Left alone, the Queen rang for a footman to take away the tea things, and when he had done so (it was the black-moustached one), she picked up Titus and sat him on her lap.
‘My husband,’ she said to him, ‘is not the easiest person in the world to get on with.’
‘I mean, I’m fond of him, as I am of my daughter and my three sons, but I’m probably happiest when I’m alone with my dogs.’
She looked into Titus’s eyes and, once again, he stared back into hers with that confident gaze of his.
‘In fact,’ said the Queen, ‘I’m possibly happiest when I’m alone with you.’
Chapter Five
Hardly were the words out of the Royal mouth than there came a knock on the door. It was not the discreet knock that the footmen usually gave but a loud rat-a-tat-tat.
‘Bother!’ said the Queen to Titus. ‘Who can that be?’ and she called, ‘Come in!’
The door opened and in came the tall distinguished figure of the Comptroller of the Household. He bowed.
‘Oh, good afternoon, Sir Gregory,’ said the Queen. ‘What can we do for you?’
Is that the Royal ‘we’, thought the Comptroller, or does she mean herself and the dog? ‘Forgive the intrusion, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but the Prince of Wales has just telephoned my office. He is passing through on his way from Highgrove to London and should be here very shortly.’
‘Thank you, Sir Gregory,’ said the Queen. ‘By the way, I don’t think that you’ve met Titus.’
‘Titus, ma’am?’
‘Yes, this little chap, my Prissy’s last child. Titus, allow me to introduce Sir Gregory Collimore. Sir Gregory – Titus.’ She put the little chap down on the floor.
‘How do you do, Titus?’ said the Comptroller gravely, at which the young dog sat up on his bottom, paws held out before him, and Sir Gregory took hold of the right one and solemnly shook it.
‘I’ve never known any of Your Majesty’s corgis do that before, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Nor have we,’ said the Queen.
Scarcely had the Comptroller left the room when the door opened once again, this time without a knock, and in came the Prince of Wales.
‘Hullo, Charles,’ said the Queen.
‘Hullo, Mummy,’ said Prince Charles, kissing his mother, and then, ‘Who’s this?’ for Titus was still sitting up on his hunkers.
‘His name is Titus,’ said the Queen.
‘Never known any of your corgis do that before, Mummy. My terriers can’t do that.’
‘Not surprised,’ said the Queen. ‘Tell me, why are you going to London?’
‘Regimental dinner, Mummy. I am Colonel-in-Chief of the Welsh Guards, remember?’
The Queen smiled a rather patronizing smile. ‘Of course I remember, Charles,’ she said. ‘The most junior of the five regiments. As you no doubt remember, I happen to be Colonel-in-Chief of the Grenadiers, the most senior regiment in the Brigade of Guards.’
The Prince of Wales laughed a somewhat uneasy laugh. ‘I shall have that job one day, Mummy,’ he said.
‘When I’m dead and gone, you mean?’
‘Well, er, yes.’
‘And you’re King Charles the Third?’
‘Well, er, yes.’
Titus was still sitting up on his bottom and the Queen bent down and spoke softly in his ear. ‘He’s going to have to wait an awfully long time,’ she whispered. ‘Specially if I live to be as old as my mum.’ And she giggled.
‘What’s funny, Mummy?’ asked Prince Charles.
‘Oh just a little joke between me and Titus.’
‘You talk as if he could understand what you’re saying.’
‘He can, Charles, he can,’ said the Queen. ‘Now off you go to London, there’s a good boy.’
A little later, in the great drawing room of Windsor Castle, the corgis sprang to attention, ears cocked, back ends wagging, as the Queen came in, carrying Titus.
‘Sorry, Prissy,’ she said, putting the puppy down with his mother. ‘I couldn’t bring your son back earlier because I had a visit from my son.’
When she had gone out again, Prissy said to Titus, ‘Which son?’
‘How d’you mean, Mum?’
‘Well, Her Majesty …’
‘Our servant, you mean?’
