The Uncommon Reader (7 page)

Though the Queen was always discreet about writing in her notebooks her equerry was not reassured. He had once or twice caught her at it and thought that this, too, pointed to potential derangement. What had Her Majesty to note down? She never used to do it and like any change of behaviour in the elderly it was readily put down to decay.

‘Probably Alzheimer’s,’ said another of the young men. ‘You have to write things down for them, don’t you?’ and this, taken together with Her Majesty’s growing indifference to appearances, made her attendants fear the worst.

That the Queen might be thought to be suffering from Alzheimer’s disease was shocking in the obvious way, the ‘human’ and compassionate way, but to Gerald and the other equerries it was more subtly deplorable. It seemed to him pitiable that Her Majesty, whose life had always been so sequestered, should now have to share this undignified depletion with so many of her subjects, her deterioration, he felt, deserving a royal enclosure where her behaviour (and that of monarchs generally) might be allowed a larger degree of latitude and even waywardness before it attracted the levelling denomination of Alzheimer and his all-too-common disease. It could have been a syllogism, if Gerald had known what a syllogism was: Alzheimer’s is common, the Queen is not common, therefore the Queen has not got Alzheimer’s.

Nor had she, of course, and in fact her faculties had never been sharper and unlike her equerry she would certainly have known what a syllogism was.

Besides, apart from writing in her notebooks and her now fairly customary lateness, what did this deterioration amount to? A brooch repeated, say, or a pair of court shoes worn on successive days: the truth was Her Majesty didn’t care, or didn’t care as much, and herself not caring, her attendants, being human, began to care less, too, cutting corners as the Queen would never previously have countenanced. The Queen had always dressed with great care. She had an encyclopaedic knowledge of her wardrobe and her multiple accessories and was scrupulous in ringing the changes on her various outfits. No longer. An ordinary woman who wore the same frock twice in a fortnight would not be thought slipshod or negligent of appearances. But in the Queen, the permutations of whose wardrobe were worked out down to the last buckle, such repetitions signalled a dramatic falling away from her own self-imposed standards of decorum.

‘Doesn’t ma’am care?’ said the maid boldly.

‘Care about what?’ said the Queen, which, while being an answer of sorts, did nothing to reassure the maid, convincing her that something was deeply amiss, so that like the equerries her personal attendants began to prepare for a lengthy decline.

S
TILL, THOUGH
he saw her every week, the occasional want of variation in the Queen’s attire and the sameness of her earrings went unnoticed by the prime minister.

It had not always been so, and at the start of his term of office he had frequently complimented the Queen on what Her Majesty was wearing and her always discreet jewellery. He was younger then, of course, and thought of it as flirting, though it was also a form of nerves. She was younger, too, but she was not nervous and had been long enough at the game to know that this was just a phase that most prime ministers went through (the exceptions being Mr Heath and Mrs Thatcher) and that as the novelty of their weekly interviews diminished so, too, did the flirting.

It was another aspect of the myth of the Queen and her prime minister, the decline of the prime minister’s attention to her personal appearance coinciding with his dwindling concern with what Her Majesty had to say, how the Queen looked and how the Queen thought, both of diminishing importance, so that, earrings or no earrings, making her occasional comments she felt not unlike an air hostess going through the safety procedures, the look on the prime minister’s face that of benevolent and minimal attention from a passenger who has heard it all before.

The inattention, though, and the boredom were not all his, and as she had begun to read more, she resented the time these meetings took up and so thought to enliven the process by relating them to her studies and what she was learning about history.

This was not a good idea. The prime minister did not wholly believe in the past or in any lessons that might be drawn from it. One evening he was addressing her on the subject of the Middle East when she ventured to say, ‘It is the cradle of civilisation, you know.’

‘And shall be again, ma’am,’ said the prime minister, ‘provided we are allowed to persist,’ and then bolted off down a side alley about the mileage of new sewage pipes that had been laid and the provision of electricity substations.

She interrupted again. ‘One hopes this isn’t to the detriment of the archaeological remains. Do you know about Ur?’

He didn’t. So as he was going she found him a couple of books that might help. The following week she asked him if he had read them (which he hadn’t).

‘They were most interesting, ma’am.’

‘Well, in that case we must find you some more. I find it fascinating.’

