Authors: Sue Townsend
Mr Anwar shouted as Charles and Camilla left the shop, ‘You will never be Queen Camilla. The people don’t want you.’
Camilla untied the dogs from the railings, saying, ‘You love us, don’t you, darlings?’
As they walked home, the dogs were unusually obedient, conscious that their master and mistress had been humiliated and deeply wounded.
Tosca whimpered, ‘It’s at times like this that I wish I could
say
something to them.’
Freddie growled, ‘Don’t feel too sorry for them, Tosca. Remember, we dogs live in a permanent state of subjugation. They’re constantly ordering us about.’
Leo extended his tongue and licked Charles’s hand. It was meant to be a gesture of comfort and support, but Charles grumbled, ‘For God’s sake, Leo! Keep your bloody slobber to yourself.’
The Cabinet had been in crisis session for over six hours. Sustained only by mineral water and Rich Tea biscuits, they had been discussing the balance of payments, again. The Government had been in power for thirteen long years, having won three general elections, the last by a small majority. Introducing the Exclusion Zones had won them short-term popularity, but water rationing, hospital closures and monumental mistakes by Vulcan – 13,000 paediatricians had been erroneously placed on the paedophile register – had resulted in the pound faltering and falling like a novice ice skater.
The Chancellor was saying to his exhausted, and in some cases tearful, colleagues, ‘I warned you that losing the cigarette duty would leave a big financial hole. We have to find another source of revenue.’
Jack Barker, who had been kept awake half the night listening to the Chancellor’s dog, Mitzie, yapping through the party wall, said, ‘There’s plenty of disposable income out there. If the taxpayer can afford bloody aromatherapy candles and grooming products for men, they can afford another tax. I reckon we ought to bring dog licences back.’
There was general laughter. Even the Chancellor smiled.
Jack waited for the laughter to die down, then said,
‘There are too many dogs in this country. Did you know there’s six million one hundred thousand of them? Or that people spend over three billion quid on feeding the spoilt bastards? And four hundred million a year on buying the yapping flea-bitten hairy-faced ball-lickers Christmas presents?
Four hundred million!
’
The Chancellor looked down and shuffled his papers. Last Christmas he had bought Mitzie a pink latex bone, and a hairbrush and comb set. He’d had them gift-wrapped, at Harrods.
Jack continued, ‘And did you know that their combined turds, if laid end to end, would go to the moon and back
twice?
’
Jack had made this last statistic up, but he had no conscience about the fabrication. After years in politics he knew that statistics were statistically unreliable.
Neville Moon, Home Secretary and owner of two excitable chocolate Labradors, said, ‘Prime Minister, you can’t touch dogs, not in this country. Not in England!’
Jack said, ‘I propose we charge three hundred quid a dog.’ Looking at Moon he said, ‘No, make that five hundred.’
The Deputy Prime Minister growled, ‘It’s political suicide, Jack. You might just as well jump off the top of the fucking Gherkin.’
Mary Bush, Health Minister and owner of a trembling greyhound, said tentatively, ‘It has been shown in various studies that dogs have a beneficial effect on the old and the lonely.’
Jack said, looking directly at Mary, ‘Do you know how many kiddies go blind every year because of the
Toxocara canis
worm found in dog shit?’ After waiting a few seconds, he answered his own question. ‘Three,’ said Jack, dramatically holding up three fingers.
Bill Brazier said, ‘Three? Is that all?’
‘Bill, that’s three little kids who will never see their mother’s face. Never see the wonder of spring blossom on a…’ Jack’s mind went blank, he couldn’t remember the name of a single tree. So he went for the generic, ‘…tree,’ he finished.
Neville Moon said, ‘All the same, three’s not many, Jack, not in the scheme of things.’
Jack said, ‘I want reports on my desk this time tomorrow. Costs to the National Health Service of dog bites and kids going blind, etc. Costs to the police of dog-related incidents, costs to the fire service of dog rescues. The bleedin’ things are always falling down wells and old mine shafts. I want to know how many tonnes of carbon monoxide emissions are caused by transporting dog food around the bloody country. I want television campaigns, I want billboards, I want dog owners to be the next lepers. We did it with smokers, we can do it with bloody dogs.’
