The Queen and I (3 page)

“I need an implement of some kind to gain access to my house.”

“Arse?”

“
House
!”

The driver volunteered his services as translator. His hours talking to the Queen had given him a new found linguistic confidence.

“This lady wants to know if you’ve got a
axe
.”

“Yeah, I got a axe, but I ain’t ’anding it over to ’im,” said Tony, pointing at Philip. The Queen came down the garden path towards the Threadgolds and the light from their hall illuminated her face. Beverley gasped and curtsied clumsily. Tony reeled back and clutched the lintel of the front door for support before saying, “It’s out the back, I’ll geddit.”

Left alone, Beverley burst into tears.

“It was the shock,” she said later, as she and Tony lay in bed unable to sleep.

“I mean, who would believe it? I still don’t believe it, Tone.”

“Nor do I, Bev. I mean, the Queen next door. We’ll put in for a transfer, eh?”

Slightly comforted, Beverley went to sleep.

It was Tony Threadgold who had prised the boards from the front door, but it was Prince Philip who had taken the key from his wife, turned it in the lock and entered the house. It was ludicrously small, of course.

“I had a wendy house bigger than this,” said the Queen, as she peered into the main living room.

“We’ve had bloody
cars
bigger than this,” said Prince Philip as he stomped up the stairs. The whole interior was papered with anaglypta. It had been painted magnolia throughout. “Very nice,” said the driver. “Clean.”

Tony Threadgold said, “Yeah, after the Smiths were chucked out, the council cleaning squad ’ad to come in. Wore protective clothing like, and those ’elmets what gives oxygen. Filthy bleeders the Smiths were. So you’re lucky, you got it all done up, decorated.”

Beverley brought five mugs of strong tea round from next door. She gave the uncracked mug to the Queen. Prince Philip got the next best, the one with Alton Towers written on it. She gave herself the worst, the one with the slow leak which said, “A BONK A DAY KEEPS THE DOCTOR AWAY”. The telephone rang, startling them all. Prince Philip located it inside the gas meter cupboard.

“It’s for you,” he said, handing the receiver to his wife.

Jack Barker was on the line. “How do you like it?” he said.

“I don’t like it. Anyway, how do
you
like it, Mr Barker?”

“Like what?”

“Downing Street. It’s an awful lot of work. All those red boxes.”

“Red boxes!” scoffed Barker. “I’ve got better things to do than faff about with
them
. Goodnight.”

The Queen put the phone down and said, “We’d better start bringing in the furniture, hadn’t we?”

5 Kitchen Cabinet

At ten o’clock, Tony Threadgold plugged the Queen’s television into the cracked wall socket and after jiggling about with the aerial socket, switched the set on.

“Uh, cowin’ politics,” he said, as Jack Barker’s face swam onto the screen.

Tony went to turn the set off, but the Queen said, “No, please leave it on.” And she sat back to watch.

It was the first time that the kitchen of Number Ten Downing Street had been used in a Prime Ministerial Broadcast. Jack’s new cabinet – six women, six men – sat around the large kitchen table, trying to look relaxed. Jack sat in a Windsor chair at the head of the table, facing the camera. Official-looking papers, coffee cups, a bowl of fruit and small vases of garden flowers had been artfully arranged by the director of the broadcast to suggest a business-like informality.

Jack’s denim shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. His already handsome features had been further enhanced by subtle touches of colour. His accent combined the flattened vowels of the north with the crisper intonation of the south. He knew his smile was good, he used it often. He had alarmed his civil servants by telling them that he intended to write his own speeches and it was his own speech that he was reading now on the autocue. Even to his own ears it sounded stilted and ridiculous. But it was too late to change it now:

“Citizens! We are no longer subjects! Every man, woman and child in the land can raise their heads higher today, free at last of the pernicious class system that has poisoned our society for so long. From this day forward, all ranks, titles and positions of privilege are abolished. Citizens will be known only as Mr, Mrs, Ms or Miss.

“The parasitic Royal Family are to be relocated to an area where they will live ordinary lives amongst ordinary people. It will be a criminal offence to curtsey, bow, or to address them with other than the aforesaid forms of address. Their lands, properties, pictures, furniture, jewels, breeding stock, etc, etc, etc, belong, in their entirety, to the State. People wishing to ingratiate themselves with the former Royal Family are advised that such behaviour, should it come to the notice of the authorities, will be punished.

