Bunion gestured towards the covered dishes stacked on Prince Philip’s bedside trolley. ‘He’s not been eatin’,’ he said, ‘and I don’t think ’e’s ’ad anything to drink either. We’ve been in a right pickle.’
As the Queen was trying to get her husband to drink from a glass of water, Bunion wheeled himself away and sat by the window, looking out.
He said, ‘I might as well do the country a favour and top myself. Nobody wants me, nobody would miss me, I’m just a bloody nuisance. It’s a crime to be old in this country an’ I’m bein’ punished for it.’
The Queen said, ‘I’m here now, Mr Bunion, and I’m deeply grateful to you for trying to help my husband.’
Bunion said, ‘I don’t hold with the monarchy, but he is a human being.’
The Queen was ridiculously grateful for Bunion’s acknowledgement of her husband’s humanity, and was moved to say, ‘Perhaps when the lift is mended, one of my grandsons could push you to the library.’
Bunion nodded his thanks and stared out at an England he no longer recognized.
When Harris recovered his faculties, he was a changed dog. There was no perceptible difference between the old Harris and the new, but the electric shock he had received to his system had charged him up and clarified his brain.
As he said to Susan, shortly after struggling off the sofa and testing the strength in his legs, ‘I’m fired up, Susan. I’m only a wee Dorgie but I’m nae taking this anti-dog rubbish lying down.’
Susan whimpered, ‘You almost got yourself killed, Harris. Dinna stir the waters.’
Harris barked, ‘I’m calling a meeting. I want every dog on the Flowers Estate to be there.’
Susan yelped, ‘Every dog? What about our enemies?’
Harris barked, ‘Our enemies are human, not canine.’
Because he didn’t really trust his legs to hold him up yet, he climbed the stairs slowly, stopping every now and then to catch his breath. I’m getting old, he thought. He flattened himself and squirmed underneath the Queen’s bed, and in that quiet, dark space he began to think. When the Queen came looking for him, she dropped to her knees and tried to coax him out with a fresh scone she had baked for him as a special treat.
He growled, ‘Please, can ye nae leave me be, woman?’
The Queen struggled to her feet and said to Susan, who was at her side, ‘Our boy is beginning to look his age, Susan.’
When they had gone downstairs, Harris made himself as comfortable as he could in the restricted space and began to plan his revolution.
35
There was an air of celebration the next morning when the residents of Hell Close awoke to find that the barrier at the entrance to the close had been dismantled and they were now able to come and go as they pleased within the Flowers Estate. Camilla watched the perambulations of the residents: William driving the pick-up truck on his way to work, the children going to school, then later still Maddo Clarke setting off for the betting shop. Chantelle waved as she ran to her work at Frank Bruno House.
Camilla longed to leave the house. ‘I’m not an indoor person,’ she said to Beverley Threadgold, who had come round to enquire about Harris’s health.
Beverley seemed almost disappointed when she was told that Harris was ‘a bit quiet and thoughtful, but otherwise quite well’. She sighed; she’d been hoping for a poignant burial service in the Queen’s back garden. It would have been something to get dressed up for.
Arthur Grice had been called to Grice-A-Go-Go to settle a dispute between two dancers over a stolen thong. Normally Sandra would have seen to such a trivial incident, but she was busy with arrangements for his investiture, and so Arthur had gone himself. He was confronted in the club by two angry young women, each accusing the other of thong theft. Arthur quickly solved the problem by sacking both dancers. He wouldn’t have to worry about replacing them; there was always a waiting list of new girls willing to writhe about on men’s laps for a few hours a day. The money was good and Arthur hardly ever touched the girls up himself.
As he was leaving the club, he saw Princess Michael, a woman he had always admired, coming towards him with Zsa-Zsa in one arm and a bag of shopping on the other. Princess Michael was enormously flattered when Arthur Grice put a business proposition to her. He was conscious that, though his wife was still, at forty-one, hot totty, she was not a lady. Arthur worried that Sandra would not be able to hold her own when they began to mix with the upper echelons of East Midlands Region society. He’d once taken her on a world cruise, thinking it would give her something to talk about at the parties they gave, but she had not been impressed by the wonders of the world.
