Mrs. Queen Takes the Train (31 page)

“Right you are,” said the young woman, laughing. “Got me there. Well, I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

“All right,” said The Queen.

“And where are you headed, then? Home and a warm bed, I expect.”

“Well, ultimately, yes. But first Waverley railway station.”

“I’m sure the last trains have gone as well.”

“Oh, I expect there will be a milk train, or something like that, quite early.”

“Milk train? I don’t think they have those anymore.”

“Well, you mustn’t worry on my behalf. You’re very generous to have stopped for me in the first place. If you can take me to Waverley, I’m quite sure all will be well.”

The young woman driving the car was a social worker who dealt with all kinds of people on behalf of the Edinburgh town council: victims of crime, people leaving prison and attempting to rejoin the community, the homeless, old people abandoned by their children. She knew better than to argue with one of her clients and she immediately regarded the old woman whom she’d just picked up as someone who was in line to become one of her clients. Instead, she said smoothly, “Ah, I see. You live outside of Edinburgh, then?”

“As it happens, I do have a place I can stay here. But I seldom spend the night there.”

“Oh, why not?”

“Well, it would be locked now, and when they’re not expecting me, well, it would upset them if I were to turn up.” The Queen saw that clearly now, more clearly than when her unhappiness had temporarily confused her, impelled her out of Buckingham Palace and into Green Park. Holyrood would be locked and the staff would need to be telephoned in advance if she meant to spend the night there.

“I see,” said the young woman. Inwardly she imagined this nice woman’s ungrateful children in a council flat, locking her out, and refusing her a bed, even on the sofa, if she hadn’t warned them in advance she were coming. She had seen too many similar cases. “Well, I know a nice shelter near here. Why don’t I take you there? You could go on from Waverley in the morning.”

What The Queen heard was something like a proposal from her private secretary to extend a provincial visit. “If you wouldn’t mind, Ma’am, we could add just one more stop at some sheltered housing for the elderly. They’d be so grateful if you’d come and see what they’re doing. Acknowledge their hard work. Then we could have you back on the royal train for a cup of tea in no time.” She was used to smooth young men from the private office keeping her on her feet for thirty more minutes, adding a dozen more hands for her to shake, and—no fear—there’d be another plaque for her to unveil as well. She was willing to do what she was asked to do on most occasions, but like an old dog scenting a bitter pill in the midst of a proffered biteful of cream cheese, she sometimes set her jaw and refused to accept it. “No, thank you,” said The Queen to the young woman driving the car.

The young woman was used to cold negatives from homeless people to whom she offered a lift to the shelter. Some of them liked it on the street, preferred it, in fact, to the loneliness of a single room. Their inner voices were quieter on the street and there was more company. “Very well,” she replied. “Waverley, then. And, you know, you’re in luck. Because the station is open twenty-four hours, so you’ll be out of the weather, won’t you? And I believe a church van comes by with cups of tea and sandwiches for whoever’s about at this hour. I mean whoever, like you, doesn’t really fancy the shelter.”

“That will be lovely, thank you.” She smoothed down her feathers from having been unexpectedly ruffled. “And you, now? Why driving by Leith at this hour?”

“Oh, well, I work for the council. Care for all sorts. People having a hard time. Need some help to get by from day to day. Need some encouragement if they’re not going back to prison. The kind who are usually not free from ten in the morning to six at night, if you know what I mean. Sometimes all they need is a friendly ear, someone to tell their problems to. And there’s something about the night that makes them open up. Sometimes all you need to do is listen, and to look interested.”

“Yes, I do know,” said The Queen. That was mainly her job too. Listen and look interested. She carried on in a more reflective tone, speaking half to herself, “But do they appreciate what you do? Sometimes I wonder if they wouldn’t rather just be left alone. Is listening and looking interested enough?”

“Well, I think so. Wouldn’t keep doing it if I didn’t. People like being looked after. Everybody had a mum once. That feeling of being protected, of being allowed to test your legs and be independent, but to be looked in on every once in a while by your mum. Even your most downcast outcast wants that,” she said, laughing. “That’s human instinct. It’s like those little geese having whoever they see after they break out of the egg imprinted on them. If they see the farmer’s wife, they’ll follow her around just as if she were mama goose.”

