Barry Toby had declined an invitation to be pampered. He sat in front of the television, eating toast and watching a documentary about the Great Fire of London. An actor in a curly wig and seventeenth-century costume was prancing about pretending to be Samuel Pepys. Rocky lay at Barry’s huge feet. Every now and again Barry would lightly touch the back of Rocky’s bruised head, as if to reassure the dog that he was safe now.
Violet said, ‘I ought to be collecting them toenail clippin’s an’ puttin’ ’em in a box, Liz. They’ll be worth a bit when you’re back in your palace.’
The Queen laughed, ‘You’re welcome to them, Vi. Do you want me to authenticate them?’
Camilla laughed, ‘You’re welcome to mine!’
Violet said, ‘I don’t think anybody’d want your toenail clippin’s, Camilla.’
There was a brief awkward silence; Camilla felt ludicrously hurt that her toenail clippings had been rejected.
The Queen tried to help by changing the subject, saying, ‘It’s terribly exciting about Chanel’s baby, isn’t it?’
Chantelle said, filing the Queen’s toenails with an emery board, ‘I wish it was me, having a baby. I love babies. They’re so squashy and lovely, ain’t they?’
Violet said, ‘I expect you and William will get married one day, then you’ll have your baby.’
Chantelle looked up from the Queen’s feet and said, ‘No, me and Will are just mates. ’E don’t fancy me, an’ I don’t fancy ’im.’
The Queen was relieved. One Toby girl in the family could be assimilated, but two might add rather too many dysfunctional Toby genes to the pool; their propensity for arson, their automatic belligerence when slighted, their vulgar taste in furniture and soft furnishings. She tried to imagine Chantelle and Chanel as chatelaines of Buckingham Palace; she envisioned them shouting at an upholsterer as he clad an antique chaise in leopard skin.
Barry Toby bellowed, ‘Shut the fuck up!’ and turned the television volume up.
A spokeswoman from the Kennel Club was saying, ‘This is England’s darkest hour.’
‘Are we at war?’ asked Chanel nervously.
‘Shurrup!’ shouted Barry, turning the volume up even higher.
A handsome newsreader, familiar and reassuring to them all, told them that the Dog Control Act had been passed by Parliament. The women listened in silence, not daring to antagonize Barry any further. As the full extent of the dog laws was spelt out on screen in the form of graphics and bullet points, the Queen’s spirits sank.
When Barry allowed them to speak again, the Queen said, ‘I shall have to go home. I left the television on for Harris and Susan, they’ll be frightfully scared.’
Violet said, ‘Don’t worry, Liz, they’ll never get our dogs took off us. They’re not that bleedin’ stupid.’
But the Queen did worry. She had known many politicians, and they were that stupid.
When Camilla returned home, manicured and pedicured, Prince Charles made her recount the time spent at Violet Toby’s in Proustian detail. He had not yet talked to his mother about Chanel’s pregnancy, and was avoiding doing so. Camilla assured him that the Queen seemed excited at the prospect of becoming a great-grandmother. Charles was not cheered by the news. He had called round to see Harry and had been horrified at the boy’s attitude. When Charles had accused his son of failing to practise safe sex, Harry had said, ‘I’ve only got one word to say to you, Pa, and that’s Graham!’
Camilla waited until after dinner, when they were sampling a bottle of turnip and beetroot rosé, to tell Charles about the dog control laws. Intoxicated by the startling strength of the wine, Charles kissed the top of her head and said, ‘Another set of laws that will never be implemented. Darling, this is England.’
*
It was the final cabinet meeting after Parliament was dissolved and before the electioneering began. The members of the Cabinet sat around the large polished table, waiting for the Prime Minister, watching the door and speaking in whispers. Few of them expected to keep their parliamentary seats and survive the general election. The Government’s popularity rating was seventeen per cent, an all-time low.
