Queen Camilla (26 page)

As they were driven to Bungay for questioning, the security police had serenaded them with, ‘Tie me kangaroo down sport.’

Caroline, the Prime Minister’s current wife, was sitting on the lavatory with the lid down, soaking her feet in the adjacent bidet. She was watching her husband as he shaved for the third time that day. He was the reluctant guest of honour at a dinner to be held by the Parliamentary Fly Fishing Association. Caroline had bullied him into accepting the invitation. Her mother owned a salmon river in the north of Scotland, and liked nothing better than to stand up to her thighs in ice-cold water with a fishing rod and a gillie standing by.

She pulled the plug out of the bidet and said, ‘And don’t go on about cruelty to fish in your speech tonight. You’ve already antagonized dog lovers; my sodding phone hasn’t stopped ringing for two days. Do you realize, Jack, that the movers and shakers in this country have at least two dogs each? When was the last time you saw Sir Alan Sugar stroking a pussy? You can’t afford to lose the fishing vote, Jack.’

Jack said, ‘How would you like to be hauled out of your natural element with a hook in your soft palate? Don’t tell me that’s not painful.’

Caroline raised her voice and said, ‘What are you, a fucking Buddhist? It’s a bloody
fish
.’

‘A fish is a sentient being,’ said Jack.

‘Hardly,’ said Caroline. ‘Does a fish have feelings? Does it feel jealousy or remorse? I think not.’

‘It’s still cruel,’ said Jack.

‘So what are you going to legislate against next? Fishing? Slug pellets? Ant poison? Where does it stop, Jack?’ asked Caroline. ‘This anti-dog legislation is madness. If you base your manifesto on it, you’ll lose the election.’

Jack rinsed his face clean of shaving cream and said, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

The Fly Fishing Association dinner took place upstairs in the banqueting room at the National Portrait Gallery. Jack sat in the centre at a long table with Caroline on his right and Jeremy Paxman on his left. During the first course of mackerel pâté and thin curls of toast, Jack chatted to Paxman about strictly non-political subjects. But as they were eating a baked turbot, Jack remarked that under his Government the rivers had been cleaned up, and consequently fish were now more plentiful.

Paxman snarled, ‘Come off it, Prime Minister. I was fishing the River Dove recently, and the only thing I caught in three days was a trout that was decidedly on its last legs.’

When Jack rose to speak, he was still simmering with resentment. His conversation with Paxman had deteriorated from a sotto voce row about England’s polluted rivers into a shouting match about the erosion of English civil liberties.

After formally thanking the Fly Fishing Association, he launched into an attack on cruel sports, saying in part of his speech, ‘I’m no Christian, but to my recollection Jesus disapproved of fishing, and returned the fish to the sea, making it clear that fishing was a heathen
activity. Wait, I hear you say, didn’t Jesus feed the five thousand with bread and fishes, thus validating fish? But you would be wrong. An eminent Biblical authority, Professor Elias Moncrieff, wrote in the
Catholic Herald
that the deconstruction of the fish and loaves parable showed that the word “fish” has been misinterpreted, and in old Hebrew, the words “fish” and “oil” were almost identical, so it is entirely possible, ladies and gentlemen, that the five thousand were actually fed on bread and oil.’

He heard Jeremy Paxman mutter, ‘That’s absolute bollocks.’

Jack continued, ‘And didn’t Jesus urge Matthew, Mark, Luke and John to renounce their livelihood, which was catching fish, and become his disciples and start fishing for men?’

On the way home in the official car, Caroline said, ‘You’ve lost the election, Jack.’

‘I know,’ said Jack, and he smiled in the dark.

On Saturday morning Charles dug up some of his root vegetables: potatoes, turnips and parsnips. He gave a basketful to Beverley Threadgold, who had complained, over the fence, that the only thing she had in her cupboard was a red Oxo cube and a bit of salt and pepper. She recoiled at Charles’s gift at first, saying, ‘Ugh! What are they? They’re covered in fuckin’ mud.’

Charles had explained that underneath the dirt were vegetables, and that if Beverley washed, peeled and chopped them up and added the stock from an Oxo cube she could make enough soup to keep herself and Vince going until they were allowed to go to the shops again.

Beverley looked at the vegetables suspiciously, and said, ‘But it ain’t hygienic.’

Charles said, ‘But, Beverley, mankind has eaten produce grown in the earth for centuries.’