On seeing Sydney Harbour Bridge she had said, ‘That reminds me, I must ask the steward for some more coat hangers.’ Her verdict on Venice had been, ‘Time they came up to date, filled in them canals and built some fuckin’ roads,’ and her opinion on Rome, ‘It could be nice if they done up all them fallen-down buildings.’
It wasn’t that she was thick – she could add up a column of figures in a flash, and she understood business. Sandra was the only person Arthur knew who took any notice of the Dow Jones index. And she was a walking encyclopedia when it came to beauty products. But she had certain habits that he was sure would not go down too well at the functions they were bound to attend as Sir Arthur and Lady Grice. Picking her teeth with a sharpened matchstick at the end of a meal was one. Telling people how much her breasts had cost was another.
He waylaid Princess Michael and Zsa-Zsa outside Grice-A-Go-Go and said, ‘Princess Michael, ’ow ’bout a lift home in the Roller?’
‘Oh, this is heavenly,’ Princes Michael gushed as she sank back into the leather of the front passenger seat. ‘One so misses the privileges that come with rank.’
Rocky growled a greeting to Zsa-Zsa from the back seat and she yapped back, ‘Bonjour, mon ami. Is zat a new collar you are wearing? Zose studs are très butch.’
Rocky dipped his huge Dobermann head modestly and growled, ‘Arthur bought it for my birthday.’
During the short drive to Hell Close, Arthur outlined his business plan. He was going to open a school of etiquette and modern manners, and he wanted Princess Michael to run it for him. ‘I’d make it worth your while,’ he said.
He reckoned she was the classiest of the Royals; she always looked like a princess in her diamonds and bits and bobs of fur. The other Royals were scruffy buggers; even the Queen had let herself go. She rarely wore a hat and the only time he’d seen her in gloves lately was in the garden. Arthur had witnessed her on CCTV, grubbing in the dirt like a commoner.
Princess Michael said, ‘What aspects of modern manners have you in mind?’
‘For instance,’ Arthur said, ‘is it right or wrong to answer your mobile phone when you’re on the lavvy? An’ ’ow many times can you say “fuck” in a sentence without causing offence? An’ when my girls are lap dancin’, is it good manners to take their thongs off or keep ’em on?’
Princess Michael was taken aback at first; she had thought that the students would be seeking guidance on the finer points of fish-knife use, or how to address a baronet. However, a job was a job. She was desperately short of money, and Zsa-Zsa needed a new coat before winter came.
‘I accept your proposal, Mr Grice,’ she said.
‘Right,’ said Grice, ‘I’ll get some cards printed up. How does “The Princess Michael Academy” sound to you?’
‘It sounds rather splendid,’ she said.
‘You can start with my wife, Sandra,’ said Grice. ‘She’s a wonderful woman, but she’s got a few rough edges.’
Princess Michael had seen Sandra Grice on the estate and thought her the epitome of trailer trash.
‘’Ow long d’ya reckon it’ll take you to turn ’er into a lady?’ asked Grice anxiously. His investiture was to take place within the week and he wanted to start off on the right foot.
‘I’m afraid one has to be born to it,’ said Princess Michael, then seeing Grice’s
crestfallen face added, ‘but give me a week and you’ll hardly know it’s the same woman.’
When he stopped the car outside her house he said, ‘Ta-ra, then,’ and waited for her to get out, but she sat there with her head on one side, smiling like that Mona Whatsit picture.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘I’m waiting for you to open the car door for me, you ungallant fellow,’ she laughed.
Grice heaved himself out of the car and lumbered around to the passenger door and opened it with a flourish. He couldn’t wait to do the same for Sandra.
Later that night, after returning from Grice-A-Go-Go, where he and Sandra had been meeting with their accountants, Grice said, as he drew the car up to the front door of the Old Mill, ‘Sit there, babe, I’ll get the door for you.’
Sandra said, ‘I ain’t a fuckin’ cripple. I can open me own bleedin’ door.’
She slammed out of the car and strode across the gravel in her white cowboy boots.
Grice turned to Rocky and said, ‘I love her to bits, Rocky, but if she don’t come up to scratch I’ll have to trade her in for an upmarket model.’