“However, the ex-Royal Family will be protected by the laws of the land. Anybody intimidating, threatening or abusing them, or causing them harm, or invading their privacy will be dealt with in the criminal courts. It is to be hoped that the members of the ex-Royal Family will integrate themselves into their local community, find employment and become useful members of society – something they have not been for many hundreds of years.

“The Crown Jewels are to be auctioned at Sotheby’s as soon as arrangements are completed. The proceeds from this sale will go towards maintaining Britain’s housing stock. The Japanese government has shown interest in this sale. It is not true that the Crown Jewels are ‘priceless’. Everything has a price.

“So, fellow citizens, hold your head high. You are no longer subjugated.”

“Well, what did you think?” said Jack.

“You sounded a bit poncy,” said Pat Barker. They were sitting up in bed in Number Ten Downing Street. The bed was piled high with documents and draft proposals and official and personal letters. A fax machine spewed out information, congratulations and abuse. The click of the ansafone was a constant background noise. Jack had spoken to the American President five minutes previously. The President had assured Jack that he had “never been comfortable with your monarchy, Jack”.

Despite himself, Jack had been thrilled to hear that familiar drawl. It was something he would have to watch in himself. He had a tendency to enjoy these contacts with famous people, but perhaps now that he was famous himself …

Pat Barker offered her husband a cheese and potato crisp sandwich and said, “What are you going to do about the pound, Jack?” Money had flooded out of the country as though a dam had burst.

“I’m going to meet the Japanese on Monday,” he said.

The Queen heaved herself off the packing case she had been sitting on to watch the broadcast. There was so much to do. She went to the hallway and saw Tony and Beverley dragging a double mattress up the narrow stairs. Philip followed behind, carrying a carved bedhead. He said,

“Lilibet, I can’t find another bed in the van.” The Queen frowned and said,

“But I’m sure I asked for two beds, one for me and one for you.”

Philip said, “So how are we supposed to
sleep
tonight?”

“Together,” she said.

6 Bisecting the Sofa

The carpets were too big for the tiny rooms.

Tony said, “I’ve got a mate, Spiggy, what’s a carpet fitter. He could cut ’em to size; he’d do it for twenty quid.”

The Queen looked down at her Aubusson rugs which were stacked in the hall, looking like lustrous Swiss rolls.

Bev said, “Or you could have new. I mean, excuse me for saying, but they are a bit worn, aren’t they? Threadbare in places.”

“Spiggy could carpet the whole house for two hundred and fifty quid, including fitting,” Tony suggested helpfully. “He’s got some nice olive green shag pile, we’ve got it in our living room.”

It was 10.30 pm and the furniture was still in the van. The driver was asleep with his head on the steering wheel.

“Philip?”

The Queen was tired – she had never been so tired. She couldn’t make any decisions. She wanted to retire to her room in Buckingham Palace, where her nightgown would be laid out. She wanted to slide between the linen sheets and drop her head onto the soft pillows and sleep forever, or until somebody brought the tea tray in the morning. Philip sat on the stairs, his head between his hands. He was exhausted after helping to carry the carpets in from the van. He had thought he was fit. Now he knew he wasn’t.

“I don’t bloody know. Do as you like,” he said.

“Send for Mr Spiggy,” said the Queen.

Spiggy turned up three-quarters of an hour later with his Stanley knife and his metal tape measure and his four tins of Carlsberg. The Queen was unable to watch while Spiggy sliced and chopped at her precious rugs. She took the dog for a walk, but when she got to the end of the Close she was turned back by polite policemen manning a hastily constructed barrier. An Inspector Denton Holyland emerged from a little hut and explained that the rest of the Flowers Estate was out of bounds to her and her family, “until further notice”.

“I’ve already explained to your son,” he said. “He wanted to find a fish and chip shop but I had to turn him back. Mr Barker’s orders.”

The Queen walked around the Close four times. Nobody was about apart from the odd mongrel dog. She thought, I am living in a ghetto. I must consider myself a prisoner of war. I must be brave, I must maintain my own high standards. She knocked on her son’s front door. “May I come in?”