Beverley said, ‘Well, generations of Threadgolds ’ave bought their vegetables from the Co-op in tins and packets.’

However, Beverley took Charles’s produce inside and an hour later astounded Vince by presenting him with a bowl of vegetable soup, with only a little muddy sediment.

*

On Saturday afternoon, Dwayne Lockhart called at Charles and Camilla’s house under the pretext of checking the effectiveness of the new tag on Camilla’s ankle. During the examination, he fumbled a Jiffy bag out of his baton pocket and slid it under the sofa. When Dwayne had gone, Camilla retrieved the package.

‘It’s from Graham,’ she said. ‘I’d know that crabbed handwriting anywhere.’

She opened the package and found a letter addressed to ‘My mother and father’, and a video labelled ‘Graham Cracknall!’ with another of his exclamation marks.

Dear Mother and Father,

It was wonderful to get your letter! I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of meeting my father, my brothers William and Harry, and being reunited with you, Mother!

As you can see, I have enclosed a video I made some months ago! It is part of my life plan to be married by the time I am forty-five! However, in the past I have been very unlucky in love! So I decided to cast my net wider and join a dating agency in the hope of catching a suitable fish!

So far, hardtopleeze.co.uk have not been able to find me a prospective wife, but I live in hope!

At least I have a video which, I think, gives a fair representation of what Graham Cracknall is all about!

Best wishes from your son

Graham

Please Note: I had my hair cut shortly before the filming of the video. The barber wilfully ignored my instructions for a trim
and proceeded to shave my scalp, leaving only stubble! My hair has since grown back!

Charles read the letter with a sinking heart. It was not only Graham’s prolific use of exclamation marks that depressed him; there was a slight air of desperation between the lines. Could it be that Graham was a social misfit? The Hardtopleeze agency had been the subject of a critical documentary on Radio Four’s
You and Yours
. The presenter Peter White had accused the owner, a Mrs Greyling, of ‘preying on the weak, the vulnerable, the physically and emotionally challenged’. Mrs Greyling had defended her agency rigorously, claiming that she ‘gave hope to those who, in earlier days, would have been condemned to spend most of their life living at home with their mum and dad’. Charles said nothing to Camilla about his worries. The poor darling has enough on her plate at the moment, he thought.

When Camilla had finished reading the letter, she said, with a mother’s determination to see the best in her child, ‘It’s splendid that he has a life plan, isn’t it?’ Camilla had never planned anything in her own life; she merely reacted to people and events.

Charles said, scanning the letter again, ‘He certainly understands how to paragraph.’

Having no video or television, Charles went next door and asked Vince Threadgold if he could borrow their portable set. Vince said, on the doorstep, ‘I’m halfway through recording the afternoon porn show. Come in an’ watch if you like.’

Charles was flummoxed by Vince’s insouciance. In
Charles’s opinion, sex was a serious and sacred business, and conversation about it should be confined to one’s sexual partner.

Later that evening, Vince set up the television and video. He explained how everything worked by putting Graham’s video into the slot, waiting until the film began. When Graham’s face came up on the screen, Vince laughed. ‘Christ, ’e’s an ugly bugger! Who is it?’

Charles turned the volume down and said, ‘Er… he’s a distant relation.’

Vince laughed again at Graham and said, ‘That’s what years of inbreeding does to a man’s looks.’

After Vince had gone, Charles rewound the video and turned the volume up. Camilla seated herself on the sofa and prepared herself to see and hear her elder son for the very first time.

Charles sat down next to Camilla and took her hand; he switched on the video. Graham was sitting in what looked like a cubicle under very bright lights. On the wall behind him was the
hardtopleeze.co.uk
logo: a stick man and a stick woman embracing inside a clumsily drawn heart.

As she watched the forty-year-old Graham on the video, Camilla thought back to the day-old baby she had called Rory. How had that little bawling scrap turned into Graham, who appeared to have the dress sense of an Albanian swineherd and the manner of an especially wooden ventriloquist’s dummy?

Hello, my name is Graham. Graham Cracknall. I’m forty, my star sign is Leo or Cancer,
depending on which newspaper you read. I’m on the cusp, not only astrologically, but also, in life.

