Authors: Sue Townsend
When the form was completed, the Queen asked when she would receive the giro. “It could be a week, though we’re short-staffed, so …” Dorkin’s voice trailed off.
“So?”
“It could be longer; perhaps nine, ten days.”
“But how can we exist without food for ten days? You surely won’t allow us to
starve
?” said the Queen to the young man. Dorkin grudgingly admitted that starvation was not official policy. “There is,” he said, “such a thing as an Emergency Payment.”
“And how does one procure an Emergency Payment?” asked the Queen.
“You have to go to the DSS office, in person,” he said. He warned her that even as he spoke the queue would be out of the door, but the Queen already had her coat on. She simply couldn’t keep borrowing from the neighbours. She tied a headscarf around her head. As she had no money, she would have to walk into town.
18 The Gamblers
Fitzroy Toussaint was surprised to find that his mother was not at home. He always called on Fridays at 1 pm and she was usually on the doorstep, waiting for him – whatever the weather. He let himself into her bungalow with a key. Fitzroy was grateful he didn’t have to live in the Close himself any more. Once he had taken his “A” levels he had got the hell out and gone to live in the suburbs. Christ, it was cold! He went through the narrow hall to the kitchen. Good, at least she had plenty of food; the shelves in her high cupboard were well stocked. So why was she so
thin
? She was wasting away, her legs and arms were like sticks, no, twigs.
As usual, the interior of the bungalow was immaculate, the dishcloth was folded into a square on the draining board. He looked into the bedroom and saw that the bed was made and that she had started to knit her Christmas presents for the grandchildren. He was cheered by this – her arthritis couldn’t be any worse. He put his head around the living room door and saw a note tucked into the mirror over the cold fireplace.
“Fitzroy, I am next door, with the Queen Mother. Call round, she don’t mind, I axed.”
The Queen Mother’s door was slightly ajar. Fitzroy pushed it and was met by a gust of hot air. He waited and heard his mother’s voice raised in indignation, telling one of her family stories.
“That woman was
evil
, I tell you, to run off and leave her children …”
He heard the Queen Mother’s voice trying, and eventually succeeding in cutting in. “Wallis Simpson was evil too, I’m convinced of it. I will never forgive her for what she did to poor David. It was a dreadful time for us all. Abdication! It was so shaming. He knew my husband, George didn’t want to be King – who would, with a stammer like his? All those speeches, it was torture for him – and me.”
Fitzroy heard his mother shouting the Queen Mother down. “An’ this is another wicked woman! Me Aunt Matilda. Man, that woman was crazy for the drink. See, if you look careful you can see the bottle in her hand.”
Fitzroy knocked on the living room door, walked in and found two old ladies, each looking through her own family photograph album. Both too old to care what other people thought of them, both relishing the airing of family secrets.
Fitzroy saw the pleasure on his mother’s face when she saw him. He also saw the slight flicker of fear on the Queen Mother’s face. Did she think he was going to rob her? Did the suit and the Filofax he was carrying under his arm count for nothing?
“Hello Mum,” he said, and was only a little surprised when both women said, “Hello, Fitzroy.”
His mother bombarded him with questions as usual. How was his chest? Was he still working hard? Was he cooking himself proper meals? Had he heard from Troy? Why had he shaved off his moustache? It was cold, was he wearing a vest? Had he visited Jethroe’s grave? Did he want a hot drink?
The Queen Mother insisted that they must take tea with her. She got up from her chair with great difficulty, Fitzroy noticed. He offered her his hand and she leaned heavily against him.
“Sit down, woman!” shouted Philomena. “Talk to me son. I hain’t as old as you. I’ll make the tea.”
She stomped off into the kitchen as though it were her own house. The Queen Mother sat down and asked Fitzroy if he was interested in horses. Fitzroy wondered if this was a trap. He had promised his mother that he would never gamble. On his eighteenth birthday she had made him swear on the Bible that he would never set foot inside a bookie’s shop. He had kept his promise.
When he was twenty-one, he had opened a telephone account with Jack Johnson, Turf Accountant. His winnings were sent straight into his bank account but, like the Queen Mother, he had never set foot inside a bookie’s shop. He lowered his voice and moved nearer to the Queen Mother.