Mother Goose, thought The Queen, that’s what I am. She descended once again into some self-doubting thoughts about whether or not she’d actually helped anyone in her life of ritual and routine.

The young woman driving the car could sense that her companion was leaving her, drifting away on a wave of unpleasant reflection, so she took a chance. She reached over and with her left hand, which wasn’t on the steering wheel, briefly covered The Queen’s two bare hands, which were folded together in her lap. “Come now, we’re nearly there. The church van will have a cup of tea for you. You might see some of your mates, mightn’t you?”

The young woman’s hand, touching her skin, sent something like an electric shock through The Queen. People didn’t usually reach out to touch her at unchoreographed moments. She knew how to keep her distance when they looked like they might want to grab her hand. This woman had touched her unexpectedly and the human contact suddenly revived her. She remembered how people sometimes glowed when she reached out to shake their hands, usually with gloves on, but sometimes not. They all seemed to adore it. It was a power she had, touching people, the royal touch, a power she’d at that moment just recalled. From the Middle Ages up until Queen Anne’s time, people had believed in the royal touch as a cure for illness. The woman had given her a jolt, but not an unpleasant one.

As they pulled into the railway station, The Queen could see a van from the side of which someone was pouring tea into Styrofoam cups. There was a rough group of people of uncertain ages, and in all their bundled clothes it was also unclear whether they were men or women. They were waiting for their white cups. “Here we are,” said the young woman. “Now come along, out you go. They’ll have a cup for you. And here’s my card. You call me if you change your mind about the shelter. I’ll come back and get you.”

The Queen could feel the young woman’s kindness, her willingness to take trouble over strangers. “Thank you, my dear. It’s been a pleasure.” The Queen reached out with her hand this time, briefly taking the young woman’s left hand into both of hers. She looked at her from inside the warmth of her hoodie, caught the glance of her brown eyes, and gave her a military nod, an abbreviated version of what she gave at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Day. Then she gave her hand a farewell squeeze, and swung around to pull herself laboriously out of the car.

The young woman watched the older woman walk deliberately over to the group of homeless. For the first time she noticed the skull and crossbones on the back of her hoodie, the well-cut skirt, and the muddy pumps. “What a voice,” the young woman said to herself. And putting the car into gear as she prepared to drive away, she took her left hand and put it up to her nose. Homeless elderly women often smelled as if they hadn’t washed as much as they should, but this was entirely different. It was the old woman’s perfume, the scent of orange blossom.

T
he taxi driver drew up next to the
Britannia
at Leith, wondering what two old women could want with a tourist attraction at this time of night. “It’s shut,” he couldn’t help saying when he stopped at the security kiosk, even though Anne’s earlier commands had intimidated him.

“Of course it’s shut, young man,” said Anne impatiently. “It’s on the way to midnight. Who do you think we are?”

He didn’t like her bullying tone of voice and began to answer her.

“She doesn’t mean for you to answer,” said Shirley, seeing the idea for a rejoinder cross his brow. “Will you wait for us, please?”

Both women got out of the taxi and walked to where they could see a security guard sitting inside at a desk.

“It’s shut,” began the guard, as if he’d prearranged his answer with the taxi driver.

“We can see that,” said Anne with annoyance in her voice. “We’re looking for someone.”

“No one here but me.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary tonight, then?”

“And why would I tell you if there had been?” In his experience, old women sometimes rose to a bit of impertinence.

She knew they were out of place next to a darkened ship in the middle of the night on an Edinburgh quay, but it still surprised Shirley that a young man could address two women who were both old enough to be his grandmother in this familiar way. She threw him an angry glance in order to give him a visual rap over his knuckles. “Not the way you speak to a lady, young fellow.”

“A lady, now. Is that what she is? Is that what you are? I thought you were all just women these days.”

Anne interrupted. “This is your demesne. We can see that. But we need your help and we would like to know if you’ve seen anyone odd here tonight.”