The Chancellor could not stop touching the resignation letter in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He knew he was about to do the right thing and felt a glorious sense of relief that he would soon be out of the whole filthy business. He would live in the countryside with Mitzie, and take her for long walks along what were left of the public footpaths. He would divorce Veronica and marry a jolly, fat woman. He hadn’t met her yet but he saw his second wife in his mind’s eye; she was walking towards him with her dog obediently at heel. She would have a pretty face and laughing eyes, and would invite him back to her cottage for tea and home-made scones.
The Chancellor’s reverie was interrupted when Jack Barker strode into the Cabinet Office with the gunslinger’s walk he had affected since visiting the American President recently.
Taking his seat in the middle of the table, Jack said, ‘We should congratulate ourselves this morning. Last night was a political triumph. We passed two important legislative measures, the Stepladder Act and the Dog Control Act. I realize that some of you are very attached to your…’ Jack paused and looked around the table ‘…stepladders.’ He laughed, ‘But you’ll have to be seen to be getting rid of them, and the same goes for your dogs. We have to lead by example. I want a photo shoot here in Downing Street tomorrow morning. If your dogs are in your constituencies, send a ministerial car. I want them outside here for an eleven o’clock press call.’
The Chancellor asked, ‘And what will happen to our dogs, Prime Minister?’
Jack responded, ‘We’ll send ’em to work on farms… in Canada.’
The Home Secretary asked, ‘Does that also apply to the public’s dogs, Prime Minister?’
Jack said, ‘Canada is a very large country.’
The Cabinet Secretary shuffled his papers agitatedly, anticipating the paperwork, the quarantine, the practical difficulties of shipping tens of thousands of dogs, of feeding them on the journey, and disposing of their faeces. It was forbidden to throw pollutants into the sea.
The Chancellor wondered if he had the energy to stage a coup. The Prime Minister was obviously mad, and he knew that most of the Cabinet would agree with his diagnosis, if he stood up now and denounced Jack. He was almost sure that he could count on their support, but he was worn out himself and uncomfortably aware that the Prime Minister still had supporters in the security forces. He had left it too late; he took out the resignation letter and handed it to Jack. He said, ‘Prime Minister, I can no longer work in this Government.’
The room became quiet; nobody moved or spoke while Jack read the letter.
Jack said, ‘I wish I could say you’d done a good job, Stephen, or that you’ll be missed, but I can’t. You were never more than a fuckin’ number cruncher, and you’ve done nothing to help me counteract the dog terror.’
The Chancellor said, ‘You’ve cracked, Jack. There is no dog terror.’ He looked around the table for support, but nobody would catch his eye.
By late evening he was in his constituency with Mitzie, telling Veronica his career and their marriage were over. She took the news quite well, saying, before she drove away, ‘Thank God! I’ll never have to fake another orgasm again.’
Inspector Lancer was sitting at a computer terminal in his Portakabin office, reading the latest government directive. The Dog Control Act had been passed and ratified by Parliament and was to take effect within four weeks.
Lancer grumbled to Dwayne Lockhart, ‘As if we haven’t got enough to bleedin’ do. I’ll have to take men and women off surveillance and turn ’em into dog enforcement officers now. And where the fuck am I going to set up a dog holding centre?’ He printed the email and handed copies to his colleagues. Dwayne ignored the legal jargon and read the summary. A series of bullet points said:
• All dogs must be licensed (£500 per annum).
• Only one d
og is permitted per household.
• Dogs are not allowed to reside in flats or apartments.
• Licensed dogs must be kept on a lead and muzzled in all public places.
• Dogs are not allowed to bark, howl or whine between the hours of 10 p.m. and 8 a.m.
• Dogs are forbidden to defecate or micturate in any public place.
• Dogs violating the orders will be confiscated.
• All confiscated dogs will be taken to a holding centre to await collection and dispersal to Canada.
To Dwayne’s dismay, Inspector Lancer said, ‘How do you fancy being in charge of dog enforcement, Dwayne?’
Dwayne said, ‘To be honest, sir, I’m not that keen on dogs.’
Lancer said, ‘I’m not that keen on people, Dwayne. But I have to deal with ’em, don’t I? You’ll need protective clothing, a van, muzzles and an assistant, so you’ll be working with WPC Boot. She’s got a bit of a reputation but she’s the only officer I know who could stare a pit bull down.’
