by Sue Townsend
“Charles telephoned,” Philip shouted through the window. “They’re still at the hospital. Can’t ask you in; bloody front door won’t open. Bloody back door key’s lost.”
Diana took the hint and went back to her domestic tasks. When the kitchen cupboards had been thoroughly cleaned out, the women broke for tea and Silk Cuts.
“That should keep them at bay for a bit,” said Violet.
“Keep what at bay?” asked Diana.
“The cockroaches. We’ve all got ‘em. Nothin’ gets rid of ‘em. You could fire a Polaris missile at ‘em an’ the buggers’d still come back three days later.” Violet shifted gear. “Right, what you need now is linin’ paper, before you put your food in.”
Diana had nothing suitable, so Violet banged on the wall which divided her living room wall from Diana’s and shouted, “Wilf! Bring yesterday’s paper round.”
Diana heard a muffled reply and soon Wilf Toby stood at the front door. He was an unusually tall man with powerful shoulders and huge feet and hands. The sort of man who is described in court as ‘a gentle giant’ by defence barristers. But Wilf Toby was not a gentle man. He had chronic bronchitis and his constant fight for breath made him irritable and morose. He feared death and lived each day timidly, as though it was to be his last. He felt that Violet ought to pay him more attention. He thought, she spends more time in other folk’s houses than she does in her own. Hearing Wilf’s ragged breath comforted Diana, for she now knew what the strange noise was that had kept her awake and terrified last night. It was Wilf, breathing next to the party wall.
Wilf looked at Diana and it was love at first sight. He’d never seen such a beautiful woman up close, in the flesh. He’d seen her photograph in the paper every day, but nothing had prepared him for the fresh face, the soft skin, the shy blue eyes, the warm damp lips. All the women Wilf knew had hard, rough-looking faces, as though life had battered them mercilessly. As Diana took the newspaper from him, he looked at her hands. Pale, long fingers with rosy nails. Wilf longed to hold those fingers. Would they feel as smooth as they looked?
He scrutinized Violet, his wife of four years. How had he ended up with her? But he knew how. She had hunted him down. He hadn’t stood a chance.
“Well, come in or go out, you great big gorm face. You’re letting the cold in.” Listen to how his wife spoke to him. No respect.
Diana smiled and said, “Please come in.” Normally, nothing would have induced Wilf to leave the doorstep and enter a house full of Hell Close women, but he had to see Diana, listen to her lovely voice. She spoke beautiful, she really did.
The presence of a man in the house subdued the women. Even Violet modulated her voice as she folded pages of The News of the World and lined cupboards and drawers. Diana saw flashes of headlines.
POUND ‘SAVAGED’
The pound was said to be in a critical condition last night after suffering what one financial expert described as ‘a brutal attack’ by foreign currency dealers. “It was a savage beating,” he said.
This followed the ‘double whammy’ of Jack Barker’s landslide victory at the polls on Thursday and the abolition of the monarchy on Friday. The Governor of the Bank of England has appealed for a period of calm.
Piranhas
A representative of the London office of the Bank of Tokyo said yesterday: “The pound is a goldfish swimming in a tank of piranhas.”
When she had finished, Violet surveyed her work proudly. “There, now; it’s all nice and clean,” she said. Then, turning to Wilf, she snapped, “I suppose you want your tea?”
“I’m not ‘ungry,” said Wilf. How could he ever eat again? Diana longed for them all to go, but couldn’t think how to make this known to them. Then Shadow woke from his temporary sleeping place on the velvet sofa and his screams drove his mother and the other women from the house.
“Knock on the wall if you want owt,” ordered Violet.
“Night or day,” added Wilf.
“You’ve been terribly kind,” said Diana. “What do I owe you?” She opened her purse and looked inside. When she looked up, she saw from the expression on the women’s faces that she had committed a major faux pas.
When Charles and Elizabeth arrived back at Number Nine, they found that Tony Threadgold had booted the front door open and was planing down the edge.
“Damp’s warped it,” he explained. “‘S why it wouldn’t open.”