Demesne was an unusual word. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant. It was the first time he thought these might actually be ladies in front of him. “Odd, like you, you mean?”

Anne had to admit he had a point. “Yes,” she conceded reluctantly, “odd, like us.”

“No, no one like you. No one at all. Quiet as quiet can be.”

“No one’s been here the whole evening, then?”

“No one, I’ve told you that.”

Anne sighed. They’d come a very long way to be met with this blunt negative from a night watchman. She had no idea where they’d go next. And she was aware they might have made fools of themselves to have come as far as they had on the basis of one slim recollection of Shirley’s.

“Hang on a minute,” said Shirley abruptly. She’d been prowling around the guard’s room while Anne questioned him, and on a shelf behind his desk she found a scarf. Holding it up bunched in one hand, the heavy silk poured into her other hand as if it were water out of a jug. “What’s this, then?”

“It’s the cleaner’s scarf,” said the young man casually. “She dropped it on her way out. I only found it after she left. I’ll give it her tomorrow when she comes back on her shift.”

“You said no one had been here,” said Anne indignantly.

“What would you lot be wanting with the cleaner?”

Shirley held up the scarf with both hands now. It had reins and horses wearing medieval armor on a red background. It was almost a square yard in size. “Does the cleaner always wear Hermès to work, then?”

“Don’t know anything about our May’s. Don’t know if May’s even her name. The cleaners come and go. I’ll give it back to her tomorrow night.”

“Thank you, young man,” said Anne. “We’ll give it back to her.” Shirley had handed the scarf to her and she examined it, recognizing instantly that it was the same scarf The Queen had sent her back to the Castle for the afternoon she met Luke.

“What if I see her first?” said the guard, feeling as if he had been caught out in a lie, when all he had done was to collect a scarf from the pavement when he was having a smoke, which he honestly intended to return to its owner on the following evening.

The two women looked at one another. What if he did see her first? What if The Queen returned here before they could catch up with her? Anne wrote down her mobile telephone number on a scrap of paper sitting on the young man’s desk. “Call me if she turns up again, please.”

“Who is she, then? If it’s not May, the cleaner, what’s her name, then?”

Anne did not mean to answer this and was hustling Shirley out the door when he threatened to report them to his superiors. This, Shirley realized, might give up the game before they’d found The Queen, and she wanted to make sure he did no such thing. With Anne outside, striding toward the waiting taxi, Shirley stopped back in and said to the young man a little more kindly than either of them had spoken to him before, “Look, it belongs to Mrs Le Roy, a woman we both work for, um, a woman who works with us. We need to find her before she gets into any trouble. Okay? So do please call us if she turns up again.” She took a mini whiskey bottle the stewardess had given her and placed it on his desk while looking at him gravely. Then she was out the door.

T
he Queen got out of the social worker’s car. The station was darker than she’d expected. The social worker was right. She went up to check the departures board and found that the first train to London King’s Cross was not until after five in the morning. She sighed. A long wait. “Well, no more royal train. That’s how it will have to be, Little Bit. Find something to do. Don’t just stand there,” her internal nanny said to her. She wandered away from the departures board and toward the van the social worker said would have a cup of tea. She was surprised that they were doing such a brisk business in the middle of the night. There was a crowd of perhaps twenty or thirty, both men and women, all ages, dressed in many different layers, some talking to themselves, some talking to each other. Many had weather-roughened voices. Some had more animation than was necessary. Others looked stonily vague. These were the dossers down, the homeless. She knew that. She hadn’t had much to do with them. The Prince of Wales, she seemed to recall, had spent several nights with them under Waterloo Bridge. She believed Diana too had been interested and hoped to help. They had never been one of The Queen’s specialties, but she looked at them now carefully. Was she so different from them? She had no particular place to go, at least not for a little while. She liked the idea of a cup of tea. So she stood in the queue, waiting for the woman at the fold-down counter to pour her a cup of tea out of an industrial-sized kettle. The Queen was the last to be served. She rather liked that, waiting her turn, going last. It was a new experience. She supposed it was a little like Marie Antoinette pretending she was a shepherd, but she didn’t care. It took her out of herself, and that relieved the pain.