Laura notes to Henry that every woman in sight wears either a hat or a fascinator.
“See? You didn’t believe me.”
She says to Sukhjit, who is wearing neither, “You’re the only one with any courage.”
“Oh, I go my own way,” says Sukhjit. “No one tells me how to dress.”
“Guess how much my outfit cost?” says Joan. “One hundred pounds! Cheap as chips! Hat thrown in for nothing!”
They stand looking back toward the palace. The stream of guests has never ceased. Everyone carries an umbrella, but the afternoon is warm and there are patches of blue in the sky. The palace from this side is pretty, more varied than the severe face it presents to the front. Scaffolding covers up the South Wing.
“You must bag a table, Jaspal,” Sukhjit tells her husband. “We’ll get tea.”
Though the number of guests is growing larger all the time, the great lawn doesn’t feel crowded. The sound of the Guards band mingles with the buzz of voices and the far-off hum of London’s traffic. The guests are mostly middle-aged or elderly, but beyond that there seems to be no common denominator. Different accents, different skin colors, different styles of dress, but all with the same look on their faces, which is a kind of shy excitement.
They stand in line for tea. Henry, looking around at his fellow guests, tries to identify what it is that makes this immense gathering so unexpectedly pleasing. Then it strikes him that this is a party without cliques. The guests are forming small clusters, as they themselves have done, but the single factor that unites everyone here is that they are all in an unknown place among unknown people. Most assemblies are dominated by an elite core of insiders. Here all are outsiders. The soldiers flaunt their rank, the bishops their grandeur, but it’s all to no avail. Lacking the usual retinues, every guest is reduced or elevated to the same level. This party hosted by a queen, staged in a palace, is an exercise in egalitarianism.
Suddenly the tea is before them. The queues are shorter than expected, because there are so many of them: perhaps as many as fifty tea stations, stretching away on either side. Henry is handed a rectangular dish that serves as both plate and saucer, and asked to choose tea or lemonade. He selects his own cakes.
“You can have as much as you want,” says Joan, who sent for the DVD on the palace garden parties and so knows the form. “So long as you can keep it on the plate.”
Henry chooses a raspberry tartlet, a coffee eclair, an egg finger sandwich, a salmon-and-cream-cheese roll, a slice of fruitcake, and a square of chocolate mousse that has the royal crest on top. He feels like a child again.
“Oh, Henry,” says Laura. “Honestly!”
As they eat their tea a column of Yeomen of the Guard appear, marching with an odd lurching gait between the guests like extras in a comic operetta. Henry is on the point of making a joke about them when Joan says, “They’re holding ground. That’s what it’s called.”
“It’s all a sort of a show, isn’t it?” says Henry. “We’re the audience.”
He doesn’t say it with a sneer. On the contrary, he feels a kind of gratitude.
“Joan and Peter saw a show,” says Laura. “What did you see?”
“Jersey Boys,” says Joan. “We left at the interval.”
“That was sixty quid down the plughole,” says Peter.
Now men in top hats and morning suits are passing among the guests, issuing polite instructions.
“The Gentlemen at Arms,” says Joan.
They wear ties in dark blue and maroon stripes, with red carnations in their buttonholes, and they carry long rolled umbrellas.
“Wonderful!” It’s all beyond parody. “Why isn’t this ridiculous?” Henry whispers to Laura.
“Of course it’s ridiculous,” says Laura. “But it’s wonderful too.”
The Gentlemen at Arms are nudging the crowds to form two broad lanes across the lawns. Henry and Laura find themselves in the left-hand lane until Joan rescues them.
“That’s the Duke of Edinburgh’s lane. Come over here. You want to be in the Queen’s lane.”
The Gentlemen at Arms loiter up and down the open lanes, chatting to the guests, twirling their rolled umbrellas, smiling. Watching them, Henry is charmed. They don’t take themselves seriously at all. One of them catches his eye and winks.
