by Sue Townsend
∨ The Queen and I ∧
45
NEAR MISS
Jack Barker was entertaining a delegation from the Mothers’ Union, who were petitioning for the legislation of licensed brothels. They were in the drawing room at Number Ten, eating little hot snacks and talking about flagellation and colonic irrigation. Jack was trying very hard to show that he wasn’t at all shocked by the conversation of these respectable-looking middle-aged women.
“But,” said Jack to Mrs Butterworth the leader of the delegation. “You wouldn’t want a brothel next door to you, would you?”
Mrs Butterworth snatched a piece of crispy seaweed from a tray carried by a passing waitress and said, “But I’ve got a brothel next door to me. The brothel keeper is a charming woman and the girls are as good as gold. Their garden is beautifully kept.”
Jack had a mental image of scantily dressed tarts whipping the borders into shape.
“So unfair,” said Mrs Butterworth, “that they should live under the threat of prosecution.”
Jack nodded in agreement but his mind was on other matters. He was due to make a statement to Parliament in half an hour. He was dreading facing that angry bear pit and explaining how he was proposing to repay the Japanese loan. Rosetta Higgins, Jack’s personal private secretary, came into the room and signalled that it was time to leave. Jack shook Mrs Butterworth’s hand, promised to ‘address this most important matter’, waved goodbye to the other women and left. Just before the door closed he heard Mrs Butterworth say to a cluster of women: “Divine eyes, nice bum, pity about the dandruff.”
As he came out of Number Ten, Jack brushed the shoulders of his dark jacket and thought, you fat old cow, I’ll find out where you live and I’ll have that knocking shop busted. He immediately regretted this vengeful thought. What was happening to him? He turned to Rosetta sitting next to him in the official car and said, “Get me some Head and Shoulders later, will you?”
“Get your own,” she said. “I’m working a sixteen-hour day as it is. When do I have time to shop?”
“Well I can’t go into a shop, can I?” whined Jack.
The driver said, “I’ll get the bleedin’ shampoo. There’s a shop on the corner of Trafalgar Square. What kinda hair you got Jack? Greasy? Dry? Normal?”
Jack turned to Rosetta and asked, “What kind of hair have I got?”
“Sparse,” she said.
Jack’s hair clogged the drain of the shower in the mornings. As he rushed from meeting room to official engagement to Commons he left behind tangible reminders of himself. The hairs on his head detached themselves and floated away, looking for somewhere to settle. They no longer felt secure, or attached to Jack’s head.
As the car left Downing Street and turned into Whitehall, Rosetta handed Jack a file marked: ‘B.O.M.B. UPDATE CONFIDENTIAL’.
She said, “You’d better see this.”
Jack smiled. Thank God for a bit of light relief. “What’s the old bugger up to now?” he asked.
Rosetta said, “He’s got the official support of the British Legion, the Caravan Club of Great Britain and the Federation of Allotment Holders, amongst others. Read it for yourself.”
Jack opened the file and began to read. Eric Tremaine was starting to be a bloody nuisance. His crackpot movement had spread out from Kettering and now encompassed most of the country. Marks and Spencer had completely run out of beige car coats with elasticated backs.
“Silly old sod,” said Jack, as he handed the file back to Rosetta. Then, “Did the Queen ever write back?”
Rosetta snapped, “Last page.” She threw the file into Jack’s lap.
Jack opened it again, turned to the last page and read a photocopy of the Queen’s letter which had been intercepted by the Post Office on its way to ‘Erilob’.
9 Hell Close
Flowers Estate
Middleton
MI29WL
Dear Mr Tremaine,
Thank you for your letter. I am most grateful for the concern you and your wife express regarding my welfare and that of my family. However, I strongly advise you to concentrate on your many interests and hobbies, and forget about B.O.M.B. I would not want to be responsible for any difficulties you may find yourself in with the authorities.
I apologise for the crude stationery. The choice at my local shop is somewhat restricted.
Yours faithfully,
Elizabeth Windsor.
