Letitia Unbound

by Trevor Veale

  “Blow meaning..?” Catheter’s embarrassed look made Anton cackle.

  “Blow job, of course. We did it against the wall of the Orangery. Actually, I did her as well. I’ll never forget the taste of her – “

  “All right, you don’t have to go into details, I’ve got the gist,” Catheter cut in. “Just one question: you let her win?”

  “Okay, maybe she did beat me,” Anton conceded, “but only on a technicality.”

  “Do you think she likes you?” Catheter dogged.

  “Definitely. Her last words to me were ‘I’m gonna tweet to the whole world what a bastard you are!’”

  After slurping the last of his Snowman, the remnants of the cereal swirling around his guts, he gave a loud belch.

  “That’s quite enough of that!” Godfrey reprimanded.

  “Okay, Pops, don’t swallow your crown,” was Anton’s surly reply.

  Dawna found a way of detaching herself from her family’s craziness by plunging into the world of fashion and media glamour. She was invited to appear on Mellorian TV in a program called ‘An Audience with the Princess’ which, as her agent assured her, involved “nothing perilous – you just have to sit on a plush seat in a TV studio and be interviewed by some boring fart.”

  Letitia, having got wind of the broadcast, sat in the drawing-room and instructed a servant to tune in to the appropriate channel, not being accustomed to using the remote, and began watching the show.

  “Her neckline is so plunging it could win an Olympic diving contest,” she grumbled to Mary, Countess D’Armoire sitting beside her.

  “Well, at least Her Royal Highness is not as awful as Her Highness Princess Hernia,” Mary said in an effort to be conciliatory. “When she came to His Highness Prince Anton’s ball she wore a shocking outfit and spiky boots that left holes in the carpet.”

  “Shush!” Letitia commanded. “I want to hear what she’s saying.”

  Answering a question from the studio audience, Dawna said: “I’m in my twenties so I have to be concerned about combination skin. I have a greasy T-zone and dry cheeks and I need plenty of makeup. Fortunately, my beautician is able to do something about my spots and my dark stress circles.”

  In reply to another question, the interviewer, a fey-looking man in a pinstripe suit and butterfly-print shirt gushed: “A woman in a red dress is like a voluptuous bouquet of roses!”

  Surprising the countess, the queen reached for the remote herself and switched off. “I’ve had enough glamour and chic for one morning,” she told her viewing companion.

  Dawna’s media appearances were hugely successful, and she quickly became part of Melloria’s social set, which met for cocktails in fashionable apartments in West City, where the decorations included merino wool cushions and tufted Afghan rugs, and Warhols and Francis Bacons hung on every wall. Although she hardly needed to earn a living, she was bombarded with offers via her agent and tentatively agreed to be photographed in Versace and Galliano maternity wear. Newspapers and bloggers began calling her ‘the world’s most beautiful woman.’

  When she first heard this tag line at a state banquet, Letitia shook her head in disbelief. She looked at Godfrey as if she had just woken up.

  “This is far more serious than before,” she whispered to him. “She’ll have to be curbed – and quickly.”

  He watched her face twitch, and cast around for something to say to neutralize her anxiety.

  “It’s just sensationalism,” he said. “The papers will move on to someone else when the fashion changes.”

  The twitch intensified. “I know she’s just doing it to undermine us,” she said in an odd tremolo. “There’s absolutely no need for her to parade herself to the hoi polio - I bet her mother’s putting her up to it.” Her posture became rigid and her eyes bulged as she spoke. “These things should be a warning to us,” she hissed at him, “it’s a straw in the wind.”

  Godfrey knew the incipient signs of rage and decided to say no more.

  Chapter 18

  The Prince And The Politicians

  As Queen Letitia began seriously considering how to take her daughter-in-law down a peg, Prince Catheter – who was becoming increasingly aware of being eclipsed by his wife’s popularity – decided to throw himself into the strange world of Mellorian politics. He knew that his image had suffered in recent months. He was routinely portrayed by the media as the long-suffering philanderer, a strange, slightly comic figure. One damaging article was titled Should This Clown Wear The Crown? Discomfitted by this wave of displeasure, he ordered his chauffeur to take him each morning to Government House to listen to the debates of the Royal Assembly, Melloria’s parliament. This way, he hoped to bolster his image as a future king who chose to listen to the voice of his people.