‘Yes, she has three sons. What did she call this one? Was it Edward?’
‘No.’
‘Was it Andrew?’
‘No.’
‘Then it must have been Charles.’
‘Yes, that was his name.’
‘He’s the Prince of Wales, of course,’ said Prissy.
‘So he’s Welsh, like us?’
‘No, he’s English. Prince of Wales is his title. He’ll be King of England when the Queen dies.’
‘He’s going to have to wait an awfully long time,’ said Titus.
‘Whatever d’you mean?’
‘Well, that’s what the servant told me.’
‘Oh, Titus!’ said Prissy. ‘What a lovely boy you are. How I do love you.’
In an upstairs sitting room Queen Elizabeth the Second was just settling down to read the Court Circular section of the Daily Telegraph when in came Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, carrying a copy of The Times, open at Sport.
‘Morning, Madge,’ he said.
‘Good afternoon, Philip,’ his wife replied.
‘It’s nearly one o’clock.’
‘Oh, is it?’ said the Duke. ‘What’s for lunch?’
‘For you,’ said the Queen, ‘I’ve no idea. I’m having mine in here, on a tray. My favourites – Marmite sandwiches and cold rice pudding with strawberry jam.’
‘Ugh!’ said the Duke. ‘Those corgis of yours get better grub than you do. You spoil ’em, Madge, especially that puppy you’re always carrying around. Anyone would think he was Heir to the Throne. Which reminds me, Collimore tells me that Charles is here.’
‘He was. He’s gone.’
‘Oh. All right, is he?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Hm,’ said Prince Philip. ‘Well, I must go and look for some lunch. Who knows, if I get down on all fours and wag my behind, maybe one of the footmen will bring me a nice plate of custard creams.’
Chapter Six
Beyond knowing their names, Prince Philip knew nothing of the three footmen who came to answer any bell that he or the Queen might ring in Windsor Castle. When he spoke to one of them, to give an order, it was always in an abrupt manner, but then that was how he spoke to everyone.
The Queen did not know much more of them. She knew that Sidney, the one with fair curly hair, was from London, that John, black of hair and moustache, was a Scot, and that red-headed Patrick hailed from Ireland. When speaking to any of them, she was always civil, for she had been taught as a child that one should never, never be rude to servants. But of their characters she knew nothing.
The three footmen were indeed very different, one from another. Patrick was a jolly fellow, always making jokes. He had an eye for the girls, and more than one of the maids that worked in the Castle had been winked at by the red-headed footman.
Though John, a quiet, serious person, would never have dreamed of doing such a thing himself, he got on well with Patrick.
But neither the Scotsman nor the Irishman had any particular liking for fair, curly-headed Sidney, the third footman, who claimed to have been born in a rather smart part of London. He was indeed a smart-looking chap but Patrick and John somehow did not trust him too much.
Neither of them would have ever finished off any leftover coffee or biscuits, as Sidney always did, and each of them had, at one time or another, seen Sidney slip a couple of custard creams into his pocket before proceeding to the great drawing room or to one of the Queen’s sitting rooms with a tray. Sidney, they agreed between themselves, was light-fingered. But they had no idea just how untrustworthy the Londoner was.
Nor had the Queen.
Until one fateful day when Sidney did something rat
her unwise and Titus won his spurs.
Time had flown, as it does, and Titus was now a year old, though the Queen still referred to him as ‘my puppy Titus’.
‘I’m not a puppy any more, am I, Mum?’ he said to his mother.
‘No, dear,’ replied Prissy. ‘You are a grown-up corgi and a very handsome one too. No wonder the servant spoils you like she does. Why, you’ll be sleeping on her bed next, I shouldn’t wonder.’
By now Titus knew his way around the Castle pretty well, and though he’d never actually been in the Queen’s bedroom, he knew where it was. That afternoon he trotted along, through passages and corridors and up flights of stairs, until he came to its door which, rather to his surprise, was ajar. He peeped into the room and there, at the Queen’s dressing table, was the fair-haired footman.