P.S. The contents of our correspondence will almost certainly come to the attention of the authorities. Therefore I must ask you to desist from writing to me again. I’m sure you understand.
The correspondence continued.
The driver stopped the car and hurried into the supermarket. Jack read a photocopy of another message from Tremaine which was written in his backward-slanting hand, on the back of an admission ticket to the Ideal Home Exhibition.
Your Majesty,
I understood your coded message: “I’m sure you understand.” That is why your milkman, Barry Laker, is hand-delivering this message, along with your pint of semi-skimmed. I will be in touch.
Yours,
Eric (B.O.M.B.)
The correspondence continued even further.
Your Majesty,
Forgive my silence. Lobelia and I had to go down to the caravan for a few days. Vandals had broken in and completely smashed one bunk bed and our shower fitting. Lobelia had to be sedated after seeing the damage, but she is now back in the saddle. B.O.M.B.’s membership increases by leaps and bounds. We have members as far afield as Dumfries and Totnes. Our postman (Alan) jokes that soon we will need our own pigeon-hole at postal headquarters!
Lobelia sends her affectionate regards to Diana (always her favourite). Mine are you and Anne, (for the good work she does with the dark kiddies abroad).
Yours affectionately,
Eric
It is safe to send a reply via your milkman, Barry Laker. HE IS ONE OF US.
The driver got back into the car and put a bottle of Head and Shoulders into the glove compartment.
There was still more in the Tremaine dossier. Jack sighed as he found himself reading the Queen’s notes to the milkman.
THURSDAY
One extra pint please.
SATURDAY
One pot yog please.
MONDAY
May I pay you on Wednesday?
WEDNESDAY
Sorry Barry, giro didn’t come.
Jack said, “Is Barry Laker working for us?”
Rosetta said, “No, he works for the dairy, he’s a bona fide milkman who happens to be a member of B.O.M.B. Millions of people are, Jack. You should take them seriously.”
But Jack couldn’t take B.O.M.B. seriously. As the car headed towards Parliament Square he removed the latest photograph of Eric and Lobelia Tremaine from the file and laughed out loud. The photograph had captured the pair in their front garden. Eric was pruning a Russian vine which had run amok amongst the upstairs guttering. His gormless face was turned towards Lobelia, who was caught by the camera as she handed Eric a digestive biscuit and a steaming mug. The time at the bottom of the photograph said ‘11 am’.
“Having his elevenses at eleven o’clock,” laughed Jack. “Even though the stupid prat’s up a ladder! And you ask me to take ‘em seriously. And have you seen what that woman is wearing!” Jack pointed at Lobelia’s photographic image.
Rosetta said, “So, she’s got no dress sense.”
Jack frowned at the Cenotaph as the car crawled past it. He said, “It’s not a question of dress sense, Rosetta. Her clothes are mad. They should be certified, locked away in an institution.”
Rosetta looked irritably out of the car window at Whitehall. She didn’t like Jack in this mood. She wanted a serious leader who didn’t notice what people were wearing.
As the car approached the Houses of Parliament two police motorcycle outriders drew alongside. One policeman shouted, “Drive straight past, follow us!”
The driver, r
ecognising them as regular Commons duty police, did as he was told.
Rosetta said, “Security alert.”
Jack said, “Thank God for that.” His statement explaining Britain’s parlous financial affairs with Japan would have to be postponed. As the car sped along Millbank, Jack looked at the Thames and thought how nice it would be to take a boat trip to Southend and then to the sea beyond.
In the early evening the Queen went into Patel’s, the newsagents, to buy herself a bar of chocolate. When she was fabulously rich she hadn’t cared for such things; but now that she was poor she craved confectionery. It was most odd. As she was gazing at the rows of brightly wrapped sweets she saw the late edition of the Middleton Mercury on the counter. A headline said:
UPPER HANGTON MAN IN COMMONS PLOT SENSATION.
She read on, with Mr Patel’s permission.
