Queen Camilla (31 page)

The Queen said, ‘Charles, please take a deep breath and repeat very slowly what you have just told me.’

Charles said, ‘I’ll, er… try to… take a run at the fence from a different direction. Er… this young man is my eldest son, Graham. His mother is Camilla, my wife. He was born in Zurich, in 1965. Until recently I knew nothing of his existence.’

The Queen gave Graham a full appraising look, taking in the details of his physical appearance. The ears belonged to Charles, as did the jaw, the hairline and the hands. He had Camilla’s nose, eyes and posture. Graham was a perfect amalgam of Charles and Camilla’s genes. The Queen did not need to see the DNA certificate or the solicitor’s papers that Charles was waving in front of her.

She said, ‘Why did Camilla not tell you about the existence of this child?’

Charles hesitated; he did not want to hurt Graham’s feelings, but how else was he to explain Camilla’s oversight?

He twisted and turned his neck inside his shirt collar,
‘Look Mummy, she simply wiped it out of her mind. You know how delightfully scatty she can be.’

The Queen saw Graham flinch, as though a flying insect had stung him. She felt a little pity for him.

She said to Charles, ‘I know Camilla is absent-minded at times, and that
you
think it is a charming characteristic of hers, but she is not suffering from amnesia, is she? Does she remember the name of her first husband? The names of the children she had by him? The first gymkhana she won? Her favourite alcoholic drink? I expect so. Do you not find it strange that she apparently forgot about the birth of her first baby.’

Harris barked, ‘Not a common or garden baby, either, but the second in line to the throne.’

The Queen shouted, angrily, ‘Oh do be quiet, Harris!’

Harris barked back, ‘There’s no need to take it out on me.’

Susan barked, ‘It’s Charles you want to shout at.’

The Queen shouted at both dogs, ‘Continue barking, and you’ll go outside!’

Charles said, ‘I’m equally baffled, Mummy. But Camilla has, I think, a sort of filter in her brain that, er… prevents any negativity or unpleasantness getting through and hurting her.’

The Queen said tersely, ‘More of your Van der Post nonsense. Go into the kitchen and make the coffee, you’ll find everything on the tray!’

When Charles had gone, she turned to Graham and said, more gently, ‘So, you’re my eldest grandson, Mr Cracknall?’

Graham said, ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ His voice was remarkably like Charles’s, thought the Queen. His pronunciation was good, without a trace of a regional accent.

The Queen continued, ‘Please, do sit down,’ and indicated the fireside chair opposite her own. ‘I’d be most interested to hear your story.’

As Graham spoke, he grew less intimidated by the Queen’s presence, and after giving her his basic biographical details he talked about his pastimes and hobbies. The Queen was interested to note that he had once collected New Zealand postage stamps; philately was something they had in common, she told him.

When Charles came in with the coffee tray the Queen was asking Graham, ‘Have you met your half-brothers yet, or your aunts and uncles?’

Charles said, ‘Of course he hasn’t, Mummy. You are the head of the family and you had to be told first.’

The Queen said, ‘Does anybody else know?’

Charles said, ‘Only Fatty Soames, but I swore him to secrecy.’

‘Fatty Soames?’ laughed the Queen. ‘You may as well have contracted the Red Arrows to write of Graham’s existence in the sky over London.’

Graham said, ‘Why do we have to keep my existence a secret? I’m very proud to be a member of the Royal Family. I always knew that I was a cuckoo in the Ruislip nest. I never fitted in with the other boys at school.’

‘And nor did I,’ said Charles. ‘They were beastly to me.’

Graham said, ‘Without wishing to disrespect the dead, I have to confess that I always felt that my adoptive parents were a little common. It used to pain me that they would have a milk bottle on the table at breakfast.’

He glanced at the coffee tray with its matching cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug, silver apostle spoons and sugar tongs. He approved of the way that the shortcake biscuits had been arranged in a fan shape on the plate.

He said, with growing confidence, ‘I used to wash my face and brush my hair before sitting down to watch the Queen’s Speech on Christmas Day, Your Majesty.’

‘How very nice,’ murmured the Queen.

She bent down to stroke Harris, who growled, ‘Mr Goody Fucking Two Shoes.’

The Queen said, ‘Do I understand that you
work
for a living, Mr Cracknall?’