Outside, in the corridor after the meeting, Jack felt a twinge of pain in his left arm. His fingers felt numb. This is it, he thought. He took the lift upstairs, not wanting to die on the staircase under the gaze of the portraits of previous prime ministers. He would have liked to have gone to bed, but he was hosting a dinner to introduce his first wife, Pat, to his second wife, Caroline. Sonia, the youngest daughter from his first
marriage, was getting married in the morning. Pat had always refused to meet Caroline, saying, ‘She’s an anorexic bitch.’ So no pressure, thought Jack, as he waited for the pain to hit his heart.
However, he had survived the dinner with his wives. The two women had bonded alarmingly well and had moved chairs so that they could converse more easily. Jack had not liked the tone of their laughter.
Later, he was persuaded into telling Annabel, his seven-year-old granddaughter, a bedtime story. She was to be a bridesmaid in the morning. The ceremony would be held at Westminster Abbey. Jack had argued against this venue, but Sonia had insisted, saying that it was the only place big enough to seat their celebrity friends.
‘Once upon a time,’ Jack said, in his flat Midlands accent, ‘there was such a thing called the Royal Family. There was a queen, princes and princesses, and they lived in big castles and had lots of money and cars and servants and jewels and stuff.’
Annabel said in her, to Jack, disconcertingly posh voice, ‘
I’m
going to be a princess when I grow up.’
Jack laughed and said, ‘No, Annabel, you won’t be a princess, you’ll be something useful to society: an engineer perhaps, or a scientist.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be a princess and wear a sparkly dress and a crown and live in a castle.’ She sat up in bed and folded her arms.
Jack said, ‘You can’t be a princess, because Granddad’s got rid of them. He’s sent them all away to live like ordinary people. I’ve sent them into exile.’
‘Can I go to exile to see them?’ asked Annabel.
‘No, you can only go to exile if you’re a very bad person,’ said Jack.
Jack and Annabel were in one of the guest bedrooms at Number Ten. Jack could hear Mitzie, that bloody King Charles spaniel, yapping through the party wall again. He felt his pulse racing, he was sick of complaining about that bloody dog. Mitzie had been a cause of contention since the Chancellor, Stephen Fletcher, had, with a great deal of press coverage, walked Mitzie from Battersea Dogs Home to Downing Street. Fletcher’s approval rating had risen by fifteen per cent in the next YouGov opinion poll. Jack’s team of advisers had urged him to be photographed in the back garden of Number Ten with Tommy, his ex-wife’s big black cat. But Tommy, unaccustomed to being held by the Prime Minister and frightened by the unruly crowd of press photographers, had resisted and clawed Jack’s face in his struggle to be free. A headline in
The Daily Telegraph
the next day had stated: ‘BARKER HOLDS ON TO POWER BY A WHISKER.’
Jack said to Annabel, ‘Lie down again, pet, and I’ll tell you a different story, shall I? About a lady engineer.’
Annabel said, ‘No, thank you.’ She lay down and turned her back on Jack.
As soon as he got to his office, Jack telephoned the Chancellor on Number Eleven’s private line. ‘Steve,’ he said, when the Chancellor answered. ‘Shut that bloody dog up, will you? Our Annabel can’t get to sleep. She’s got a big day tomorrow.’
Graham Cracknall was sitting at his dining-room table in a detached, 1970s pebble-dashed bungalow in Ruislip writing a letter in his neatest handwriting. He could type at a rate of sixty words a minute but he was aware that history was being made and he thought that an historical document, one that would be placed in an archive to be studied by scholars, deserved to be personalized.
He was a tall thin man with jug ears and a prominent Adam’s apple. He had been on the books of a dating agency for eighteen months, but the only women to show any interest in him had been on the books even longer. A few thought he had kind eyes and a lovely deep voice on his two-minute video CV.
Graham wrote:
Dear Mr and Mrs Windsor,
I expect this letter will come as a bit of a surprise, not to mention shock!
My mother and father died 62 days ago in an unfortunate lawnmower accident. I do not wish to go into detail at this point in time. Perhaps when we get to know each other better I will tell you the whole tragic story. I comfort myself with the thought that at least they died in the garden, a place they loved.
The artificial waterfall they so lovingly built is cascading as I write. I will get to the nub of this letter without more ado.
