The Queen and I (14 page)

The Queen got off the bus and went into the Food-U-R – the supermarket that served the Flowers Estate. The manager and owner was Victor Berryman. He stood at the door greeting customers and watching out for shoplifters.

“Evening, madam. Settling in all right?”

The Queen smiled and nodded. “Yes, finding one’s way.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Sorry to hear about your husband.”

“My husband?”

“Yes, I hear he’s bad.”

“Bad?”

“Poorly, off his head.”

“He’s depressed, certainly.”

“I know how he feels. I used to have a chain of these, you know. There were Food-U-Rs all over the East Midlands. Adverts on the telly. The hula girls? Food-U-R – a Paradise for Shoppers?” He sang the jingle and swayed his bulky hips.

Food-U-R!

A Paradise for Shoppers.

Food-U-R!

“I tried to get the girls to go with the Polynesian theme – you know, grass skirts, garlands, but there was nothing but complaints.”

He looked bitterly towards the checkouts where two dumpy, middle-aged women were passing groceries in front of electronic scanners: “Yes, I was once head of a dynasty, so I know how your husband feels – having it snatched away.”

The Queen scowled. “My husband was not the head of the dynasty. I was.”

Victor Berryman snatched a Mars Bar from the inside jacket pocket of a departing boy, clipped him round the ear and kicked him out of the shop.

“Anyway, madam, if there’s anything I can do to help,” said Victor, shaking his fist at the boy.

The Queen explained that she wished to make a broth.

“A brawth?” repeated Victor.

“A broth – a thin stew,” the Queen explained. “I have the bones what else does one need?”

Victor looked baffled, the kitchen was a place of mystery to him. All he knew was that cold ingredients were taken in and hot food came out, at more or less regular intervals. He called to one of the women at the checkout, “Mrs Maundy, help this lady out, will you? I’ll take over the till.”

Mrs Maundy gave the Queen a half curtsey and a wire basket and they promenaded up and down the aisles. The Queen bought one onion, two carrots, one turnip, one pound of potatoes, a large loaf of bread, a jar of strawberry jam (small) and two Oxo cubes.

Victor Berryman passed the Queen’s groceries over the magic eye and said, “One pound fifty-eight pence.”

“Oh dear.”

The Queen looked at the pound and eighty pence in her hand.

“I will have to put something back,” she said. “I need fifty pence for the meter.”

Between them, they worked out that if she discarded one carrot and one Oxo cube, and swapped a large loaf for a small one …

The Queen left the shop carrying a Food-U-R bag. Victor held the door open for her and said he hoped he would see her again, perhaps she would recommend him to her family and, if she had a spare crest hanging around doing nothing, he’d be pleased to hang it up over the front door.

The Queen had been trained to ask questions, so, as she untied Harris’s lead from a concrete bollard, she asked Victor how he had lost his dynasty of Food-U-R stores.

“The Bank,” he answered as he checked the padlocks on the metal grilles that covered the windows. “They hassled me to borrow money to expand. Then interest rates went up an’ I couldn’t make the payments. Serves me right, really, I lost the lot. The wife took it hard; house was sold, cars. Nobody wanted to buy this place on the Flowers Estate – who would, ’part from a maniac? We live above the shop now.” The Queen looked up and saw a woman whom she took to be Mrs Berryman, looking sadly out of an uncurtained window.

“Still,” said Victor, “it’s nothing to what
you’ve
lost, is it?”

The Queen, who had lost palaces, property, land, jewels, paintings, houses, a yacht, a plane, a train, over a thousand servants and billions of pounds, nodded her agreement.

Victor took out a comb and drew it across his bald head. “Next time you’re here, come up and see the wife. Have a cup of tea – she’s always in; she’s an agoraphobic” The Queen looked up again, but the sad face at the window had gone.

Clutching her fifty pence coin in her hand, the Queen walked back to Hell Close. Behind her, keeping his distance, limped the bogus beast. If this is plain clothes duty, give me a uniform any day, he thought.

As the Queen let herself into her house, she heard a familiar cough. Margaret was there. Yes, there she sat, smoking and tapping ash into a coffee cup.

“Lilibet, you look absolutely ghastly! And what have you got in that horrid smelly plastic bag?”

“Bones, for our dinner.”

Margaret said: “I’ve had the most appalling time this afternoon with a ghastly little man from the Social Security. He was unspeakably vile.”

They moved into the kitchen. The Queen half-filled a saucepan with water and threw the bones into it. Margaret watched intently as though the Queen were Paul Daniels about to perform a magic trick.

“Are you good at peeling potatoes, Margaret?”