Dwayne had heard of WPC Boot; she’d been on medical leave after damaging her back at the security police tug-of-war sports day. He said, ‘It sounds dangerous work.’
Lancer said, ‘Yeah, so make sure your taser is up to scratch. Some of the owners might get stroppy.’
Dwayne said, ‘I don’t think I’m the right man for the job, sir. I’m too soft-hearted.’
Lancer snarled, ‘Butch up, Lockhart, or you and your soft heart will be out on your soft arse.’
WPC Abigail Boot was a strong-jawed, sturdily built policewoman. She was ferociously ambitious and seemed to have no conscience or sensitivity. She took the new job with relish, saying, ‘I’ve never seen the point of dogs, I mean, what are they for? ’
Dwayne thought it only fair that dog owners should be given some warning of the implications of the new laws, and asked WPC Boot to compose a leaflet clearly stating the law and giving a deadline of four weeks.
WPC Boot said, ‘Why give them notice?’
Dwayne said, ‘Where are people going to get five hundred quid for a dog licence? And what about multi-dog households? It’s only kind to allow people time to choose which dog they want to keep.’
WPC Boot said contemptuously, ‘Kind! You should have joined the Sally Army and banged a fuckin’ tambourine. In my book, kindness is another word for weakness, and I despise weakness.’
She set her jaw and, within minutes of sitting at a computer, had composed a draft of the leaflet and had decorated it with line drawings of snarling dogs’ heads that she had downloaded from the Internet. All day the photocopier churned out the leaflets, and by the time Dwayne and Abigail went off duty, the leaflets had been stacked into piles of one hundred, ready for delivery the next morning.
After work, at WPC Boot’s suggestion, she and Dwayne went for a drink outside the Exclusion Zone, in The Clarendon Arms. WPC Boot strode into the pub and leaned a brawny arm on the bar.
‘What’s your poison?’ she asked Dwayne.
Dwayne had never had a drink he could call his own. He hesitated, then said, ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’
She shouted, ‘Two pints of Black and Pickle,’ to the landlord, who was at the far end of the bar trying to extricate himself from the pub bore, who was monologizing about a goal he had witnessed in 1974.
Dwayne wondered what a Black and Pickle was. Two minutes later he was presented with a pint of Guinness in which floated a pickled onion, the size of a small apple.
When he expressed surprise at the unlikely combination, WPC Boot said, ‘I don’t run with the herd.’ She took a bite out of her pickled onion and said, ‘I’ve heard you read books.’
Dwayne nodded and looked away.
‘Subversive books,’ she added quietly.
Dwayne took a careful sip of Guinness, trying to avoid the onion. ‘I read books,’ he admitted, ‘but…’
‘I’ve seen your Vulcan file,’ she whispered. ‘Orwell is on the list.’
‘What list?’ asked Dwayne.
‘The subversive list.’ WPC Boot finished the pickled onion and swilled it down with a deep draught of Guinness. She wiped the foam moustache from her upper lip and said, ‘Best get rid, eh?’
Later that night, Dwayne collected his Orwell titles together, nine in all, and hid them under the floorboards of his studio flat. He hated the gaps on his bookshelves and filled them with a photograph of himself as a child, taken in a time when books did not present a threat.
47
The doorbell had stopped ringing; Camilla heard raised voices at the front door, then Charles, holding a tea towel, came into the kitchen followed by two large men wearing white, hooded, chemical-warfare suits and surgical facemasks. Charles was saying, ‘But they are both terribly healthy.’
The alarming men in the protective suits had come to exterminate Eccles and Moriarty. Avian flu had been reported in Luton; a chicken fancier and his wife were critically ill in an isolation unit in Luton General Hospital. A proclamation had been issued by Vulcan that all domestic backyard, unregistered chickens were to be slaughtered. One of the exterminators showed Charles Vulcan’s instructions: a piece of paper signed ‘Graham Cracknall, Health and Safety Officer’.