It came as an awful shock to me to find out that the ‘parents’ I had always called ‘Mum and Dad’ were, in fact, my adoptive parents.
When their wills were read to me there was a codicil letter from my mother (signed by two witnesses) to say that I am the result of a love affair between Prince Charles and Mrs Camilla Parker Bowles.
As you must know, I was born on 21st July 1965 in Zurich, Switzerland, in a private nursing home. How my parents came to adopt me is still a bit of a mystery. All I know is that my ‘mother’ was desperate to have a baby and that my ‘father’ was an importer of cuckoo clocks.
As you cannot fail to see, I have enclosed the codicil letter. I await your reply with interest.
All best wishes from your son,
Graham Cracknall aka Windsor-Parker-Bowles
THE CODICIL
Only to be opened on the demise of both John Peter Cracknall and Maria Shirley Cracknall.
Dear Son,
Do not be too downcast because we are both dead. As Mr Fellows, our solicitor, will explain, we have left you the bungalow, the car and enough money to ‘spoil’ yourself with now and again.
All we ask is that you take care of Gin and Tonic for the rest
of their lives. We know you and Tonic do not always see eye to eye, Graham, but that is because of his diabetes, it makes him snappy and irritable when his blood sugar is low.
He has his insulin injection at eight o’clock every morning. It might be easier if he wears a muzzle until he gets used to you, but you must be firm with him, Graham. Don’t let him play you up, he can be a little tinker if he thinks he has got the better of you.
Gin, of course, is a sweetheart. He is used to having a few choc drops at around four o’clock in the afternoon. Please give them to him when Tonic is not looking.
I had better get to the important bit of this letter. Graham, me and your dad are not your real parents. We adopted you a few weeks after you were born on 21st July 1965 in Zurich, Switzerland.
The thing is, Graham, you have got royal blood in you. Your real father is the Prince of Wales and your real mother is Camilla Parker Bowles. So, Graham, you are the rightful second in line to the throne of England. That is the reason we have brought you up knowing about heraldry, British history and royal protocol.
It is up to you, Graham, as to what you do with this knowledge. You may want to remain a private citizen. On the other hand, you might well feel that you need to fulfil your destiny.
You have always been a good son to us and, apart from the incident at scout camp, have given us no trouble. Goodbye, son, and God bless.
Mum and Dad
As the little wooden cuckoo flew out of the clock above his head twelve times, signalling midday, Graham put
the two pieces of paper inside an envelope and stuck on a stamp bearing Oliver Cromwell’s warty head. After checking that all the doors and windows were locked, that there was nothing boiling on the stove, that the burglar alarm was in operation and that Gin and Tonic were asleep in their respective baskets, Graham slipped a can of pepper spray into his jacket pocket and walked the fifty yards to the postbox on the corner. Within five minutes he was back home and bolting the front door.
Meanwhile, in a locked ward in a hospital for the criminally insane, a patient, Lawrence Krill, was also writing to the future King of England.
Sire,
I beg your indulgence, my liege, to have recognizance of my advice to thee. I have it in my gift to grant you possession of a most wondrous particular:
The Lost Crown of England.
May my vitals be torn from my living belly if this be not true.
Write to me, do not tarry, my liege. All I ask as a reward is that you touch my scrofulous and most foul body to cure me of the King’s Evil. ’Tis this unholy affliction that doth condemn me to endure such cruel incarceration in this most cursed place: The Asylum of Rampton.
May the Almighty anoint thee with blessings.
I am, Sire, but a humble and unworthy petitioner,
Lawrence Krill
At eight thirty the next morning, the Queen, almost weeping with the pain of toothache, went next door and, without knocking, entered Violet Toby’s kitchen, leaving Harris and Susan protesting outside. For a moment, the Queen wondered who the old woman with the mad hair and pale face was, sitting at Violet’s little Formica table eating toast with HP sauce. She then realized it was Violet, who had not yet attended to her toilette.
A man with an accent similar to the Queen’s was saying on Violet’s greasy portable radio, ‘The monarchy in this country is dead, defunct. The Royal Family are the woolly mammoths of evolution.’
The Queen said, talking over the radio, ‘Violet, I had a dreadful night with toothache. At three o’clock this morning I would have gladly paid somebody to have cut
orf
my head. This pliers woman friend of yours, do you think she could help me?’