The Autobiography of The Queen (12 page)

And now she, the Queen of England, had become for the first time identical to her subjects. She had wanted something else; she had wanted things to be different. Of course, those people to whom she spoke on walkabouts and tours did not bring up the subject of their disappointing holidays or of failed attempts at settling in the country they had chosen to emigrate to: it would have looked as if another attempt had been the real cause of their going away, that of escaping the country over which she reigned. All the same, the Queen sensed the need of apparently docile and placid Britons to travel, see the world and maybe not return; and again, the memory of the suitcase on the top of the wardrobe in the East End and the ill-received queries by the Duke on seeing it there, came back to her. People wanted to feel they could take off,
get out, be free of worrying responsibilities – just as she had. That she now understood them better brought a feeling of resolution to the Queen. There
were
other places than Britain; but she had made a choice to pick up where she left off, as if Brno had never existed with his passports and travel tickets; as if she hadn't succumbed to the notion of buying off-plan and had never really had any desire to see her new life take shape out there. A monarch cannot indulge in regrets: too many resonances of heads cut off and kings and queens exiled overseas all their lives for a lack of decisive reigning presented themselves. The Queen had been gone three days; and, like the son of God, would be perceived as having risen from the dead. If, as she pondered, her absence had meant anything at all – but, there was no denying the fact, it would have meant a great deal, not mentioning the chaos liable to succeed the disappearance of a Head of State. And what lay on the verges of the road they travelled along would provide the proof.

For the thoughts and reminiscences of the Queen had taken up the drive, and despite Mr Santander's sudden cheeky interpolation: ‘You like a new king, madam?' as a radio station muttered away and people were brought in to give their opinions on the need for a monarchy, this had been a restful journey, less ringed round with anxious lackeys than the gold coach on its way to the Houses of Parliament, and just as important to the history
books – the townscape the Queen knew so well had come into view.

Flowers, just as she had glimpsed on TV in the reception of the Joli Hotel, made a cellophane sea in St James's and in Hyde Park. In the Mall, balloons floated above the heads of a huge crowd, making progress impossible, and Mr Santander sat back, eyes closed, while speaking softly and at length in Spanish on his mobile phone. ‘Where you want to go, lady?' came now in English – for his passenger had specified only Buckingham Palace and he sincerely wished he had not taken her instruction, thus losing further fares. They'd be here all day, at this rate.

‘This will do,' said his passenger as they nudged up to the gates of the Palace. ‘One will get out here.'

Mr Santander noticed that the Palace railings, with their array of soft toys, bouquets and lipstick-written expressions of love for the vanished Queen of England were paraded by police – and for the first time since picking up this innocuous old lady, he felt alarmed. Why did she want to come here? Would she cry like people after the death of Princess Diana? Was there a book of condolence here to be signed, in memory of the Queen?

Then, looking in the driving mirror, he saw his fare closely, as she leaned forward to open the door of the minicab. Simultaneously, the live radio show went into overdrive: the Queen had been spotted,
in a car at Putney, then crossing Hammersmith Bridge – here was the number-plate – could it be? – could it be true that she had come back? The woman announcer's voice came thick with indecision and the lack of real news.

Before an answer could be heard, an enormous cheer went up in the Mall. It swept up and engulfed the Palace; the gates swung open; and five policemen cleared the way for Mr Santander's battered conveyance. There was no choice but to go, past saluting Horse Guards, to the entrance to the monarch's official London residence.

Hours later – there had been endless discussions with the Chamberlain, Prince Charles and at least five other bureaucrats – the flag over Buckingham Palace, at half mast in the absence of the Queen, went up and the roar from the waiting crowd swelled out and over St James's Park and down to Trafalgar Square. Those who demanded to see the Queen were rewarded, just as the autumn light was fading, with a spotlit balcony, the Duke and the Queen's children in full uniform, and finally the slight figure of the monarch herself as she stepped out to acknowledge the relief and adoration of the crowd.

The Queen was wearing, on this occasion of her return from a brief visit to a Commonwealth country, a well-pressed lavender tweed suit (two of everything was invariably ordered, for the royal wardrobe, and this did indeed now seem to have
been a wise precaution, much appreciated at the time by the late Norman Hartnell). Round her neck – rather unusually for the monarch, who did not like to appear dressy in the daytime, was an emerald necklace and in her ears shone the same green stones, another part of the parure stolen in the Joli Hotel; the diamond surrounds winking down at the crowd in the bright lights.

After waving from the balcony for an unprecedentedly long time, the Queen turned to walk indoors. Lady Lettice would be waiting for her there – and, of course, the corgis.

A last swell of noise went up as the people saw her go. And a long, appreciative sound very like laughter, when the shiny white handbag, reassuringly empty, came into view. The English were a strange race, Mr Santander thought, as he backed the minicab nervously to the Palace gates.

THE END

Born in London, Emma Tennant was educated at St Paul's Girls' School and spent the World War II years and her childhood summers at the family's faux Gothic mansion The Glen in Peeblesshire. Her family also owned estates in Trinidad.

Tennant grew up in the modish London of the 1950s and 1960s. She worked as a travel writer for
Queen
magazine and an editor for
Vogue
, publishing her first novel,
The Colour of Rain
, under a pseudonym when she was twenty-six. Between 1975 and 1979, she edited a literary magazine,
Bananas
, which helped launch the careers of several young novelists.

A large number of books by Tennant have followed: thrillers, children's books, fantasies, and several revisionist takes on classic novels, including a sequel to
Pride and Prejudice
called
Pemberley
. In later years, she began to write about her own life in such books as
Burnt Diaries
(1999), which details her affair with Ted Hughes.

Tennant has been married four times, including to the journalist and author Christopher Booker and the political writer Alexander Cockburn. She has two daughters and a son, author Matthew Yorke. In April 2008, she married her partner of 33 years, Tim Owens.

Confessions of a Sugar Mummy
Heathcliff's Tale
Hotel de Dream
The Autobiography of The Queen
The Colour of Rain
The Crack
Wild Nights

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, LondonWC1B 3DP

First published in Great Britain 2007 by Bliss Books, an imprint of Aracdia Books

Copyright © 2007 Emma Tennant

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eISBN: 9781448209880

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