As Titus watched, Sidney picked up a silver box (a jewel case it was, could Titus have known) and opened its lid and peered inside. Something told Titus that this was wrong. The man shouldn’t be there in the Royal bedroom, he felt sure, and he gave a little growl.
Sidney swung round, hastily closing the jewel case. Then, seeing Titus standing alone in the doorway, he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Blimey, you gave me a fright, you little fattie!’ he said. ‘I’ve got a good mind to kick your fat backside.’ And he made a move towards Titus, who ran off, barking. A couple of hours later, Sidney sat in the saloon bar of a backstreet Windsor pub, in company with a rather flashily dressed middle-aged man. They sat in a far corner, talking quietly over their pints.
‘It’ll be as easy as pie, Percy,’ said Sidney. ‘She hadn’t even locked it.’
‘You’re sure it’s hers, Sid?’ asked the man, Percy.
‘Course it’s hers. It’s in her bedroom. And it’s crammed full of jewels. Rings, brooches, earrings, necklaces, worth a fortune they must be. Soon as I saw ’em, I thought of you, Perce. Old Perce the fence, I said to myself, he’ll place ’em for me. She’ll never even notice they’re gone. It’s a piece of cake.’
‘Slow down, slow down, Sid,’ said Percy. ‘Nice and easy does it, you don’t want to go taking too much at a time. Just pick a few things for a start, mind.’
‘And we’ll split what they fetch, fifty-fifty, Perce?’
‘Sixty to me, Sid, forty to you. I’ve got to place them.’
‘But I’ve got to nick them!’
‘Piece of cake, you said.’
‘Well, yes, she’s gone up to Buckingham Palace with old Phil, but it’s risky all the same.’
‘You just go and get them, Sid,’ said the fence. ‘Just a few small things you can put in your pockets. I’ll meet you back here later.’
And so it was that later that evening the fair-haired footman Sidney made his cautious way up to the bedroom of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second. Because the Queen was not in residence, many of the servants, including John and Patrick, were taking time off, and even Sir Gregory Collimore had put his feet up. But there was someone who was still on duty.
The more Titus thought about what he had seen in the Queen’s bedroom, the more he felt first that that footman was a bad man and second that he, Titus, must guard the servant’s possessions in her absence.
He did not consult his mother about this (I’m not a puppy any more, he thought) but in turn made his cautious way up to Her Majesty’s bedroom and crept under Her Majesty’s great four-poster bed and curled up comfortably on Her Majesty’s thick carpet.
If the man doesn’t come back, he thought, I’ll have a jolly good sleep.
If he does, he’ll have the surprise of his life.
Which indeed Sidney did. Hardly had he opened the Royal jewel case than he heard a sudden snarl and felt a battery of sharp teeth biting into his ankle.
Chapter Seven
‘GERRIMOFF! GERRIMOFF!!’
It was a passing maid who first heard the frantic yells coming from the Queen’s bedroom, and she ran to tell other members of staff, and they alerted the officer commanding the Castle guard, and he telephoned the Comptroller of Her Majesty’s Household. Sir Gregory arrived at the doorway of the Royal bedroom to see before him an extraordinary sight.
Inside there stood an officer of the Grenadier Guards and half a dozen guardsmen, weapons at the ready. Scattered all over the carpet, Sir Gregory could see, were rings and brooches and earrings and necklaces and a silver jewel case, open and empty. Among all these valuables Sidney the footman hopped and howled, one of his ankles held, in a bulldog grip, by a furiously growling corgi.
‘Gerrimoff!’ he still cried feebly, and at a signal from the officer, one of the guardsmen laid down his rifle and knelt and managed to prise open the dog’s jaws and thus release the prisoner. And a prisoner of course Sidney was destined to be, for his guilt was plain to the onlookers (and indeed his pockets were full of rings) and, in due course, to the judge.
The footman had been caught in the act of stealing the Queen’s jewels, and caught, what’s more, by the cunning and courage of one of Her Majesty’s corgis.