Diana was in the hall. The Queen could see she had been crying. It wouldn’t do to sympathise, not now, thought the Queen.

“Our carpets won’t fit,” gulped Diana, “and the furniture is still in the van.”

Prince Charles and the driver of their removal van came into sight, struggling with an unwieldy Chinese carpet.

“Not a hope, darling,” panted Prince Charles.

“Do be careful of your back, Charles,” said the Queen. “There’s a little man up the road who will cut carpets to size …”

“Mummy, I really think that you er – shouldn’t … isn’t it frightfully patronising … I mean, in our present circumstances … to call anyone ‘a little man’?”

“But he
is
a little man,” said the Queen. “Mr Spiggy is even smaller than I am and he’s a carpet fitter. Shall I ask him to call?”

“But these carpets are
priceless
. It would be an act of er … well, sheer vandalism …”

William and Harry appeared at the top of the stairs. They were dressed in pyjamas with Bart Simpson slippers on their feet.

“We’re sleeping on a mattress,” piped Harry.

“In sleeping bags,” bragged William. “Pa says we’re having an adventure.”

Diana showed the Queen around the house. It didn’t take long. The decor had been chosen by someone who had never heard of Terence Conran. Diana shuddered at the purple and turquoise wallpaper on the walls of the marital bedroom, the polystyrene ceiling tiles, the orange paintwork splodged over the sash window.

She thought, I’ll ring
Interiors
tomorrow, ask the editor to come round with paint charts and wallpaper samples.

The Queen said, “We’re lucky, we’ve been decorated throughout.”

Both women were rather dreading the night to come. Neither was used to sharing either a bedroom or a bed with her husband.

The two little boys lay on their backs and gazed rapturously at their Superman wallpaper.

“And look,” said William, pointing to a round patch of mould above the window. “That’s the planet Krypton.”

But Harry had gone to sleep with one hand flopping off the mattress and onto the dirty bare boards of the bedroom floor.

Spiggy drank the last of his cans and surveyed his handiwork. The carpets glowed under the bare bulbs. The Queen gathered the offcuts together and put them in the box room – preparing for the day when they would be woven back and relaid in Buckingham Palace. Because this nonsense wouldn’t last long. It was a hiccup of history. Mr Barker would make a dreadful hash of things and the populace would cry out for the restoration of the Conservative government and the monarchy – wouldn’t they? Yes, of course they would. The English were known for their tolerance, their sense of fair play. Extremism of any kind was simply not in their nature. The Queen was careful, even in thought to distinguish the English from the Scots, Irish and Welsh, who, owing to their Celtic blood, were inclined to be rather hot-headed at times.

“That’ll be fifty quid, Your Majesty,” said Spiggy. “Being as it’s after midnight, so to speak.”

The Queen found her handbag and paid him. She was unaccustomed to handling money and counted it out slowly.

“Right, ta,” said Spiggy. “I’ll nip round to Prince Charles’s now. He’ll still be up, will he?”

It was 4 am before Spiggy checked out at the barrier, a hundred pounds better off and with a story to tell in the pub the next day. He could hardly wait, his tongue itched.

At 4.30 am, Tony Threadgold was sawing through a sofa that had once belonged to Napoleon, on the doorstep of Number Nine. Nobody in Hell Close complained about the noise. Noise was normal and was created with great vigour, both day and night. It was only when there was a
lack
of noise that the inhabitants of Hell Close came to their doors and windows, wondering what was wrong.

The sofa gave way and fell apart. Beverley steadied one end. She waited until Tone and Philip had carried the longer half into the living room before following them through with the shorter half.

“Half a dozen six-inch nails in that tomorrow, it’ll be as right as rain.” Tony was pleased with his carpentry. The Queen looked at her beloved sofa and saw that, even cut in half, it was too big for the room.

“You’ve been so kind, Mr and Mrs Threadgold,” she said. “Now I
insist
you go to your beds.”

“It does look lovely in here,” said Bev, looking round. “A bit crowded, but lovely.”

“When the pictures are hung,” said the Queen, yawning.

“Yes, I like that one,” said Bev, catching the yawn. “Who did that one?”