  These debates were as King Godfrey called them ”talking shops”, since all decisions on the governing of the country were made by the king, who as absolute monarch, did not need to take anyone’s advice, but deigned to meet every Wednesday with his advisers for private consultations. The advisers who made up the Wednesday cabal were Amis, the Prime Minister, Clive Fatsi, the Political Secretary, Sir Michael Pest, the Lord Chamberlain, and (occasionally) Albert ‘Bunty’ Buftecay, the Duke of Mellinda, an old drinking buddy of Godfrey’s and honorary Lord Chancellor. They met at the palace to drink brandy and shoot the breeze and treated the Government House meetings with contempt.

  The first debate Catheter attended dealt with the state of the Mellorian economy, and much blame was heaped on the Slobodians for their seizure of Shekels. After being introduced as ‘His Royal Highness Prince Catheter, our future king’ and presiding over the loyal toast and oath of allegiance, he settled down to listen to the first speaker, a coarse-featured, tubby man who clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

  “All of us remember the golden beach at Shekels,’ he began, “and the wonderful days we spent there, enjoying our own precious seaside resort.” He paused while his listeners yawned and fidgeted. “Its glistening sand and the beckoning blue waters lapping its shore. Sun, sand, sea and Shekels – a lucrative combination for the whole nation. And now this jewel set in a silver lake has been closed – yes, closed – to all marine traffic because of water pollution, and the Slobodians, the proud all-conquering Slobodians have so buggered up the place with sewage that all that’s left is sun and precious few shekels!”

  “What do you propose to do about it then?” a sneering voice said.

  “Plenty, my honorable friend, plenty,” the speaker countered. “In fact, I propose we launch a counterinvasion tomorrow!” “Ha-ha, only joking,” he added, as cries of agreement sped through the chamber. “What I propose in fact is that His Majesty the king lead us in restoring our country to its former glory!”

  The speaker paused to let his words sink in, confident that their provocative nature would elicit a response.

  The other men and one woman who sat round the huge circular table all began to talk at once. Shouts of derision and cries of approval reverberated to all corners of the room until the chairman, a tall, silver-haired man, rapped his knuckles on the table and bellowed at the top of his voice “Order! Order!”

  Order being restored, the speaker continued to elaborate his argument.

  “I see some of us need a basic lesson in economics,” he proclaimed. “So I’ll give you one right now.”

  “And make it quick!” a voice heckled.

  “I shall indeed,” the speaker promised. “First off, how did Melloria survive economically for so many years, even though we’re the world’s smallest absolute monarchy?

  “Saint’s Breath!” someone shouted.

  “Well, yes, Saint is, although not strictly legal, a mainstay of our economy,” the speaker conceded. “But I’m talking about tourism. In summer our towns and villages used to be filled with shrieking throngs of foreign tourists, waving camcorders and credit cards. Once upon a time they flocked to Shekels. You know it used to be – they would cluster aroun
d every gift shop, buying little ships made of birch twigs with Mellorian flags attached to their masts, and snapping up sailor caps with slogans like Sweet But Not Innocent and Here Today Gone To Maui. Every little stall would be selling souvenir cards and knick-knacks –the locals did a roaring trade. Now where are they - those oafish, camera-toting tourists with their fistfuls of money? I’ll tell you where – Spain, Italy, Greece, Croatia, everywhere but here! Why? Because there’s nothing left to buy except dope! Sure, we get a few spindly-legged, backpack-wearing sociologists doing their thesis on The Social Structure of an Absolute Monarchy. And how much money do they spend? Bugger all!”

  The speaker paused again, and the only female member, a somewhat depressed-looking woman, saw her chance to add to the debate.