As you can see, I am of medium height, a bit taller than Tom Cruise, but a smidgen smaller than John Travolta. Incidentally, both of these men, chosen by me completely at random, are eminent Scientologists, disciples of the late Ron Hubbard. I once flirted with Scientology myself and sent for the literature, but my mother, bless her, who is in the habit of reading my correspondence while I’m at work, was so upset by Mr Hubbard’s mind-mapping philosophy that she notified Cult Watch and they arranged for me to meet a counsellor, who warned me about the dangers of joining any quasi-religious organization headed by a billionaire with a private island and a fleet of expensive limousines. So, phew! I had a close shave there!

I live with my mum and dad in Ruislip, famous for lovely Jordan, who graced us with her presence for a year. Other alumni include the famous spies, the Krogers, Linford Christie and Mantovani, and one day I hope Graham Cracknall will be a name on everybody’s lips.

Anyway, time is running out, so enough about me. I am looking for a petite, nonsmoking heterosexual woman with a GSOH, bubbly personality and an interest in board
games. Looks are not important but I would prefer her not to have any obvious disabilities, ergo children. She will need to be computer literate and financially secure and preferably have at least one foot on the property ladder.

Ideally, she will chill out to easy-listening music. James Blunt is a particular favourite of mine; I saw him a year ago at the Hexagon in Reading. If she enjoys
The Two Ronnies
,
Only Fools and Horses
and
Inspector Morse
, we will get on like a house on fire. I have the complete, director’s cut, boxed set of
Morse
on DVD.

So if you like what you see, get in touch with me at:

[email protected]

After the video had finished, Camilla said weakly, ‘I expect he looks better with hair.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Charles, ‘but I think, darling, that Graham has not been blessed with good looks.’

Camilla searched and found within herself a tiny ember of maternal love; perhaps if she fanned it a little, the ember would burst into flames. She had always, as a child, loved the story about the ugly duckling. Perhaps one day Graham would come out from behind the metaphorical bulrushes and glide gracefully down the river.

*

Later that night, Charles and Camilla were brushing their teeth side by side in the cramped bathroom, each allowing the other to rinse and spit in turn into the cracked washbasin stained with limescale. Charles would not allow Camilla to keep the tap running due to his concerns about the worldwide water shortage, so a certain amount of orchestration was necessary.

Camilla examined her reflection in the harsh light of the mirror and sighed, ‘Oh, darling, I do look a hag tonight.’

‘You’re mad,’ said Charles. ‘You look more beautiful to me every day.’

They heard the sound of breaking glass and went downstairs to find a half brick had been thrown through the living-room window. Shards of glass lay on the carpet. A note was fastened to the brick with an elastic band. It read: ‘Yourl never be queen.’ Charles quickly scrunched the note up and put it in his pocket before Camilla could see it. The poor darling has suffered enough, he thought. He ran out into the darkness of the close, where few of the streetlights were working. There was a light on at William and Harry’s house.

Charles walked to the barrier with the half brick and showed it to the security policeman on duty there, saying, ‘If my wife had been lying on the floor under the window, it could have killed her.’

The policeman said, ‘But why would your wife be lying on the floor? Ain’t you got chairs to sit on?’

Charles said, testily, ‘Look, aren’t you going to investigate the crime?’

‘No. I’ll give you a crime number for the insurance, if you like,’ said the policeman.

Charles said, ‘I have no insurance; the premiums are far beyond my pocket. Can’t you take fingerprints or something?’

The policeman laughed and said, ‘You’re thinking about the olden days, sir.’

‘Can’t you look at the CCTV?’ asked Charles.

‘I’m not qualified to interpret those images, sir. And anyway, one hoody looks very much like another,’ said the policeman. ‘So, if you’d make your way home now. You’re breaking the curfew.’

Charles was tempted to show the policeman the scrunched-up note that he had in his pocket, but something stopped him. There was a tiny voice in his head telling him that he had seen the handwriting before. When he got home he found that Camilla had made no attempt to clear up the shards of glass. She was sitting in the kitchen with the dogs. After vacuuming the living-room carpet, and taping a plastic bag over the jagged hole in the window, he suggested to Camilla that she should go up to bed. When he judged that she was asleep, he went to the writing desk and opened the locked drawer where he kept souvenirs and mementos. He sifted through them for the last birthday card he had received from Harry. He took out the scrunched-up note and smoothed it flat, and compared the handwriting. It wasn’t just the dismal spelling that angered him.