Prince Philip, William and Harry were sitting on the stairs watching Tony. All three were eating untidy jam sandwiches, prepared by William.
“How are you, old girl?” said Philip.
“Frightfully tired.” The Queen pushed her untidy hair back with the bandaged hand.
“Been a bloody long time,” her husband said.
“They were awfully busy,” explained Charles. “Mummy’s injury wasn’t life threatening, so we had to wait.”
“But God damn it, your mother’s the bloody Queen,” exploded Philip.
“Was the bloody Queen, Philip,” said the Queen quietly. “I am now Mrs Windsor.”
“Mountbatten,” corrected Prince Philip tersely. “You are now Mrs Mountbatten.”
“Windsor is my family name, Philip, and I intend to keep it.”
“Mountbatten is my family name, and you are my wife, therefore you are Mrs Mountbatten.”
Tony Threadgold planed away like a madman. They had obviously forgotten he was there. William asked Charles, “What is our name now, Papa?”
Charles looked from one parent to the other. “Er, Diana and I haven’t discussed it yet…er…on the one hand, one feels drawn to Mountbatten because of Uncle Dickie, but on the other, one also feels, er…well…er…”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Philip had turned nasty. “Spit it out, boy.”
Tony thought it was time the Queen sat down; she was looking knackered. He took her arm and escorted her into the living room. The gas fire was out so he rummaged in his pocket, found a fifty pence piece and put it in the meter. The flames popped alive and the Queen leaned gratefully toward the heat.
“I think yer mam’d like a cup of tea,” prompted Tony to Charles. Tony had already realised that Philip was hopeless domestically, the man couldn’t even dress himself. But when, after fifteen minutes during which Tony swept up the wooden shavings and smoothed down the edge of the door with sandpaper, Charles was still blundering about in the kitchen in a futile search for tea, milk and sugar spoons, Tony went next door and asked Bev to put the kettle on.
The Queen stared into the gas flames. She had thought that this Windsor⁄Mountbatten conflict had been laid to rest long ago, but now it had reared its ugly head again. It was Louis Mountbatten’s fault. That odious snob had persuaded the Bishop of Carlisle to comment, on the occasion of Charlie’s birth, that he did not like to think of a child born in wedlock being deprived of its father’s name. The obscure cleric’s comments had made national headlines. Louis Mountbatten’s campaign to glorify his family name and make it that of the reigning house had started in earnest. The Queen had been torn between her husband’s and Louis Mountbatten’s wishes and those of King George V, who had founded the House of Windsor in perpetuity. The Queen closed her eyes. Louis was long gone, but he was still influencing events.
Beverley came in with a tray on which stood four steaming mugs of tea and two glasses of bright orange pop. Thick striped drinking straws bobbed about in the lurid liquid. A doyley-covered plate held an assortment of biscuits. Charles took the tray from Beverley, then hovered around looking for somewhere to place it. The Queen watched her son in growing irritation.
“On my desk, Charles!”
Charles placed the tray on the Chippendale desk, which stood in the window. He handed out the cups and glasses. He felt shy in Beverley’s presence. Her fleshiness disturbed him. For a split second he saw her naked, draped in gauze, gazing at her own reflection in a mirror held by a cherub. A Venus of the 1990s. The Queen introduced them: “This is Mrs Beverley Threadgold, Ch
arles.”
“How do you do,” said Charles, offering his hand.
“I’m all right, thanks,” said Beverley, taking his hand and shaking it vigorously.
“My son, Charles Windsor,” said the Queen.
“Mountbatten,” corrected Philip. To Beverley he said, “His name is Charles Mountbatten. I’m his father and he’ll take my name.”
Charles thought it was high time to bring an end to this dreadful paternalism. What was the maiden name of Queen Mary, his great grandmother? Teck. Yes, that was it. How did ‘Charlie Teck’ sound?
“We will discuss this later, Philip,” the Queen warned.
“There is nothing to discuss. I’m the head of the household. I’ve had forty years of walking behind you. It’s my turn to walk in front.”