‘Yes,’ said Graham, apologetically. ‘My adoptive parents thought that a career in health and safety would be… well… safe.’

‘Graham is hiding his light under a bushel,’ said Charles. ‘He’s a world-class tiddlywinks player.’

‘How very interesting,’ said the Queen. She added, ‘The Duke of Edinburgh had a passion for tiddly-winks; I believe he was a member of the Tiddlywinks Federation.’

Over coffee it was arranged that the other members of the Royal Family would meet Graham later that evening at Charles and Camilla’s house, and that they would all be sworn to secrecy.

Dwayne Lockhart, sitting in the dark of the surveillance room, smiled to himself, ‘Ah, bless. Haven’t they realized yet? There
is
no secrecy.’

The Queen said, ‘As you must be aware, Mr Crac-knall, there is to be a general election in less than five weeks. If the New Cons win, they have pledged in their manifesto that the Royal Family, which now includes you, will be reinstated. Not all the electorate will approve of the fact that you were born out of wedlock, and that your existence has been hidden from them. There may be a backlash that will result in us staying here for many more years.’ She picked up Harris and, using him as a buffer against the world, said, ‘I do not want to die in Hell Close, Mr Cracknall.’

Dwayne switched screens and watched Paris Butterworth ironing for half an hour. She did nothing interesting, but Dwayne didn’t mind, he loved her.

Boy English had been informed of Graham’s existence by the editor of
The Oldie
, who in turn had been told by a disgruntled Polish plumber who had worked on a blocked toilet in Sir Nicholas Soames’s London house. Boy immediately accessed
www.hardtopleeze.co.uk
and found Graham’s video. As he watched, Boy saw his election victory running away, like storm water down a drain.

At the daily election-planning meeting he watched the video again. This time with his advisers, although he did not tell them about Graham’s parentage. In the discussion that followed, the advisers were almost united in their condemnation of Graham’s appearance and manner. The sole dissenter was a darkly attractive young woman with a geometric haircut, called Miranda, who said, ‘I think he’s kind of sexy. I go for that nerd look.’

A reptilian-like male colleague, Gary, replied, ‘Yeah, but you get horny watching
Mr Bean
.’

Miranda said angrily, ‘Only once! I was on a plane, I was drunk, there was turbulence, and my face was thrown across your genitals, Gary. The fact that
Mr Bean
was the in-flight movie was entirely coincidental.’

Boy said, ‘Enough! So, say we had to get this guy on our side and then sell him to the electorate, what would we do?’

‘It’s a no-brainer,’ said Gary. ‘We send Miranda fishing, she hauls him in and then we wash, clean, fillet and fry him, dress him up with a bit of lemon and serve him up on a china plate.’

Miranda said, ‘So I’m whoring for the party now, am I?’

Boy said, ‘We’re all whoring for the party, Miranda. The only difference between me and a prostitute is that I work with bigger pricks.’

Miranda asked, ‘So why is Graham the Geek so important to us?’

Boy said, ‘That pathetic gift to the playground bully will win or lose us the election.’

When everyone else had left the room, Miranda asked Boy, ‘Why did you assume I would agree to this Graham entrapment?’

Boy squeezed Miranda’s small breasts and said, ‘You’re a self-proclaimed ladette, Miranda. You’ll do anything for a laugh. You’re amoral, and it’s great to have you on the team.’

Miranda emailed Graham:

Hello Graham,

My name is Miranda. I’m 26, small with dark hair. I’ve got a bubbly personality and share your passion for board games. I have both my feet firmly on the property ladder, as I own my own semi-detached house.

I’m a member of the David Jason fan club, are you? I think
OFAH
is the greatest television show of all time. I am looking for love and companionship

At Gary’s insistence, Miranda finished the email:

I am not sexually permissive, I believe in chastity before marriage. I find the ladette culture abhorrent.

Graham received this message on his laptop in the spare room of Number Sixteen Hell Close. He cried out with delight, and Camilla shouted up the stairs to ask if he was all right. He shouted back that he was perfectly well, and tapped a reply to Miranda.

Graham did not believe in love at first sight; it was just another urban myth, like driving home with a dead relative rolled up in a carpet and tied to the roof rack. But as soon as Miranda had appeared on the screen of his laptop, looking pretty and modest in a floaty white dress, and shielding her eyes against the sun, he knew that she was good wife material.