“No, of course not, are you?”

“No, but one has to try.”

“Go ahead, try,” yawned Margaret. “I’m going out to dinner tonight. I telephoned Bobo Criche-Hutchinson, he’s got a house in the county. He’s picking me up at 8.30.”

A scum formed on the saucepan, then the water boiled over and extinguished the gas flame. The Queen relit the gas ring and said, “You know we aren’t allowed to go out to dinner; we’re still under curfew. You’d better ring Bobo and put him off. You haven’t read Jack Barker’s sheet of instructions, have you?”

“No, I tore it into pieces.”

“Better read mine,” said the Queen, as she hacked at a King Edward with a table knife. “In my handbag.”

When she had finished reading, Margaret inserted another cigarette inside a holder and said, “I’ll kill myself.”

“That is one option,” said the Queen. “But what would Crawfie think if you did?”

“Who cares
what
that evil old witch thinks about anything? Anyway, she’s dead,” burst out Margaret.

“Not for me, she’s not. She’s with me at all times, Margaret.”

“She hated me,” said Margaret. “She made no secret of it.”

“You were a hateful little girl, that’s why. Bossy, arrogant and sly,” said the Queen. “Crawfie said you’d make a mess of your life and she was right – you have.”

After half an hour of silence, the Queen apologised for her outburst. She explained that Hell Close had that effect on one. One got used to speaking one’s mind. It was inconvenient at times, but one felt strangely
good
afterwards.

Margaret went into the living room to telephone Bobo Criche-Hutchinson, leaving the Queen to throw the root vegetables and the Oxo cube into the saucepan. Mrs Maundy had told her that broth has to simmer on a low heat for hours – “to draw the goodness out” – but the Queen was ravenous, she needed to eat
now, at once
. Something tasty and filling and sweet. She reached for the bread and jam and made herself a pile of sandwiches. She ate standing at the worktop without a plate or napkin.

She had once been reassured by a senior politician – a woman – that the reason the poor could not manage on their state benefits was because “they hadn’t the aptitude to cook good, simple, nutritious meals.”

The Queen looked at her good, simple, nutritious broth bubbling in the pan and reached for another slice of bread and jam.

That evening, Prince Philip prowled around the bedroom muttering to himself. He stared out of the window. The street teemed with relations. He saw his wife and his sister-in-law coming out of his daughter-in-law’s house. They crossed the road leading towards his mother-in-law’s bungalow. He could see his son digging the front garden,
in the dark
, the bloody fool! Philip felt trapped by his relations. The buggers were everywhere. Anne, hanging curtains, helped by Peter and Zara. William and Harry yelling from inside a wrecked car. He felt like a beleaguered cowboy in the middle of a wagon train with the bloody Indians closing in.

He got back into bed. The vile broth, now cold, which his wife had earlier brought him, slopped over onto the silver tray and then onto the counterpane. He did nothing to stem the flow. He was too tired. He pulled the sheet over his head and wished himself somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

21 Winging It

The Yeoman Raven Master passed the White Tower, then retraced his steps. Something was wrong, he couldn’t put his finger on it immediately. He stood still, the better to think. Japanese tourists took his photograph. A party of German adolescents sniggered at his silly hat. Americans asked if it was really true, that the Queen of England was living on a public housing project.

The Yeoman Raven Master remembered what was wrong at precisely the same time as a schoolgirl from Tokyo pressed the button on her Nikon. When the photograph was developed, it showed the Yeoman Raven Master with his mouth open in horror, his eyes wide with primeval fear.

The Ravens had gone from the Tower: the kingdom would fall.

22 Thin on the Ground

It was Harry’s first day at his new school. Marigold Road Junior. Charles stood outside the headmistress’s office, wondering whether or not to go in. An argument of some kind was going on inside. He could hear raised female voices, but not what was being said.

Harry said, “Eh up, Dad, what’s goin’ on?”

Charles yanked Harry’s hand and said: “Harry, for goodness’ sake, speak properly.”

Harry said, “If I speak proper I get my cowin’ face smashed in.”

“By whom?” asked Charles, looking concerned.

“By
who
,” corrected Harry. “By the kids in ’Ell Close, tha’s who.”

Violet Toby came out of the headmistress’s office, closely followed by the headmistress, Mrs Strickland.

Violet shouted, “You lay a finger on one a my grandkids again and I’ll ’ave you up, you ’ard-faced cow.”

Mrs Strickland did have rather a
determined
face, thought Charles. He felt the old familiar fear that schools always induced in him. He held even tighter onto Harry’s hand – poor little blighter.