  “My honorable friend is right about the loss of tourism,” she said. “In remote parts of our country people who once worked hard now find they have no work. Children with torn, dirty clothing and unwashed hair run wild in the streets – ”

  “They do that in East City!” a heckler shouted.

  “ – because if no tourists are buying the little boats made of birch twigs, then the people who make them for a living have no means of livelihood,” the woman went on not missing a beat. “Personally, I can’t stand the goggle-eyed hordes who spill over our sidewalks and shout to one another in strange languages all summer, but if they bring much-needed dollars, euros, pounds and yen into our county, I say Let’s have them!”

  The speaker nodded, and resumed his address. “Thank you,” he said. “The honorable lady has touched on a very important point. If we don’t sell what we make, we’ll never make any money and kids will be running around with no shoes on their feet.”

  “Some already are,” the tall silver-haired chairman intoned.

  “Indeed, Mr Chairman,” the speaker affirmed, “so what are we to do? This is what I propose: starting with monogrammed polyester sheets and tin plates with the royal crest copied from Sevres originals at the palace, His Majesty the King should give his approval to bankrolling the royal name to save us from economic ruin. If we put our unemployed craftspeople to work making House of Gorm toothpaste and shampoo, Queen Letitia bedsheets and pillowcases, Prince Catheter rucksacks for hikers and skiers” – he bowed in Catheter’s direction – “as we know His Royal Highness is an outdoorsman, electronic games featuring the kings of Melloria as heroes in the war against evil – ”

  “And King Slob as the devil!” someone called.

  “ – as well as King Godfrey pen and pencil sets and the like, thanks to the magic of merchandizing, we’ll have unique souvenirs to offer the tourists – who’ll be back in droves – and the country will be saved!”

  The speaker sat down and other members rose to their feet in the ritual of polite applause. Some were shaking their heads, however, and others were drawing fingers across their throats.

  Catheter’s chauffeur appeared behind the prince’s chair. “Excuse me, sir, it’s time we were getting back. It’s nearly lunchtime,” he said.

  Catheter nodded. “Well, I wouldn’t mind shaking that man’s hand.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you, sir” the chauffeur said. ”He’s about to get arrested.”

  He gave the chauffeur a confused look, then watched as two burly uniformed guards led the tubby man out of the chamber.

  “What on earth are they arresting him for?” he said.

  The chauffeur drew his brows together, “Treason. He should never have made that speech about what His Majesty should do. No one decides for the king.”

  The street outside the government building was busy with cars and crowds. Sitting in the back of the Bentley, Catheter pondered the outspoken speaker’s fate. The poor wretch had only been speaking his mind, yet he had fallen foul of tradition. He felt he was in the same position, especially when he spoke with anyone about his marital woes. Protocol restricted him, and it was making him irksome and irritable. Bloody hell, he thought gloomily, I’m getting like my father.

  His father’s thoughts were, if anything, even gloomier. King Godfrey had been irked by stomach cramps and urinary difficulties for a number of years and was beginning to wonder if he was physically up to the job. A king had to be fit if he was to set an example, go hunting and ride a horse without wincing. The word abdication had begun flitting across his mind lately, and for the first time his retirement was on the agenda of a Wednesday meeting.

  The timing of the discussion was excellent. The two most conservative members of the cabal: Amis and The Duke of Mellinda were both absent, and the gathering consisted of Sir Michael Pest, Clive Fatsi and the king who laid his worries before them.

  Pest and Fatsi, who had arrived without knowing the item was on the agenda, reacted with amazement. Pest, a defender of royal protocol, was alarmed that the king was even thinking of relinquishing the crown to an untried and dubious successor, and Fatsi, a diehard traditionalist, was concerned that the successor had acquired the reputation of a philanderer.

  Both men were deeply worried that, as king, Catheter would possess neither the will nor the popular support to withstand the encroaching forces of the People’s Party and the Slobodians.

  When Godfrey had finished outlining the plan he had conceived to ease himself out in favor of his son, Pest looked at him with undisguised panic.