The guest beside him points to the Gentlemen at Arms and says, “See the ones in the big shoes? They’re policemen.” On the facing side of the lane two lads in RAF uniform are being quizzed by one of the Gentlemen. The national anthem starts to play. The soldiers in the crowd stand to the salute. Far away, on the curving terrace, there appears a tiny figure in blue.
“That’s her,” says Joan.
28
The trick to a job like this is you don’t hang around. No lurking in lay-bys for dog walkers to find. There’s no hiding places any more, everywhere is somebody’s drive or parking place. So you act like you’ve got nothing to hide and no one asks any questions and you get in and get out fast.
Dean drives his old van out of Lewes down the A27 and off at the roundabout into Edenfield. Then it’s first right at the shop and right again down the lane and there it is, just like Terry said, with a short gravel drive and a big chimney stack on one side.
Your heart rate’s up, that’s natural. Got to stay sharp. You’re allowed to drive up to someone’s front door, no law against that. Everything you’re doing this afternoon is legal except for maybe five fast minutes, but those five minutes are where you show what you’ve got. Mad Mac, the joker of Camp Hill Borstal, said we should get a medal every time. All Mac ever did was sheds but he was a laugh. It takes a hero, Mac said.
Dean pulls the van up by the front door like he owns the place. According to Terry the owners are out for the day but you never know till you check. Gloves on, a giveaway on a summer’s day, but who’s looking? From now on no mistakes, touch nothing you’re not taking with you, leave nothing behind.
Mission on.
Dean jumps briskly out of the van, strides to the front door, rings the bell. Cover story ready, on the tip of his tongue, “Delivery for Manor House,” which is not the name of the property, so if someone answers the door they give you directions, you thank them and you get the hell out. But no one answers. You ring again. Don’t rush it. Big house, maybe someone in the garden at the back, shuffling toward the summons of the bell.
He rings a third time, hopping from foot to foot. Like a fucking footballer waiting for the whistle.
Okay. Let’s go. Do this right, Deanie. You’re doing this for Sheena. Don’t fuck it up, kid. Get the motor out of sight in case the owners come back while you’re inside.
He reverses the van out of the drive, down the lane, pulls up by a farm gate. Grabs his tool bag, jumps out of the van, jogs back to the house. No pissing about, straight round the side through a gate into the garden behind. Senses super alert, eyes wide, ears pricked, round onto a broad brick terrace with garden table and chairs, gas barbecue, giant furled umbrella. Nice place, big garden, worth a million and counting, people like this can afford to share a little of what they’ve got. We’re all human beings, all got just the one mouth for eating. What makes them deserve so much when you’ve got so little? Just luck is all. Some get lucky, others get fucked. So what you going to do about it, Deanie boy? Nobody going to stand up for you if you don’t stand up for yourself.
I’m doing this for you, Sheena.
French windows at the back like Terry said. Could be bolts top and bottom as well as the door latch. He puts down his bag. He’s got a heavy chisel, a felt-wrapped mallet, a can of spray foam to mute the alarm bell, a can of spray smoke to check for infrared beams. He’s ready for the alarm to go off, but a place like this no one comes running, takes the police half an hour to show up, assuming they even bother. So you let the alarm ring, you get on with the job, and that takes a fucking freezer-load of cool, pal. Easy money this is not.
He tries the French windows and what do you know? Unlocked
. Come on in, Dean. Make yourself at home. So what does that tell you? Someone’s in. But no one answered the doorbell. So someone just popped out for five minutes, didn’t bother to lock up and set the alarm. Someone will be back soon.
Dean feels his first real tremor of fear. Getting caught is not an option. If they put me back inside I’ll top myself, I swear to God. Don’t give up on me, Sheena. Just this one job and I’ll buy you a ring you’ll be proud to wear.
For Sheena. For our future together. To show I’m not a loser all the way. It takes a fucking hero, and the rest. Ask Brad. He’s been there.