Mrs Strickland smiled icily at Charles and said: “I’m sorry about that unfortunate scene. It was necessary to punish Chantelle Toby on Friday and her grandmother rather took exception to it. Indeed, she seems to have brooded on it over the weekend.”

Charles said, “Ah! Well, I hope it won’t be necessary to punish Harry, he’s quite a sensitive little chap.”

“No I ain’t,” said Harry.

Charles winced at Harry’s ungrammatical protestation and said, “If you tell me which class Harry is to join, I’ll take him along …” A drop of water fell onto Charles’s head. He wiped it away and, as he did so, felt another splash onto his hand.

“Oh dear, it’s started to rain,” said Mrs Strickland. Charles looked up and saw water splashing down from cracks in the ceiling. A bell rang urgently throughout the school.

“Is that the fire alarm?” asked Charles.

“No, it’s the rain alarm,” said Mrs Strickland. “The bucket monitors will be along soon, excuse me.”

And sure enough, as Charles and Harry watched, children came from all directions and lined up outside Mrs Strickland’s office. Mrs Strickland appeared at the door with a heap of plastic buckets which she doled out to the children, who took them and placed them strategically underneath the drips in the corridor. Other buckets were borne away into the classrooms. Charles was impressed with the calm efficiency of the operation. He remarked on it to Mrs Strickland.

“Oh, they’re well practised,” she said, rebuffing the compliment. “We’ve been waiting for our new roof for five years.”

“Oh dear,” said Charles. “Er, have you tried fund-raising?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Strickland, bitterly. “We raised enough money to buy three dozen plastic buckets.”

Harry said in a piercing whisper, “Dad, I gotta’ havva’ wee.”

Charles said to Mrs Strickland, “Where, er, does one take him?”

“Across there,” said Mrs Strickland, pointing to the playground where rain was rapidly filling the potholes. “He’ll need this.”

She reached inside her office door and handed Harry an umbrella, decorated with the vapidly grinning face of Postman Pat.

“No inside lavatories?” said Charles in astonishment.

“No,” said Mrs Strickland.

They watched Harry struggling to open the umbrella before dashing through the rain towards a grim outbuilding where the lavatories were housed. Charles had offered to accompany his son, but Harry had shouted, “Don’t show me up, our Dad.”

Charles went into the headmistress’s office and filled in a form registering Harry at Marigold Street Junior School. He was pleased to be told by Mrs Strickland that Harry qualified for free school dinners. When Harry had handed the dripping umbrella back to Mrs Strickland and she had replaced it in the umbrella stand inside her office, she led them along to Harry’s classroom.

“Your teacher is Mr Newman,” she said to Harry.

They reached Mr Newman’s classroom and Mrs Strickland knocked and walked in. Nobody saw or heard them enter. The children in the classroom were laughing too loudly at Mr Newman, who was doing a deadly accurate impression of the headmistress. Even Charles, whose acquaintance with Mrs Strickland was brief, could see that Mr Newman was an excellent mimic. He’d captured the jutting jaw, the brusque tones and the stooping posture perfectly. Only when the children fell quiet did Mr Newman turn and see his visitors.

“Ah!” he said to Mrs Strickland. “You caught me doing my Quasimodo impression: we’re doing French literature this morning.”

“
French
literature!” snapped Mrs Strickland. “Those children have yet to learn any
English
literature.”

“That’s because we haven’t got any
books
,” said Mr Newman. “I’m having to photocopy pages out of my own books – at my own expense.”

He bent down and shook Harry’s hand, saying, “I’m Mr Newman, your new teacher, and you’re Harry, aren’t you? Charmaine, look after Harry for today, will you?”

A plump little girl in gaudy bermuda shorts and a Terminator Two tee-shirt came to the front of the class and pulled Harry away from his father and towards a vacant chair next to her own.

“He’s a free school dinner child!” announced Mrs Strickland, loudly. Mr Newman said quietly, “They’re
all
free school dinner children; he’s among friends.”

Charles waved to Harry and left with Mrs Strickland. As they wove a path through the buckets in the corridor, Charles said, “So, you’re short of books, are you?”

“And paper and pencils and glue and paint and gym equipment and cutlery for the dining room and
staff
,” said Mrs Strickland. “But apart from all that we’re a very well equipped school” She added, “Our parents are very supportive, but they haven’t any money. There is a limit to how many raffle tickets they can buy and car boot sales they can attend. These are not the leafy suburbs, Mr Teck.”

Charles agreed; leaves were very thin on the ground on the Flowers Estate – even in autumn, he suspected.

May

23 Peas in a Pod

It was May Day. Charles shouted to Diana: “Darling, close your eyes. I’ve got a surprise.”