Later still, as he swilled brandy inside a balloon glass as big as a toddler’s head, he noticed that more rubbish had collected in the stream under the glass floor.
Sandra and her mother had gone to bed; there was nobody to talk to apart from Rocky. The dog hoped that Grice wouldn’t keep him up too late. He was tired and wanted to settle into his basket and go to sleep. When Grice slurred, ‘Rocky, have I ever told you how poor we was when I was a kid?’ Rocky’s heart sank; it was going to be a long night.
36
Graham had never visited an Exclusion Zone before. When the taxi bringing him from the station drew up at the outer perimeter checkpoint, he hesitated before he got out of the car. The driver said, ‘Changed your mind? I wun’t blame you. They’re animals in there.’
They looked out of the car windows at the steel fence with its topping of razor wire. A clematis had insinuated itself around the jagged steel teeth.
‘That’s a montana,’ said the driver, ‘late flowering, with a very vigorous habit.’
Graham said, ‘It should be cut down. It’s growing in an entirely unsuitable position. If anybody tried to prune it they could cut themselves to ribbons.’
Pulling his wheeled suitcase behind him, he approached the checkpoint. Inspector Lancer poked his head out of a hatch in the control room and checked Graham’s visiting order, saying, ‘Four days for a risk assessment?’
‘I’m very thorough,’ said Graham, who wasn’t exactly lying. He was spoken about in the profession as the risk assessor’s risk assessor: regarded by the Young Turks of the profession as a ruthless enforcer of the health and safety laws. He had once appeared on the regional news, defending the local authority’s decision to cut down some ancient horse chestnut trees because of the inherent dangers they presented to young children who, despite warning notices, continued to throw sticks into the upper branches in their quest for conkers. As Graham said, ‘Somebody could lose an eye.’
Inspector Lancer examined Graham’s ID card and tapped the registration number into the computer. After a few seconds Graham’s details came up on the screen. Lancer was interested to see that Graham suffered from frequent urinary tract infections and that he had purchased the latest James Blunt CD the previous day at HMV in Ruislip at 11.57 a.m.
‘I’m partial to James Blunt,’ said Lancer. ‘Is his new album as inspiring as the last?’
Graham said, ‘It exceeds his previous canon; it’s a spiritual experience par excellence,’ adding, ‘I’m glad to know that at least some of Vulcan’s software is working.’
He spoke as one professional to another. Vulcan was a standing joke among those who had access to the system.
Lancer said, laughing, ‘You’d have been amused yesterday. Vulcan sent every pensioner in Coventry a death certificate with their name on it.’
Graham acknowledged Vulcan’s stupidity by drawing his lips apart, like curtains in a theatre. It was not quite a smile, but Lancer was satisfied and waved Graham through.
As Graham walked towards Hell Close, he noted various hazards on the way: a tree with an overhanging branch, numerous cracked paving slabs, and evidence everywhere of lax attention to the health and safety laws. Cars were jacked up on bricks, there was a man up a ladder, and a child without a safety helmet was sitting astride a tricycle. As he turned the corner of Honeysuckle Avenue, he encountered Dwayne Lockhart who had been ordered to stop and search at least five people an hour.
Having read the correspondence that had passed between Graham and his blood parents, Dwayne felt as though he knew Graham. However, he remained outwardly detached and processed Graham’s documents efficiently, even curtly, though he could not resist the temptation to make Graham feel uncomfortable. There was something about the man that made Dwayne’s flesh crawl. It wasn’t only that Graham was an ubergeek, it was that he brought out Dwayne’s inner bully and made him ashamed of himself.
‘So, why are you residing with Mr and Mrs Windsor for four days?’ he asked Graham brusquely.
Graham had his answer ready. ‘I am preparing a dossier on the health and safety aspects of a possible return to a monarchical system,’ he said, ‘with particular emphasis on the potential risks of the future monarch and his consort abusing their powers, should Mr Windsor accede to the throne.’
Dwayne looked at his hand-held computer screen and asked, ‘What did you do with Gin and Tonic?’