  “Your Majesty, while we note with heavy hearts your worsening physical condition, we fear it would be a grave mistake to consider retiring at this critical time.” He said. “The damaging war with Slobodia and the present threat of future conflict, the propaganda war currently being waged against Your Majesty by the People’s Party, in addition to its recent terrorist outrages – for all these reasons, the Mellorian people need Your Majesty to continue guiding their destiny.”

  “Well, I don’t think I can guide it much longer,” Godfrey replied. “I get aches and pains down below whenever I exert myself. That’s why I produced a son and heir – to take over when I start getting past it.”

  “With respect, Your Majesty,” Fatsi said in a soft voice, “you’re far from past it. You’re the best king this country has ever had. Even your detractors admit you are a wise, mature and experienced monarch.”

  “Detractors?” Godfrey blinked with surprise. “I thought they were all in prison!”

  Fatsi giggled shrilly and Pest gave a brittle snort of a laugh.

  “Most of them are, sir, except Paul Slamil and his villainous band,” Pest assured him. “And no doubt they would be delighted if you were to abdicate. The rest of us would be in despair.”

  Godfrey knitted his brows. “But surely my son, Prince Catheter, enjoys unswerving support from my subjects?”

  “Of course, sir,” Fatsi said. “As Crown Prince, His Royal Highness is highly regarded. There are, however, areas where his conduct gives cause for concern.”

  “Such as?” Godfrey folded his arms.

  Fatsi looked nervously at Pest, who returned a firm look.

  “Your Majesty, His Royal Highness has been involved in a farrago of a sexual nature which has made him appear reckless and uncaring in the eyes of the people,” Pest argued, “particularly as Her Royal Highness Princess Dawna enjoys such huge popularity.”

  Godfrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You’re right, dammit,” he said. “The boy’s made a bloody fool of himself with that stable girl – God knows why he let it go on so long.”

  He turned his searching gaze on the two advisers.

  “All right, what do you think about leapfrogging Catheter and letting Anton have the throne?”

  Fatsi lifted a handkerchief to his nose and blew loudly, while Pest gave several discrete coughs.

  “I’m afraid that would be a complete non-starter, sir,” Pest said, raising his eyebrows,” His Highness Prince Anton is far too young and inexperienced for such a demanding role. Appointing him to the throne at this time has all the makings of an unmitigated disaster.”

  Fatsi nodded vigorously in agreement. “His
Highness is barely more than a beardless youth, sir, and up against a low-born Machiavellian swine like Slamil he wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “But surely he’d have the Mellorian Government to advise him?” Godfrey persisted.

  Pest coughed behind his hand and smiled wearily at the king. “Sir, you know what a collection of fuddy-duddies, losers, wasters and misfits congregate at Government House – I hardly think their advice would save King Anton from disaster.”

  “Don’t let Amis catch you saying that,” Fatsi chortled.

  “So your advice is that I must soldier on,” Godfrey summarized.

  “Until such time as His Royal Highness has recovered from his unfortunate indiscretions, I’m afraid so, sir,” Pest affirmed.

  “In that case, there’s no more to be said!” The king gathered up his papers and strode out of the room.

  He went up to his study for a nap and in due course descended to the dining-room for lunch. During the meal he turned to Catheter and Anton.

  “I’m getting old and my body’s wearing out,” he said, “and I’ve started thinking about the succession. However, I’ve been advised that I must see the current crisis through.”

  “And we all support you one hundred percent in the difficult role you’re performing,” Letitia cut in. Privately she was extremely pleased that Godfrey was at last heeding the inner voice of reason and putting himself on notice.

  In fact, she repeated the mantra of support on every public occasion she attended, the next one being an agricultural show in Mellinda. At a cheese tasting where the cheese was as ripe as an open sewer, she politely declined the offer of a generous chunk which almost took her breath away.

  “I’m sorry I’m allergic to ammonia,” she said, adding “but of course I support my husband one hundred percent in his great and gallant role.”