A local man, Eric Tremaine, was arrested in London earlier today and charged with possessing explosives. Tremaine (57) of Upper Hangton near Kettering was apprehended in the basement of the Houses of Parliament by a police dog and his handler. A shopping bag in the local man’s possession was found to contain a small amount of Semtex. Tremaine, a retired fishmonger, was taken to Bow Street police station for questioning.
Best Kept Garden
Upper Hangton was still reeling from the shock when reporter Dick Wilson arrived to talk to residents. “Eric was due to judge the Best Kept Garden competition on Saturday,” said Edna Lupton (85). “I don’t know what will happen now.”
Eccentric
A neighbour who did not wish to be named said: “Eric was a bit of an eccentric, he never really got over losing the fish shop.” Mrs Lobelia Tremaine (59) is being cared for by friends. Eric Tremaine is the founder and leader of the Bring Our Monarch Back campaign (see page three for editorial comment).
The Queen turned to page three.
Today we report that a local man, Eric Tremaine, has been arrested in the possession of Semtex explosive by a plucky police dog and his handler. Your editor would like to congratulate the as yet unnamed dog. Who knows what dreadful calamity it averted? As readers know, this newspaper has supported Mr Tremaine in his campaign to restore the Monarchy and stop Mr Jack Barker’s reckless spending of money he and the country do not possess. However, it would seem that Mr Tremaine’s enthusiasm has led him to use violent means to gain his end. This newspaper does not, cannot, condone such tactics.
The Queen refolded the newspaper neatly and placed it back on the counter. She said, looking at Tremaine’s smudgy front page photograph, “He looks exactly as I imagined.”
“You know this man?” said Mr Patel.
“I was aware of his existence,” the Queen replied, as she hovered between choosing a Fry’s peppermint cream bar and a tube of Smarties.
∨ The Queen and I ∧
46
POOR MAN AT THE GATE
The Queen sat in the day-room at Grimstone Towers. Philip sat next to her, wearing a white hospital dressing gown. Large green letters were stamped on the back, which read, PROPERTY OF NHS. Conversation had dried up between them. The Queen was reading The Oldie and Philip was watching the badly tuned television which was on a stand high on the wall. Other patients and their relations were chatting quite amicably. The Queen broke off from reading an article by Germaine Greer on the difficulties of gardening on a windy corner and glanced around the room. It was difficult to differentiate between patients and visitors, she thought. If only Philip would wear clothes again instead of nightwear. What was he mumbling about? She bent closer to her husband, the better to hear.
“Slant eyes,” he said, looking at the television.
The Queen followed his gaze and saw His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Akihito of Japan, waving from the top steps of an aeroplane. The camera angle changed and Princess Sayako was seen waiting at the bottom of the steps to greet her father. Jack Barker stood next to her, the sun glinted on his bald patch. Philip grew increasingly agitated.
“Slant eyes,” he shouted.
The Queen said, “Hush dear!” but Philip got to his feet and went up to the television, waving his fists and swearing. The Queen now understood why the television had been placed so high on the wall. A male nurse led Philip away to his bed on the ward and the Queen followed. From the day-room came the sound of strange music, which the Queen instantly identified as the Japanese national anthem being played by what sounded like the band of the Coldstream Guards.
Later, when the Queen was walking down the drive of Grimstone Towers, towards the bus stop, she encountered a ragged group of unfortunates who had set up a temporary camp in the grounds. One of them approached her, a young man in a floor-length overcoat, and asked, “Can we come back in, lady?”
The Queen explained that she was a visitor, not a hospital official.
“We want to come back inside,” said a middle-aged woman, with a child’s voice.
A man with a battered face that the Queen found familiar shouted, “We’ve been kicked out to live in the fookin’ community. But we dinna like it and the fookin’ community dinna like us. Yon Jack Barker shid let us in. He said he wid, so he did. He said he wid. And so he shid, so he shid.”
The Queen agreed with him and hurried to catch her bus.
∨ The Queen and I ∧
47
EXIT STAGE LEFT
Barry the milkman knocked on the door of Nine Hellebore Close until his knuckles hurt. It was only 5.30 in the morning, but he had to make sure the Queen received the envelope personally. Lobelia Tremaine had insisted.