“Yeah, I’m interested.”
“In form?”
“Yeah, in form.”
“Who trained my grandson’s horse, Sea Swell?” Fitzroy answered at once, “Nick Gaselee, for the Duke of Gloucester Memorial Trophy. Prince Charles finished fourth.”
“Yes, I lost twenty-five pounds.”
The Queen Mother pulled from her corsage a five pound note she had been concealing from her daughter and handed it to Fitzroy.
“Sea Mist – Kempton Park, two o’clock,” she said, with her eye on the kitchen door.
“To win?”
“Oh yes, it’s a cert, the going’s soft, he likes it soft.”
Fitzroy took a mobile telephone from the inside pocket of his Paul Smith jacket. He pressed the buttons and placed the Queen Mother’s bet. And, just to be friendly, he put twenty-five pounds on Sea Mist himself. They swapped gambling stories until Philomena came in with the tea tray and they talked about Fitzroy’s job. He was an insolvency accountant, currently bringing a chain of shoe shops to a peaceful end. He promised to get the Queen Mother a pair of wide-fitting brocade house slippers – at a discount.
At 2.15 Fitzroy’s telephone rang. Philomena was washing up noisily in the kitchen. “Yeah?” he said, looking at the Queen Mother. “Wellwotjano! You’ve won yourself a tidy amount.”
The Queen Mother’s eyes glittered greedily.
“Right,” she whispered. “Nectarine – Kempton Park; two-thirty. Twenty pounds each way.”
It made him late getting back to the office but he waited until 2.35, when the phone rang again. This time his mother was back in the room so all he did was show the Queen Mother his downturned thumb. She understood at once.
Philomena collected up her photograph albums and ordered the Queen Mother to have a nap. She was tired herself and needed to sleep.
Fitzroy saw his mother to her front door and handed her a small plastic bag full of fifty pence coins. “For the gas meter,” he said. “Use them.” He walked to his Ford Sierra with an extra spring in his step, pleased with his winnings and glad that his mother had a friend. Man, it took a weight off his shoulders. He pressed a button on his key ring and a mysterious electronic process caused the door locks to pop up in unison. He waved goodbye to the two old ladies waving from their respective front windows and reversed towards the barrier. He didn’t like meeting the police head on. Never had.
19 The Long Walk
Harris was playing in the street with the Pack. The Queen stood on her doorstep calling him in, but he refused to come. She ran out into the street, shouting his name angrily. A gang of children joined in the chase. What a scruffy bunch they were, thought the Queen. Then she noticed that running amongst them, like feral animals, were her own grandchildren, William and Harry. Harris ran and hid under a wrecked and burnt out Renault car that stood at the kerb. The Queen lured him out with a polo mint she’d found in the pocket of her waxed coat, then she thrashed him with his lead. But it was a gentle thrashing.
Harris allowed the lead to be slipped over his head and the Queen set off to walk the three miles into town. As she approached the barrier, she saw that PC Ludlow was on duty, checking the licence of a handsome and smartly dressed black man who was behind the wheel of a Ford Sierra.
When the car had reversed rapidly out of Hell Close, she went up to Ludlow and demanded to know why he had told such shocking lies in court. PC Ludlow had dreaded this moment. He hadn’t slept properly for three nights – guilt had kept him awake. He had listened to the World Service on his clock radio until the early hours, trying to blot out the memory of the crime he had committed. Perjury was a serious offence; he could lose his job. It was unlikely, but you never knew nowadays.
Inspector Holyland had told him what to say and he had said it, word for word. He hadn’t expected to be believed. “Kill the pig!” He had expected the magistrates and the court and the public gallery to burst into laughter at the thought of the Prince of Wales uttering these clichéd words, but he was wearing his uniform, he represented Law and Order and Truth; and Inspector Holyland had backed him up, although he hadn’t been on the scene at the time.
The Queen repeated, “Why did you tell those lies about my son?” Ludlow said, “Those were the facts as I saw them, at the time.” Harris was sniffing around the bottom of his trousers. Ludlow moved his feet and Harris, interpreting this as an aggressive gesture, sank his teeth into a regulation police sock, piercing the skin below. In Ludlow’s opinion, the Queen took an unnecessarily long time in pulling Harris away from his left ankle. There was a form to fill in before she was allowed to leave Hell Close.