Dean enters the house. From this moment on he is without doubt breaking the law. But what is this law? It’s the iron rule that says the unlucky go on losing and the winners take it all. How are you supposed to fight against that? How about some law that says it’s the losers who need a hand? The guy who owns this place doesn’t need a hand. He’s got no worries. He’s the big man, the police don’t stop and search his car every time he drives by just in case he’s not insured. He’s so fucking insured you could burn his house down and he’d get it all back.
What you do now is float like a butterfly. That’s Mad Mac again. When you go in you touch nothing, your feet don’t touch the ground, you’re a fairy, you’re Tinkerbell. Move fast, touch nothing, make no mess.
Dean heads for the hall, listening for any sounds, hearing only the pad of his own trainers on the carpet. Up the stairs to the first-floor landing, bag unopened in his hand.
Booma-booma-booma. Just his own heart beating time. Nothing else stirring. So many doors! How many bedrooms does this house have?
Dean is looking for the master bedroom. No messing about with TVs and music systems, you can’t unload that crap any more, not even in a car-boot sale. People only want new stuff these days. What you want is the easy-to-carry high-value goods, which means jewelry, which means the dressing table in the master bedroom.
Two doors later and he’s in. There’s a big bed and wide window looking over the garden and the river valley. A wall of wardrobes, a door to a bathroom, a dressing table.
He puts down his bag, draws a slow breath to steady himself. This is where you have to be cool. No frantic rummaging. Take your time, which is all of thirty seconds. Use your brain.
So I can’t read and I’m thick as fuck but hey Brad, watch this. I guarantee you I’ll go straight to the jackpot.
He stands gazing at the dressing table. A line of bottles and little pots, a box of tissues, a magnifying mirror on a stand, hairbrushes, hairdryer, a stone saucer full of random items, nail scissors, buttons, hairpins. And a pretty octagonal wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Hello Dean, says the pretty box. Open me.
He lifts the lid. Inside it’s lined with pale blue silk and divided into little compartments, and in most of the compartments there are earrings. But in one compartment there’s something else. Something that says to Dean that his luck is turning.
He picks it up to look at it more closely. It’s a gold ring with a ruby. The ruby is smooth, a little dull on the surface, but there’s a deep light beneath. The gold setting is a nest of little leaves. It’s old, anyone can see that, and it’s beautiful. Not flashy, just quietly confidently classy. Dean knows as soon he sees it that this is a ring Sheena will love.
The crunch on gravel of a car pulling up outside. Fuck. He puts the ring in one pocket, closes the inlaid box, picks up his bag.
The front door opens. Footsteps, voices. His mouth goes dry. He hears a pounding in his head.
Don’t move. Just don’t move.
They’re coming up the stairs, two of them. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. The bedroom door opens and closes. He can hear the sound of their voices, the words muffled by the closed door. His face is cold as ice but he’s sweating, the sweat trickling over his lips.
Music starts playing.
You can do this, brother, and you know why? Because it’s a job. That’s all it is. So there’s a hundred guns and they’re all pointing your way, the worst that can happen is you die. Live or die, it’s all one. You do what you do.
What do you say, Brad? We get this show on the road.
Dean stays motionless as the music plays. The volume rises, bass and drums join the intro guitar. He starts to move. Every step brings him closer to danger, but he has no choice. At the open door of the master bedroom he can now identify the room the music’s coming from, and assure himself that its door is closed. He wants to run, but forces himself to move slowly, softly. Across the landing. Down the stairs. The music still playing as he enters the living room.
The French windows open with a rattle. Now he’s outside, drawing the door closed behind him.
Don’t look back. They may be at the window, watching him. Nothing to be done about that. Fast over the terrace, round the house, then slow over the gravel. Running footsteps always a giveaway.
Stroll, stroll, Deanie boy, stroll. Don’t look like a fucking thief now. Only a hundred yards or so to the van. No one shouting after you. No one following.
He swings his bag onto the passenger seat, climbs into the driving seat, starts up the van. His hands are shaking as he makes a three-point turn, grinds back down the lane past the house, and there’s still no sign anyone’s noticed anything.