Barry heard Harris yapping upstairs and soon the Queen opened the door, bleary-eyed and with her hair unbrushed. Barry held the Queen’s pint of semi-skimmed milk in front of him as though it were an orb. He glanced behind him at the barrier, then whispered, “Message for you, your Majesty.”
The Queen took the milk from Barry and at the same time in one movement Barry passed the envelope.
“From Mrs Tremaine,” he said, quietly and turned away and went down the path.
The Queen sighed and closed the door. She had hoped that all that silly Tremaine business was over. She went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. As she waited for it to boil she opened the envelope and read the enclosed pieces of paper. The first was hand-written on a notelet with a picture of a badger on the front. Inside it said:
Your Majesty,
♦
As you may have heard, my husband Eric was arrested yesterday. This is a cruel blow to our Cause. However, I intend to take on Eric’s mantle of responsibility, though I am only a frail woman. A well wisher from Australia has sent us the enclosed news item clipped from the Sydney Trumpet…
The Queen did not finish reading the rest of Lobelia’s note. She turned instead to the slithery fax.
POM PRINCE GOES WALKABOUT
Mystery disappearance of ex-royal tour manager
Ed Windmount, Tour Manager of Sheep!, currently packing them in at the Queen’s Theatre, Sydney, vanished last night half an hour before curtain up. “He left late this arvo to go to the theatre,” confirmed Clive Trelford, Manager of the Bridge View Hotel, “and his bed has not been slept in.” Mr Craig Blane, the Director of Sheep!, said today, “We are at our wits’ end. Ed is usually so reliable. We fear the worst.”
A theatre electrician was the last person to see the ex-royal pom. The chief sparks, Bob Gunthorpe said, “I was working over the stage and I looked down and saw a bloke built like a grizzly bear walking with Ed into the wings. I heard Ed shout, “Help!” but I didn’t think nothing of it. Ed was a clumsy little runt, even for a pom, and I thought he’d tripped over a stage weight.”
Sydney police department have issued the following description of the man: ‘Six-foot six tall, large build, tanned complexion, broken nose, diagonal scar running from left ear to mouth, wearing a green beret, camouflage jacket, green trousers and heavy boots’.
The Queen looked at the top of the fax, but there was no date. How long had Edward
been missing? She had thought that at least he, the most sensitive of her children, had been spared unhappiness, but now, thanks to Lobelia bloody Tremaine, she had a new worry. She bent down and retrieved Lobelia’s letter from Harris’s jaws and completed her reading. At the bottom, after further drivel about B.O.M.B., she read the P.S.
P.S. I have it on good authority that Prince Andrew is serving in a submarine somewhere under the Polar Ice Cap.
“So that’s why Andrew hasn’t been in touch,” she said to Harris. “Lucky Andrew.”
∨ The Queen and I ∧
48
OUT TO LUNCH
Anne and Spiggy had called round at midday to see the Queen and had been shocked to find her still in her dressing gown and slippers. Wordlessly she had given Anne the press cutting. Anne read it aloud, remembering courteously that Spiggy could not read. The Queen pushed her untidy hair out of her eyes and sighed deeply.
Anne said, “I know it’s yet another blow, Mum, but you can’t let yourself go.” She led her mother to the stairs and ordered her to bath and dress.
“Spiggy’s offered to buy us lunch,” shouted Anne later as the Queen dragged herself wearily out of the bathroom. The Queen thought, lunch? Where? A hot dog stand? A dual carriageway picnic? A wall outside a chip shop?
She was pleasantly surprised when Spiggy had signed them in to the Flowers Estate Working Men’s Club (by making his mark). The lounge area was comfortably furnished and the Queen, who was ravenous, was pleased to see that a corner of the bar was piled high with meat, cheese and salad rolls, scotch eggs and slices of pork pie. There was even a murmuring television set in the corner which gave the room a nice homely touch. Through a gap in the door which led to the concert room the Queen could see pensioners like herself practising old-time dance steps to the recorded music of the Joe Loss band.