“You want to run the household, Philip?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then,” said the Queen, “you had better go into the kitchen and familiarise yourself with the various implements and procedures needed for making tea. We cannot rely on Mrs Threadgold’s generosity for ever.”
Beverley said, “I’ll give you lessons on making tea if you like. It’s dead easy, really.”
But Prince Philip ignored her kind offer. Instead, he turned to Tony and complained, “Can’t get the hot water on; need a shave. See to it, will you?”
Tony bristled. Honest, he thought, he talks to me as if I’m a cowin’ dog. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m taking Bev out for a drink. Ready, Bev?”
Beverley was pleased to have an excuse to start extricating herself from the site of so much marital tension.
Tony went home, taking his tool box with him. It had been a crap day all round. He hadn’t got the job as a Halal chicken slaughterer there had been a hundred and forty-four applicants in front of him, men and women of all religions. Beverley stayed on for a while and showed Prince Philip how to heat a saucepan of shaving water on the stove. She explained that the handle of the pan should be pointed away from the front of the stove. “So the kids don’t knock it.”
Charles came into the kitchen and watched gravely as though he were watching a demonstration of a Maori war dance. His two sons, their mouths stained orange, crept up and held his hands. They couldn’t remember when they had seen so much of their father. When the water started to bubble, Beverley demonstrated how to turn the stove off. “So what do I do now?” said Philip, plaintively. Beverley thought, well, I’m not bleedin’ shavin’ yer. She left the ex-Royal household gratefully.
“Like babies,” she said to Tony, as she changed into her going-to-the-pub clothes. “‘S a wonder they can wipe their own bums.”
∨ The Queen and I ∧
10
KEEPING WARM
Next morning the frost was even heavier.
“You haven’t shaved, Philip and it’s nine o’clock.”
“I’m growing a beard.”
“You haven’t washed.”
“Bathroom’s bloody cold.”
“You’ve been wearing your pyjamas and dressing gown for two days.”
“Don’t intend to go out. Why bother?”
“But you must go out.”
“Why?”
“For fresh air, exercise.”
“There is no fresh air in Hell bloody Close. It stinks. It’s ugly. I refuse to acknowledge its existence. I shall stay in-bloody-doors until I die.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing. Lying in bed. Now, leave my breakfast tray and close those bloody curtains and go out, would you?”
“Philip, you are talking to me as one would talk to a servant.”
“I’m your husband. You’re my wife.”
Philip started to eat his breakfast. Boiled eggs, toast and coffee. The Queen closed the curtains, shutting out Hell Close, and went downstairs to call Harris in. She was worried about Harris. He had started to hang around with a rough crowd. A pack of disreputable-looking mongrels, belonging to nobody in particular, it seemed, had started to gather in the Queen’s front garden. Harris did nothing to discourage them, indeed he seemed to positively welcome their marauding presence.
Philomena Toussaint was awakened by the arrival of the Queen Mother moving into the pensioner’s bungalow next door to her own. She got out of bed and put on the warm dressing gown that Fitzroy, her eldest son, had bought her for her eightieth birthday.
“Keep your bones warm, woman,” he had said, sternly. “Wear the damn thing.”
She had read that the Queen Mother drank and gambled. Philomena disapproved of both. She offered a prayer to God. “Lord, let me neighbour leave me in peace.”
She fumbled in her purse for a fifty pence coin. Should she have the fire on now, in the afternoon, or tonight, while she watched television? It was a decision she made every day except in summer. Troy, her second son, had said, “Listen, keep the fire on all day whenever you need it, Mummy, you only gotta ax for money an’ it’s yours.”
But Philomena was proud. She dressed slowly in many layers. Then went to the wardrobe where her winter coat hung. She put it on, wound a scarf round her neck, put a felt hat on her head, then, fortified against the cold, went into the kitchen to make her breakfast. She counted the slices of bread: five, and the remaining eggs: three. A bit of marge’, but only enough to anoint a baby’s head. She shook the box of cornflakes. Half a bowl an’ two days to go to pension day. She bent down and opened the door of the refrigerator. “Waste a time runnin’ the t’ing when the air is frozen,” she said. She pulled out the plug and the fridge became silent. She took out a lump of cheese and, with great difficulty (because her hands were knotted and painful with arthritis), she grated cheese onto a slice of bread and put it under the grill.