He peered closely at the photograph on the screen; as far as he could tell she was not wearing red shoes. He emailed her back:

Dear Miranda,

Can we meet? Pressure of work keeps me busy (I am overseeing stepladder disposal), but I will be free on Sunday.

Are you located anywhere near Ruislip? If so, I will prepare the car for a journey (check tyre pressures, brakes, etc.), or of course you could come here (not exactly here, because at the time of writing I am in the East Midlands Region, but you could come to Ruislip). There is a very nice, respectable pub in the vicinity, The Mouse and Cheese, which is frequented by a
respectable crowd, from the golf club mostly. Their clubhouse was burnt down by an aggrieved ex-wife a few years ago.

Please reply stating your preferential arrangement.

Yours in anticipation,

Graham C

The reply came within minutes:

Dear Graham,

The Mouse and Cheese sounds lovely. One o’clock on Sunday.

Best wishes,

Miranda

Graham replied:

Dear Miranda,

One o’clock it is!

The dress code for The Mouse and Cheese is smart casual; most people of both sexes wear Pringle sweaters. I tell you this only to save you possible embarrassment.

How will you get there? Do you need directions?

Yours,

Graham

Miranda said to Gary, ‘Christ! Is this guy anal or what?’

Gary said, ‘Yeah, as sure as Jesus had a hole in his bum.’

In her new persona, Miranda wrote:

Dear Graham,

Please don’t worry about me getting there. But I am very shy, so would you meet me outside? I have never entered a pub on my own before.

Warm wishes,

Miranda

Graham’s heart was touched. He replied:

Dear Miranda,

I will, of course, escort you into The Mouse and Cheese.

With the very warmest of wishes,

G.

Later that night, Miranda was asked to leave a Soho nightclub after performing a lewd dance on the bar, during which one of her red high heels flew off and detached the retina of a barman called Gloria. After vomiting in the minicab on the way home, she sobered up slightly and asked the bewildered Somali driver if he knew how to play snakes and ladders.

Camilla and Charles worked together to prepare the house for their guests. As there was very little food in the pantry, Charles borrowed some money from the Threadgolds, went shopping and bought the ingredients for party snacks.

Dwayne Lockhart was on duty outside Grice’s MiniMarket. Grice had increased the price of bread by ten pence, which meant that customers were now paying one pound for a small white sliced loaf. One of the few things that Grice remembered from his history lessons at school had been that the French Revolution had started with a similar price rise. Dwayne had been posted, together with a taser, to quell any possible uprising by the mob.

When he saw Charles approaching with a wicker shopping basket over his arm, he said, ‘Good morning, sir. I will need to check your wife’s tag later this afternoon. Would four o’clock be convenient?’

Charles wondered why Dwayne’s left eye was opening and closing; had the poor boy developed a nervous habit? Then he realized that Dwayne was winking.

Charles blurted, ‘Yes, four o’clock would be a perfectly splendid time to call, couldn’t possibly be a more convenient hour.’

*

Graham was in the spare bedroom when Dwayne knocked on the front door at precisely four o’clock. He had laid out all the clothes that he had brought with him and was trying to decide what to wear. He had already asked the advice of his parents, but they had not been at all helpful.

Camilla had said, ‘Wear something that you’re comfortable in.’

Charles had said, ‘I doubt if anyone else, apart from Princess Michael of course, will dress up.’

After trying on several ensembles, Graham opted for a pair of his dead adoptive father’s slacks. It was lucky, he thought, they had shared the same waist and inside-leg measurements; it would save him buying clothes for years, providing he didn’t put on any weight. He added a diamond-patterned golfing sweater, worn over a shirt and tie. He had only brought one pair of shoes – a pair of grey slip-ons – so he gave them a polish, and when he checked his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, he was satisfied that he looked clean and tidy.

His adoptive mother had once said to him, ‘You’ll never be Clark Gable, Graham, but at least you can look neat and tidy.’ Graham had not known who Clark Gable was at the time, but later, watching the actor on television, he had been struck by his ears, which were remarkably like Graham’s own.

Dwayne slipped Nicholas Soames’s letter out of his deep trouser pocket, and shoved it under a tapestry cushion in the corner of the sofa. He did more of the winking, and Charles said, ‘Ah! Splendid. I see what you… Yes. Marvellous.’