After the soldiers had taken the man away to be placed in police custody, Sir Gregory Collimore went to his office to report the matter by telephone to the Queen at Buckingham Palace.
‘Nabbed him, did he, Sir Gregory?’ she said. ‘Got him by the ankle, eh?’
‘Yes, ma’am. The man’s leg was quite severely lacerated, I understand.’
‘Serves him right,’ said the Queen. ‘Which of my corgis did the deed?’
‘I am told it was the one to whom Your Majesty formally introduced me, some months ago. His name, as I recall, ma’am, is Titus.’
‘My Titus!’ cried the Queen. ‘I’ll come straight back! I must reward him!’
Reward him? Sir Gregory thought to himself as he put down the phone.
What’s she going to do – give him a medal? It’ll have to be the DCM. (Distinguished Corgi Medal), and he left his office, smiling at his own joke.
In the Palace, the Queen put down her receiver and turned to the Duke of Edinburgh. ‘Did you hear that, Philip?’ she said.
‘How could I hear it, Madge?’ Prince Philip replied. ‘You answered the phone, not me. But I gathered that one of your wretched corgis had bitten someone.’
‘It was Titus. He nabbed one of the footmen. Bit him.’
‘In the foot?’
‘No, in the ankle. In my bedroom.’
‘Why? Hadn’t the man given him enough custard creams?’
‘Don’t be silly, Philip. He was robbing my jewel case.’
‘Who, the corgi?’
‘No, the footman, of course.’
‘Which one?’
‘Sidney.’
‘Is that the fair-haired one, Madge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Never liked the cut of his jib,’ said Prince Philip. ‘Eyes too close together. And his ears – too small. Never trust a chap with small ears. Always knew he was a phoney.’
‘Anyway,’ said the Queen, ‘we are going straight back to Windsor.’
‘We?’
‘I am going straight back.’
‘Oh I see. It was the Royal “we”.’
‘Philip,’ said the Queen coldly. ‘We are not amused.’
As soon as she arrived back at Windsor Castle, the Queen went into the great drawing room, where all her corgis were, as usual, gathered. All, as usual, got off armchairs and sofas and assembled around the Royal ankles, ears flattened, bottoms waggling, but on this day the Queen had eyes for one only.
‘Titus!’ she said. ‘You are a hero!’ And she tugged at a long bell pull that hung beside the fireplace.
The black-moustached footman knocked and entered.
‘Custard creams, please, John,’ said the Queen. ‘Nine of them. Plus three chocolate digestives. And a pot of tea for me.’
Chapter Eight
As Titus grew up, he found that not everyone was easy to get on with. Always he tried hard to behave with the same politeness and good manners as his servant the Queen did. But the
day came when he once more used his teeth in anger.
One particular corgi called Chum never lived up to his name because he wasn’t very friendly to anyone, especially Titus. When Titus had first been allowed into the great drawing room, much earlier than puppies usually were, Chum had taken an instant dislike to him.
At first it was just a matter of seniority. Chum was at that time two years old, and he thought that Prissy’s son was too bumptious by half. He growled and showed his teeth whenever Titus came near.
But then, once it became obvious to all the corgis that Titus was well on the way to becoming the Queen’s favourite, it was, for Chum, a matter of pure jealousy. Why should this whippersnapper be so spoiled?
For Chum, worse was to come, for after Titus’s encounter with the burgling footman, the Queen broke all her previous rules. She allowed Titus to sleep on the end of her bed at nights. Prissy, of course, was very proud when this happened, and most of the others didn’t much mind, but there were some who feared that this privilege would give Titus a swelled head, and Chum was especially narked.
One day, by chance, he met Titus in a corridor, and his feelings boiled over. ‘Hey, you!’ he growled at Titus, who was about to pass peacefully by. ‘I want a word with you, you cocky little pup!’
‘Excuse me,’ said Titus politely. ‘I am no longer a puppy. I am an adult corgi.’
Dick King-Smith's Book of Pets Page 3
