is on his way down in the world and this is one way They are making his new and lowly position clear to him. Suddenly he feels very tired, and would love to take an afternoon snooze, but at least he has bagged the best bedroom. All now hangs on the slim hope that the fat boy at Eton who called himself Mathews is the same fellow who’s running this tasteless show at The Grange. He’s some pop promoter, apparently. Big in the USA.

  ‘But can you trust him?’ asks Dougal, magically finding his voice again.

  ‘Of course I can trust him,’ snaps Sir Hugh, sitting on his spartan bed with its predictable tartan counterpane. ‘We were at school together, weren’t we? The horrible Mathews was my fag.’

  ‘But you didn’t particularly get on?’

  ‘That is quite beside the point.’

  ‘You can’t possibly take the risk of confiding—’

  ‘I shall do what I think fit,’ says Sir Hugh, cutting him off and unscrewing the cap from his newly purchased bottle of Scotch. He won’t offer a snort to Dougal: let him buy his own. You would think, in the circumstances, it might be provided but no, all that’s on offer beside the bed is spring water and ginger biscuits.

  Enquiries are being instigated by a confident Lovette even as they speak. They await with interest the result of his investigations. Lovette’s computer lists are extensive. There are many businesses and organisations who would die for a glance at the information stored in that micro-chip brain; to the right people it would be worth millions.

  ‘How will you find out if it is him?’ asks Dougal somewhat peevishly. Talk about deserting a man when he’s down, thinks Sir Hugh. He’s going to remember this.

  ‘I will ring the man up—what else?’

  ‘You don’t think a more cautious approach might be safer? After all, it has been years since—’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ says Sir Hugh impatiently. With a bit of luck, Arabella Brightly-Smythe will be delivered to him on a plate and Sir Hugh’s career will be back on its glittering course again. And if Mathews is not the man… No, no, he can’t think that way! His heart dies within him at the dreadful thought of perpetual banishment.

  A piper below their window suddenly bursts into life with a gasp like a tortured soul from hell. The hairs on the back of Sir Hugh’s neck bristle. How in the name of buggery can he deal with an important phone call above this tumult of agonised sound? Dammit, he won’t hear a word Lovette says. He leaps up and closes the window but the wistful sound of the piper rides in waves through the thick stone walls, washes against the windows, passes, untrammelled through Sir Hugh’s aching head and on towards the wastes of the valleys and mountains and over the surface of the whole world as far as Sir Hugh is concerned, so that when the phone finally rings his nerves are knotted with raucous tension.

  It’s not Lovette after all. Blow me down. On the phone is the weedy Mathews himself.

  ‘Mathews? Is that you? Mountjoy Minor here, old bean. You remember me, surely?’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Flat 1, Albany Buildings, Swallowbridge, Devon

  THE MATTER IS ATTRACTING worldwide interest and there is just no letup. The authorities are at their wits’ end. If anything, the pressure gets greater as supportive crowds move in with their tents and their sleeping bags. Neighbours provide coffee and charge the press for good vantage points. Unwittingly, Irene Peacock has been turned into a national symbol, a symbol of the good old days when people cared, little boys could go fishing in riverside pools and little girls could safely visit the ice-cream man, when valued grannies sat on steps smoking pipes, telling tales and rocking the family babies and everywhere there were poppies and bluebells. Ahh. Dream on…

  The campaign headquarters has moved to Emily Benson’s tiny flat, where extra phones and faxes have been installed, along with an instant soup machine. Naturally the police tried to prevent the world and his wife strolling into the very building which was the centre of operations, but the police were too busy, at that stage, trying to present a sympathetic image, eager not to upset the mob. They would rather capitulate than force any confrontation which might cause the ever-present fuse to spark and flare. Anyway, it’s too hot for any sort of conflagration. If only the weather would break, if only it would rain. That would wash most of the camping fraternity away but they’d still be left with the hard core of troublemakers—long-haired weirdoes who make it their business to fan the flames wherever there’s a likely crisis.

  So here we have it. Two lead stories side by side each as strong as the other and both hanging on issues of morality and responsibility to those weaker than ourselves. And everyone is perfectly entitled to give an opinion; from the youngest to the oldest, chins are wagging, from early morning till the last news comes on at night. Miss Benson is now overwhelmed by mail every day and it is mounting up, unanswered, in her small bedroom. She certainly needed this fortnight’s holiday. The vet, where she usually works, has kindly allowed her to use his storeroom at the back of the surgery for the excess mail. His customers are suitably impressed, and likewise, all sorts of companies have offered aid and sustenance out of the kindness of their hearts and also for publicity purposes because supporters of the siege are perceived to be GOOD; anyone else is BAD. The County Council is bad, the government who caused all this because of their mean mentality, is bad, the Social Services are bad for not sorting the matter out before poor Mrs Peacock was driven to take such extreme action, her uncaring family are bad, Greylands Rest Home and all who work within it are bad�
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  In spite of her promiscuous youngest son, the Queen did the decent thing by responding to a desperate old lady’s plea for help, but is that all she is prepared to do—send a letter of commiseration? The cautious statements issuing from the Palace do not seem to support that initial goodwill, and loyal subjects are becoming restless and uneasy. What is the point of paying out all those millions every year merely for ceremonial purposes designed to bring in the tourists? Is that what the Royal Family have now been reduced to, apart from screwing the odd infatuated subject and leaving her in the lurch? Some predictable old codgers rant on about the role of the Monarch and the dangers of interference, while some folks remember how the old Prince of Wales went round decrying the poverty of the miners and then hopped off to a life of luxury in the Bahamas with his American moll.

  No wonder the country is in the state it is.

  Everyone’s got their snout in the trough. Some folks are earning fifty grand while others cope on seven.

  The Health Service is on its knees and turning away children with cancer and animals are disappearing off the face of the earth.

  The sun is even strange, these days; it doesn’t feel like it used to, and that’s because of the hole in the ozone layer—and yet they’re fighting over oil at the North Pole. They give grants for home improvements to people with Listed houses, while thousands haven’t even got one.

  Teachers get beaten up regularly in their classrooms and there’s never anything on the telly.

  Something is badly wrong.

  Hooray for Irene Peacock. Someone, at last, has made a stand.

  Ambulances stand ominously by. The Fire Service is well represented in case a ladder might be required, or cutting devices. Stalls selling baked potatoes, doughnuts, flags and hand-made jewellery have been set up.

  At night, in the well-lit street which, with its boarding, has turned the area into a forum, people link arms and sing Land of Hope and Glory, and He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands. Yes, religion has moved in, albeit rather late in the day, and Bishops and Archbishops appear regularly on the news giving their guarded support and leading prayers for the little old lady behind the walls.