This time Iran came up and she asked him if he knew of the history of Persia, or Iran (he had scarcely even connected the two), and gave him a book on that besides, and generally began to take such an interest that after two or three sessions like this, Tuesday evenings, which he had hitherto looked forward to as a restful oasis in his week, now became fraught with apprehension. She even questioned him about the books as if they were homework. Finding he hadn’t read them she smiled tolerantly.

‘My experience of prime ministers, Prime Minister, is that, with Mr Macmillan the exception, they prefer to have their reading done for them.’

‘One is busy, ma’am,’ said the prime minister.

‘One is busy,’ she agreed and reached for her book. ‘We will see you next week.’

Eventually Sir Kevin got a call from the special adviser.

‘Your employer has been giving my employer a hard time.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. Lending him books to read. That’s out of order.’

‘Her Majesty likes reading.’

‘I like having my dick sucked. I don’t make the prime minister do it. Any thoughts, Kevin?’

‘I will speak to Her Majesty.’

‘You do that, Kev. And tell her to knock it off.’

Sir Kevin did not speak to Her Majesty, still less tell her to knock it off. Instead, swallowing his pride, he went to see Sir Claude.

I
N THE little garden of his delightful seventeenth-century grace-and-favour cottage at Hampton Court Sir Claude Pollington was reading. Actually, he was meant to be reading, but he was dozing over a box of confidential documents sent over from the library at Windsor, a privilege accorded to him as an ancient royal servant, now ninety at least but still ostensibly working on his memoirs, tentatively entitled ‘Drudgery Divine’.

Sir Claude had entered royal service straight from Harrow at the age of eighteen as a page to George V, one of his first tasks, as he was fond of recalling, being to lick the hinges with which that testy and punctilious monarch used to stick the stamps into his many albums. ‘Were there a problem discovering my DNA,’ he had once confided to Sue Lawley, ‘one would only have to look behind the stamps in dozens of the royal albums, particularly, I recall, the stamps of Tanna Touva, which His Majesty thought vulgar and even common but which he nevertheless felt obliged to collect. Which was typical of His Majesty … conscientious to a fault.’ He had then chosen a record of Master Ernest Lough singing ‘O for the Wings of a Dove’.

In his little drawing room every surface sprouted framed photographs of the various royals whom Sir Claude had so loyally served. Here he was at Ascot, holding the King’s binoculars; crouching in the heather as His Majesty drew a bead on a distant stag. This was him bringing up the rear as Queen Mary emerged from a Harrogate antique shop, the young Pollington’s face hidden behind a parcel containing a Wedgwood vase, reluctantly bestowed on Her Majesty by the hapless dealer. Here he was, too, in a striped jersey, helping to crew the
Nahlin
on that fateful Mediterranean cruise, the lady in the yachting cap a Mrs Simpson – a photograph that tended to come and go, and which was never on view when, as often used to happen, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother dropped in for tea.

There was not much about the royal family to which Sir Claude had not been privy. After his service with George V he had been briefly in the household of Edward VIII and moved smoothly on into the service of his brother, George VI. He had done duty in many of the offices of the household, finally serving as private secretary to the Queen. Even when he had long retired his advice was frequently called on; he was a living embodiment of that establishment commendation, ‘a safe pair of hands’.

Now, though, his hands shook rather and he was not as careful as he used to be about personal hygiene, and even sitting with him in the fragrant garden Sir Kevin had to catch his breath.

‘Should we go inside?’ said Sir Claude. ‘There could be tea.’

‘No, no,’ said Sir Kevin hastily. ‘Here is better.’

He explained the problem.

‘Reading?’ said Sir Claude. ‘No harm in that, surely? Her Majesty takes after her namesake, the first Elizabeth. She was an avid reader. Of course, there were fewer books then. And Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, she liked a book. Queen Mary didn’t, of course. Or George V. He was a great stamp collector. That’s how I started, you know. Licking his hinges.’

Someone even older than Sir Claude brought out tea, which Sir Kevin prudently poured.

‘Her Majesty is very fond of you, Sir Claude.’

‘As I am of her,’ said the old man. ‘I have been in thrall to Her Majesty since she was a girl. All my life.’

And it had been a distinguished life, too, with a good war in which the young Pollington won several medals and commendations for bravery, serving finally on the general staff.