Graham was taken aback at first. How did this young mixed-race policeman know the names of his dogs? He didn’t remember giving this information to Vulcan, or to anybody in authority.
‘Gin and Tonic are staying at the Excelsior Dog Hotel,’ said Graham.
After he had been searched and was found to be free of weapons, explosives, tobacco and drugs, Dwayne directed Graham to Charles and Camilla’s house. Dwayne then amused himself by processing other information about Graham that he had gleaned from the geek’s ID card.
Graham didn’t like cabbage, he bought a lot of black shoe polish, and he last went to the doctor’s complaining about a ‘funny feeling’ in his index finger. He had informed the doctor that the feeling went off at night, but was painful during the day. He had recently inherited one hundred and twelve thousand pounds, following the death of his parents. When he was twelve years old, he had received a police caution for throwing an apple core into a neighbour’s garden. He subscribed to Board Game Enthusiast and Risk magazines. He had tried unsuccessfully to cancel his mother’s subscription to Dog World.
When Graham had gone, Dwayne said to himself, I wonder if Vulcan knows that I love Paris Butterworth?
Graham’s trolley suitcase made so much noise as he trundled it along the uneven pavement of Hell Close that people came to their windows. Graham had not warned his parents that he was coming; he wanted to give them a delightful surprise. As he approached their house he was conscious of coming to a major crossroads in his life. He opened the little gate and walked up the short path, passing an extraordinary structure that seemed to be some kind of facility for birds. Graham saw at a glance that all it would take to topple it would be a strong wind and the weight of an unusually large bird.
Graham knocked on the front door, then wiped his hands on his trousers. He had once overheard one of his colleagues say, ‘Shaking hands with Graham Cracknall is like trying to revive a dead fish.’ He heard dogs barking and a woman shouting. He arranged his face in what he imagined was a friendly expression. What Camilla saw when she opened the door was a badly dressed, early-middle-aged man with jug ears and lopsided features. She knew that this was her son.
‘Rory?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s Graham.’
Camilla said, ‘Of course, it’s Graham. Please, do come in.’
She couldn’t think of anything much to say; a huge conversational chasm opened up. Graham proved to be extraordinarily difficult to talk to
. An enquiry about how he got there was met with the answer, ‘Train and taxi.’ Asked if he enjoyed the journey, he said, ‘No,’ without elaborating. Charles, who often said to Camilla that he could do a PhD on small talk, soon gave up the struggle. Camilla battled gamely on. She sensed that Graham was overwhelmed by the unique circumstances.
‘We much enjoyed your video,’ she said. ‘Did you ever get to meet that bubbly girl you were looking for?’
Graham said, ‘No.’
He felt sick with disappointment. He hadn’t expected his parents to fall on his neck and weep over their long-lost son, but neither had he thought that they would greet him with such restrained politeness. And look at them! He was prepared for the fact that they would not be formally dressed, but… the pair of them looked like those scruffy types who toiled at the allotments behind his bungalow.
Camilla excused herself as soon as decency allowed and fled upstairs to prepare the spare bedroom for Graham. She had been horrified to learn that he intended to stay for four long days and three long nights. How on earth would they fill all those hours? And how would they feed him? They had absolutely no money left, and the only meat in the house was dog food. Perhaps she could add curry paste and chilli powder to a tin of Pedigree Chum?
She sat on the bare mattress with the clean sheets on her lap, and tried to compose herself. The training she had received at Mont Fertile, the Swiss finishing school, drummed in her mind. As the hostess, you must do anything to make your guest feel at ease.
She heard Freddie coming up the stairs and when he trotted into the room she said, quietly, ‘Oh dear, Freddie darling, what do you think of Graham?’
Freddie barked, ‘Confucius said, “After three days, fish and visitors stink.” ’
Camilla patted Freddie’s back, saying, ‘I wish you could talk to me, Freddie.’
Later that night, over an improvised supper of curried frankfurters, borrowed from the Threadgolds, and homegrown root vegetables, Charles and Camilla made a concerted effort to get to know their son. An aperitif of parsnip wine had loosened Graham’s tongue; he had monologued for ten full minutes on the health and safety laws in Estonia – there weren’t any.