The shaking goes on all the way to the main road. Only when he’s in the tunnel does he start to feel safe. Then all the way through town to home the sensation builds.
I did it. For once I got lucky.
On Stansfield Road there’s even a space to park right outside the house. He checks the time. Almost four o’clock. He picks up his tools and takes them with him into the house. There in the bright conservatory he throws himself down on the couch and feels the blood still pounding through him. A wave of exhaustion leaves him too weak even to get himself a drink. Now that he’s safe his body admits how frightened he was.
So fucking what? I did it. I nearly pissed myself, but I did it.
The original plan has not come off. He had expected by now to be on his way to Brighton, to offload a pocketful of jewels for cash. Instead, he’s got the one and only thing he wanted, the perfect ring for Sheena. It has to be meant. It’s like he’s kept his promise to Sheena after all. Thieving is when you take stuff and sell it for money. This is more like a passing on. The ring’s old, someone had it before, now it passes on to Sheena. The owner in Edenfield makes an insurance claim, she gets her money back. No one loses.
He takes the ring out of his pocket and gazes at it for a long time. It’s a beauty. Sheena will adore it. He’ll tell her he’s been saving up, that he bought it with money from the odd jobs he’s been getting, and that’s not a total lie. He’s worked for it. He took big risks, he stayed steady when he could have panicked, he made all the right moves. You deserve a reward after all that.
I didn’t do it for me, Sheena. I did it for you. I told you I’d come good one day.
He jumps up, suddenly re-energized, and finds Brad with the rest of the squad, back in the fort. He takes Brad out and shows him the ruby ring.
Brad doesn’t care shit about rubies, but he knows a good job when he sees it. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. No need to tell the world. All you need is one good mate who knows what it takes to do what you do. Then you get back from the mission and you look him in the eye and he gives you a nod and that’s it.
“Who dares wins, right, Brad?”
29
The Queen’s progress down the lane walled by guests is slow and hushed. As she goes, little groups of guests are drawn out at random to stand in the open and receive her royal attention. The two RAF lads and their partners are among the chosen ones.
The royal party is preceded by security men in morning suits, their function made clear by the way they look everywhere except backward toward the Queen. Then the Queen herself comes into view, accompanied by a tall man with crinkly brown hair, who stoops beside her, briefing her in a low voice. The Queen wears a peacock-blue cr
epe coat and a white high-brimmed straw hat. She has a triple string of pearls round her neck and a spray of pearls on her lapel. She wears white gloves and black patent-leather shoes. In one hand she clasps a clear plastic umbrella. She’s a little stooped, her legs a little bent. She is after all a very old lady.
Laura and Henry watch as the Queen talks to the RAF lads. They hear nothing of the exchange. Henry is experiencing ever greater levels of confusion. He had expected to feel what he has always professed, a genial sense of the absurd at the pantomime of monarchy. Instead he finds himself touched. This dutiful old lady is playing this dull and repetitive part with grace and professionalism. She allows us, who know nothing of her, to cast her in our dreams and to fulfill whatever needs we have of her, without the interference of any clearly defined self on her part. What discipline must it have taken, for so many years, to retain this formlessness?
After the royal party has passed, Joan hurries over to the RAF lads to find out what the Queen said to them.
“She said her grandson’s at Valley,” they say. They are based at Valley. “Never tells her what he’s up to, she said.”
They marvel that the Queen should be just like any other granny. The lads’ partners give a detailed account of the Queen’s make-up. Lots of foundation, blusher, mascara.
Henry asks the young men if they’ve done a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
“Coming up soon,” they say. “There’s a right mess. None of us know what’s the point of the war. Don’t even know who you’re fighting.”
“Oh, I do envy you,” says Joan, meaning the Queen.
“Yeah. It were brilliant.”
Waiters bring round Loseley lemon ice-cream tubs on trays.
“Now this is an initiative test,” says Jaspal. “See if you can find the spatula.”