‘I’ve served three queens,’ he was fond of saying, ‘and got on with them all. The only queen I could never get on with was Field Marshal Montgomery.’

‘She listens to you,’ said Sir Kevin, wondering if the sponge cake was reliable.

‘I like to think so,’ said Sir Claude. ‘But what do I say? Reading. How curious. Tuck in.’

Just in time Sir Kevin realised that what he had taken for frosting was in fact mould and he managed to palm the cake into his briefcase.

‘Perhaps you could remind her of her duty?’

‘Her Majesty has never needed to be reminded of that. Too much duty if you ask me. Let me think …’

And the old man pondered while Sir Kevin waited.

It was some time before he realised that Sir Claude was asleep. He got up loudly.

‘I will come,’ said Sir Claude. ‘It’s a bit since I had an outing. You’ll send a car?’

‘Of course,’ said Sir Kevin, shaking hands. ‘Don’t get up.’

As he went Sir Claude called after him.

‘You’re the New Zealand one, aren’t you?’

‘I
GATHER’, said the equerry, ‘that it might be advisable if Your Majesty were to see Sir Claude in the garden.’

‘In the garden?’

‘Out of doors, ma’am. In the fresh air.’

The Queen looked at him. ‘Do you mean he smells?’

‘Apparently he does rather, ma’am.’

‘Poor thing.’ She wondered sometimes where they thought she’d been all her life. ‘No. He must come up here.’

Though when the equerry offered to open a window she did not demur.

‘What does he want to see me about?’

‘I’ve no idea, ma’am.’

Sir Claude came in on his two sticks, bowing his head at the door and again when Her Majesty gave him her hand as she motioned him to sit down. Though her smile remained kindly and her manner unchanged, the equerry had not exaggerated.

‘How are you, Sir Claude?’

‘Very well, Your Majesty. And you, ma’am?’

‘Very well.’

The Queen waited, but too much the courtier to introduce a subject unprompted Sir Claude waited too.

‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’

While Sir Claude tried to remember, the Queen had time to notice the thin reef of dandruff that had gathered beneath his coat collar, the egg stains on his tie and the drift of scurf that lay in his large pendulous ear. Whereas once upon a time such frailties would have been beneath her notice and gone unremarked now they obtruded on her gaze, ruffling her composure and even causing her distress. Poor man. And he had fought at Tobruk. She must write it down.

‘Reading, ma’am.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Your Majesty has started reading.’

‘No, Sir Claude. One has always read. Only these days one is reading more.’

Now, of course, she knew why he had come and who had put him up to it, and from being an object wholly of pity this witness to half her life now took his place among her persecutors; all compassion fled and she recovered her composure.

‘I see no harm in reading in itself, ma’am.’

‘One is relieved to hear it.’

‘It’s when it’s carried to extremes. There’s the mischief.’

‘Are you suggesting one rations one’s reading?’

‘Your Majesty has led such an exemplary life. That it should be reading that has taken Your Majesty’s fancy is almost by the way. Had you invested any pursuit with similar fervour eyebrows must have been raised.’

‘They might. But then one has spent one’s life not raising eyebrows. One feels sometimes that that is not much of a boast.’

‘Ma’am has always liked racing.’

‘True. Only one’s rather gone off it at the moment.’

‘Oh,’ said Sir Claude. ‘That’s a shame.’ Then, seeing a possible accommodation between racing and reading, ‘Her Majesty the Queen Mother used to be a big fan of Dick Francis.’

‘Yes,’ said the Queen. ‘I’ve read one or two, though they only take one so far. Swift, I discover, is very good about horses.’

Sir Claude nodded gravely, not having read Swift and reflecting that he seemed to be getting nowhere.

They sat for a moment in silence, but it was long enough for Sir Claude to fall asleep. This had seldom happened to the Queen and when it had (a government minister nodding off alongside her at some ceremony, for instance) her reaction had been brisk and unsympathetic. She was often tempted to fall asleep, as with her job who wouldn’t be, but now, rather than wake the old man she just waited, listening to his laboured breathing and wondering how long it would be before infirmity overtook her and she became similarly incapable. Sir Claude had come with a message, she understood that and resented it, but perhaps he was a message in his own person, a portent of the unpalatable future.