Name
Elizabeth Windsor
Address
9 Hell Close
Time
2.45 pm
Destination
DSS Middleton
Method of Transport
Walking
Estimated time of return
6 pm
Ludlow lifted the barrier and she walked through.
A bogus beast followed her, keeping his distance. Surely she wasn’t going to
walk
into town? He’d got new shoes on. His feet would be in tatters. He was festooned in corn plasters as it was. He was sick of being in plain clothes. He longed for the comfort of his old panda car. His name was Colin Lightfoot, his duty was to shadow the Queen and report back to Inspector Holyland.
The Queen was quite enjoying the walk, though she would have preferred to be on Holkham Beach, near Sandringham – or striding through the heather at Balmoral. But at least she was out of Hell Close and getting some exercise. Harris hated it. The pavements were hard on his feet and his little legs could hardly keep up with the Queen’s vigorous pace.
They were walking alongside the dual carriageway that connected the Flowers Estate to the town. The Queen had visited the town before; she had opened a hospital, visited a hosiery and light engineering factory in the morning and, after lunch in the Town Hall, had visited an institution for the elderly confused in the afternoon, where she had made excruciatingly embarrassing conversation with the residents. One old, dribbling man was convinced that she was his mother and that it was 1941 and that he was still in the Catering Corps. On her way back to the Royal Train, she had called in at a probation hostel where she was given a tour of the gleaming dormitories and the freshly-painted ping-pong room. A few presentable probationers had been allowed to look on while the daughter of the Director of Social Services had given her a bunch of spring flowers. She wondered now where the other, probably less presentable, probationers had been kept.
It began to rain; a steady remorseless sheet of water. She pulled her headscarf lower, over her forehead, and strode on. The bogus beast behind her cursed and swore and shook his fist at the heavens and, as if to taunt him, a police car drove by, the uniformed occupants looking warm and smug as they conveyed Mr Christmas to Tulip Street Police Station.
She looked at her watch and quickened her step. Mr Dorkin had told her that the office closed at 5.30. He had written down the address on a sheet of paper. The Queen took the folded sheet from her pocket. The only legible words were “DSS Office”. The remaining address was completely illegible, rain had run into her pocket and obliterated everything below the fold of the paper.
Harris tried to match the Queen’s more urgent pace to his own, but after a few minutes he had had enough and refused to go on. He
knew
he should have worn his raincoat. He had stood under the coat rack in the hall. He had barked and indicated that he would like to be strapped into his little coat, but
she
was in too much of a hurry to notice
him
, wasn’t she? Oh yes, hadn’t got a moment now to feed him and tell him that he was her favourite. And what
was
it with all this physical
violence
? A beating a day – at least. If she wasn’t careful … he knew about the RSPCA. And, another thing, he had
serious
fleas. The Queen yanked on Harris’s lead, but he refused to budge. She tried dragging him along but he sat down and dug his paws in. A bedraggled passer-by said, “You’ll have the skin off that dog’s arse.”
The Queen replied, “I’ll have the skin off that dog’s
back
if he doesn’t move.” She pushed Harris with her foot and he yelped as though in agony and lay on his back feigning death. Through a slit in one eye, he watched as the Queen bent over him, her eyes full of concern and guilt. He felt himself being lifted up and cradled in her arms.
Their journey continued along the dual carriageway towards the town where the pavements were not paved with gold – they were hardly paved at all. The Council were investing their money in buying a windswept thousand-acre site on the outskirts of the town where they planned to build a theme park: a zoo without animals. Instead of the mess and the smell and the necessity to feed real wild animals, the Council had been persuaded by a private company to build a series of huge windowless edifices. Inside, electronic imagery and sophisticated sound systems were to replicate the continents of the world and their indigenous animals. It was Virtual Reality on a huge scale. Millions of goggling visitors were expected to visit the windswept site from all over Britain. A five hundred bed hotel was to be built to accommodate them. The narrow minor roads leading to the site were to be widened slightly. They had hoped that Prince Philip (in his capacity as President of the World Wildlife Fund, rather than his other well-known role as killer of small birds and animals) would open the electronic zoo for them.