She waited impatiently, resenting the gas being used. Eventually she removed the cheese on toast before it was properly melted and sat down, in her hat, coat, scarf and gloves, to eat her half-cooked breakfast. Through the wall, she could hear the Queen Mother laughing and furniture being scraped across the floor. She addressed the Queen Mother through the wall: “You jus’ wait, woman. You won’t be laughin’ soon.”
Philomena had seen Jack Barker on television the night before, explaining that the ex-Royal Family would live on state benefits. That the pensioners, the Queen, Prince Philip and the Queen Mother, would receive the same as Philomena. She closed her eyes and said, “For what I am about to receive may the Lord make me truly grateful. Amen.” Then she began to eat. She chewed each mouthful carefully, making it last. She would have liked a second slice, but she was saving up for a television licence.
The Queen Mother was laughing at the ridiculous smallness of it all. “It’s a perfectly adorable bungalow,” she laughed. “It’s darling. It could be a kennel for a large dog.”
She clutched her mink coat to her and inspected the bathroom. This brought a fresh peal of laughter: displaying teeth that feared the dentist’s chair.
“I love it,” she pealed. “It’s so containable, and look, Lilibet, there’s a hook for one’s peignoir.”
The Queen looked at the stainless steel hook on the back of the bathroom door. It was nothing to get excited about; it was simply a hook, a utilitarian object, designed for a purpose; that of hanging one’s clothes from.
“There’s no lavatory paper, Lilibet,” whispered the Queen Mother. “How does one obtain lavatory paper?”
She cocked her head to one side coquettishly and waited for an answer.
“One has to buy it from a shop,” said Charles, who was single-handedly emptying the contents of the box van that had recently arrived outside his grandmother’s bungalow. He was carrying a standard lamp under one arm and a silk shade under the other.
“One does?” The Queen Mother’s smile seemed fixed, as though it had been commemorated on Mount Rushmore.
“How simply thrilling.”
“Do you think so?”
The Queen was irritated by her mother’s refusal to give in to one moment of despair. The bungalow was truly appa
lling, cramped, smelly and cold. How would her mother manage? She had never so much as drawn her own curtains. Yet here she was putting a stupidly brave face on this truly awful situation.
Spiggy arrived on his familiar errand and was met with cries of extravagant greeting. Jack Barker’s specifications had been disbelieved by the Queen Mother. A room couldn’t be nine feet by nine feet. A digit had been missed out; Barker had meant to write nineteen feet. So large rugs had been removed from Clarence House and transported to Hell Close in the box van. The servants had seen to it their final act of service: those sober enough to stand.
Spiggy removed the instruments of destruction from his tool bag. Stanley knife, steel measure, black binding tape, and proceeded to cut a precious rug, a present from Persia, to fit around the Queen Mother’s orange-tiled fireplace. He was once again the hero of the hour. The Queen Mother promenaded in her back garden, her corgi, Susan, at her side. The black woman next door watched her from her kitchen window. The Queen Mother waved, but the black woman ducked away, out of sight. The Queen Mother’s smile faltered slightly, then recovered, like the Financial Times Index on a rocky day in the City.
The Queen Mother needed people to love her. People loving her was plasma; without it, she would die. She had lived without a man’s love for the greater part of her life. Being adored by the populace was only a small compensation. She was slightly disturbed by her next-door neighbour’s unfriendly attitude but, as she came in from the garden her smile was firmly back in place.
She saw Spiggy look up from his labours. There was adoration in his eyes. She engaged him in conversation, enquiring about his wife. “Run off,” said Spiggy.
“Children?”
“She took ‘em wiv ‘er.”
“So, you’re a gay bachelor?” tinkled the Queen Mother.
Spiggy’s brow darkened. “Who’s been sayin’ I’m gay?”
Turning to Spiggy, Charles said, “What Granny meant to say was that you probably have a carefree existence, unshackled by domestic responsibilities.”