Charles had not been able to watch the end, but he hadn’t been able to shut out the panic-stricken squawks or the sound of frantically beating wings. When the men had gone, carrying the birds away in a sealed bag, Camilla made him a cup of camomile tea and said soothing and comforting words to him. Though perhaps it was not a good idea for her to say, ‘Cheer up, darling. Your affection was purely one-sided. Those bloody hens never gave you a single egg.’
Charles had lifted his stricken face and said, ‘It’s hopeless, everything is hopeless. The birds are dying; the weather has turned against us. The icecap is melting. Tesco’s are inheriting the earth and young people born and educated in England cannot speak their own language. I find it in-com-pre-hen-sible that our English young are not taught swathes of Shakespeare as a matter of course. I used to swoon over A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Gordonstoun, and I knew several sonnets off by heart.’
Before he could recite one, Camilla said, ‘More proof of that big brain of yours, darling.’
She left him to his misery and went into the garden. Freddie, Susan and Leo followed her down the path to the empty chicken run. When Camilla was at school, she had thought Shakespeare a ginormous yawn. An egghead boyfriend had taken her to see Lear at Stratford, but it was terribly boring, nobody famous was in it. It was just an old man shouting a lot, and complaining about his daughter. She didn’t know why they had to stick to the old-fashioned language Shakespeare used. And that bit when some chap had his eyes gouged out was terribly amateurish. You could tell the actor was faking it – from the stalls, anyway.
She hadn’t bothered seeing the egghead again. In the interval he’d taken forever to get a drink, and then had completely blown it by telling her he was afraid of horses!
Camilla heard the doorbell ringing again. The dogs looked up at her expectantly, but she didn’t move – she wasn’t ready for whoever was on the doorstep. All she wanted was a quiet moment to smoke a cigarette and think.
Charles shouted, ‘Camilla, you must come, it’s awful. Awful!’
She closed her eyes in irritation and said, under her breath, ‘What now? What fresh hell is this?’
With all three dogs pursuing her, she went back into the house to find Charles, Dwayne Lockhart, and a stolid policewoman Dwayne introduced as WPC Abigail Boot, standing in the sitting room. Charles was clutching a leaflet.
He said, ‘First my hens, and now your dogs.’
He thrust the leaflet into Camilla’s hands. She read it without understanding.
Seeing her confusion, Dwayne said, ‘I’ll leave it with you. It’s a lot to take in at the moment.’
Abigail Boot said, ‘It’s quite simple. You’ve got three dogs. The law allows you to keep one, ergo, two have got to go.’
She looked
down at Freddie, Tosca and Leo. All three were growling and baring their teeth. WPC Boot’s hand went to the taser in its holster on her hip; the dogs retreated behind the sofa.
Dwayne couldn’t wait to get out. ‘Take your time choosing,’ he said, as though Charles and Camilla were indecisive children at the pick ’n’ mix counter.
‘How much time do we have?’ asked Camilla.
‘You have four weeks to turn two of your dogs in voluntarily,’ said WPC Boot.
‘And if we refuse?’ asked Charles.
‘We confiscate all three,’ replied Boot.
As she headed for the front door, Dwayne mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
Leo whimpered to Freddie and Tosca, ‘I’m too young to die.’
‘And I’m too old,’ snapped Freddie.
‘And I’m too afraid,’ howled Tosca.
After a visit from PC Lockhart and WPC Boot, the Toby household was in uproar. Barry had taken Rocky up to his bedroom and barricaded the two of them in while continuing to bellow, ‘Rocky ain’t goin’ nowhere!’
Violet sobbed on the sofa, holding Micky in her arms, imploring Chantelle and Chanel to make Barry see sense and turn Rocky in to the authorities. Violet kissed Micky’s grizzled head and cried, ‘This dog ’as meant more to me than any man. I ain’t ’ad to wash an’ iron for’ im. An’ ’e ain’t fussy what ’e eats neither.’
Next door the Queen was sitting with Harris and Susan on her lap. She had read the leaflet aloud to the dogs several times. She looked from one to the other; she couldn’t imagine life without either of them. The only thing she could say was, ‘But this is England, England.’