Diana, who hadn’t yet
opened
her eyes – it was only 6.30 in the morning, for goodness’ sake – turned over in bed and faced the door. Charles came out of the bathroom and approached the bedside.

“Open your eyes.”

She opened one eye, then the other. He looked the same as ever, perhaps his hair was sleeker than usual … Then Charles turned his back and Diana gasped in dismay. He had a pony tail, only a very tiny one as yet, but even so … A bright red towelling band held his hair together at the nape of his neck. His ears were more prominent than ever.

“You look
fab
, darling.”

“Truly?”

“Yah, fabbo.”

“D’you think Mummy will like it?” Charles’s face wrinkled into worry.

“Dunno. Your pa won’t.”

“But you do?”

“It’s fabuloso.”

“The beetroot is through and we’ve got our first blackbird sitting on its eggs.”

“Fabulous.”

Diana was getting used to these early morning gardening reports. He was up every morning at six, clumping around the garden in his Wellingtons. She had
tried
to show interest, but gracious … She dreaded the autumn when he apparently expected her to preserve and pickle. He had asked her to start collecting empty jars, anticipating a glut of home grown produce. She got out of bed and reached for her silk robe.

“I’m so happy; are you?” he asked.

“Fabulously,” she lied.

“I mean,” said Charles, “it proves that the garden is ecologically sound. Blackbirds won’t …”

They heard Shadow crying through the party wall, followed by the creak of the bed springs as his mother got out of bed to give him his bottle of tea. Before going into the bathroom, Diana asked, “Charles, I need to have my hair done. Could I have some money?”

Charles said, “But I was planning to buy a bag of bonemeal this week.”

Through the wall Sharon shouted: “I’ll cut your ’air for you, Di. I used to be ’prentissed to an ’airdresser. Come round at ten.”

Charles said, “The sound insulation in these houses is appalling. It’s well,
non
-existent.”

Through the other party wall Diana and Charles heard Wilf Toby say to his wife, “I ’ope Diana won’t have ’er ’air cut too short.”

They heard the Tobys’ headboard bang against the wall as Violet said, “Oh shut your prattle,” and turned over in bed.

Then they went downstairs and searched the cupboards for something to have for breakfast. Like the rest of their family in Hell Close they were sailing close to the wind financially. Indeed, they were dangerously near to being shipwrecked on the cruel rock of state benefits. Charles had filled in two sets of claim forms. Both times they had been returned with a covering letter explaining that they had been “incorrectly completed”.

When the second form had arrived back, Diana had said: “But I thought you were good at sums and English and stuff like that.”

Charles had thrown the letter across the kitchen and shouted, “But they’re not written in bloody English, are they? They’re in officialese, and the sums are
impossible
?”

He sat down at the kitchen table to try again, but the computations were beyond him. What he did work out was that they could not claim Housing Benefit until their Income Support was known; and they could not claim Income Support until their Housing Benefit was assessed. And then there was Family Credit, which they were yet to benefit from, but which seemed to be included in the total sum. Charles was reminded of Alice in Wonderland as he struggled to make sense of it all. Like her, he was adrift in a surreal landscape. He received letters asking him to telephone but when he did nobody answered. He wrote letters but got no reply. There was nothing he could do but to return the third set of forms and wait for the state to give him the benefits it had promised. Meanwhile they lived precariously. They bartered and borrowed and owed fifty-three pounds, eighty-one pence to Victor Berryman, Food-U-R owner and philanthropist.

The milkman knocked at the door for his money. Diana looked around the kitchen and snatched a set of Wedgewood eggcups from the shelf. Charles followed her, carrying a silver apostle spoon. “Ask him for a dozen eggs,” he said, pushing the spoon into her free hand.

Barry, the milkman, stood on the step keeping his eyes on his milk float. When the door opened he saw, with a sinking heart, that he was not going to be paid in cash, again.

Later that day, Charles was tying his broad bean canes together in the front garden, when Beverley Threadgold passed by, pushing her baby niece in an old high sprung perambulator. She was wearing a black PVC mini skirt, white high heels and a red blouson jacket. Her legs were blue with cold. Charles felt his stomach churn. He lost control of the canes and they fell to the ground with a clatter.

“Want some help?” asked Beverley.

Charles nodded, and Beverley came into the garden and helped him to gather the canes together. When Charles had arranged them wigwam fashion, Beverley held them together at the top and waited until Charles had tied them secure with green twine. She smells of cheap scent and cigarettes, thought Charles. I should find her repugnant. He cast around for something to say, anything would do. He must delay the moment of parting.