The Queen raised her eyebrows. ‘Even better.’
‘In that case,’ she nodded towards Julian, ‘we should invite Jenkins and his band to Braemar.’
‘The massed bands, ma’am?’ enquired her secretary.
‘Yes,’ she replied. Before saying uncertainly, after a moment, ‘No.’
Then, responding to Julian’s enquiring expression, ‘I’d like to put him in the spotlight, so to speak, just for a short while.’
Julian pondered for a moment before suggesting, ‘You could give him a solo.’
‘Splendid.’
‘Is there anything in particular you’d like him to play?’
Her Majesty thought about this for a while, frowning in contemplation, before Huchens volunteered: ‘A Scottish Soldier?’
She considered this briefly, before shaking her head.
‘Scotland the Brave,’ Julian offered, somewhat obviously.
It was a moment before she looked up, first at Julian and then her security chief. ‘Under the circumstances, I think it should be Amazing Grace.’
CHAPTER 6
You may very well be wondering by now if there are any limits to the Queen’s patience when it comes to her corgis. Not only did she observe my incontinence without comment. She shrugged off the worst security breach in several years—one caused by my impetuous behaviour—as though it was of little consequence. And you will have noticed that not a sharp word was spoken, even when I humped the Archbishop of Canterbury’s leg.
Is there nothing, you may very well ask, capable of provoking Her Majesty’s wrath?
Let me assure you, my fellow subject, that even though the Queen is a model of restraint and forbearance, she is mostly definitely human. Possessing the firm expectation that others will act in accord with their highest purpose, there are certain things guaranteed to incur her disapproval, as I learnt on the day of the garden party.
There is always a decided frisson at Buckingham Palace in the lead-up to a garden party. Even though the Queen entertains regularly . . . involving everything from receiving her prime minister each Wednesday evening to hosting banquets for visiting heads of state . . . garden parties have a particular quality to them. Perhaps it is the outdoor setting, away from the pomp of red carpets, gilded chairs and crystal chandeliers. No doubt it also has to do with the kinds of people who attend—not the rich and titled, but rather a wide cross-section of people from Britain, the Commonwealth and even further afield. Almost all of them tend to be bitzers.
There is an informality about such events. A spontaneity far removed from the carefully scripted speeches of most public events. For this very reason, those who were comfortable in their own coats—like Winston—welcomed the opportunity to mix and mingle. But those who feared what might happen when members of the public were given free access to palace grounds and certain public rooms—like Margaret—became increasingly anxious.
For weeks leading up to the event, she would raise her snout with an air of foreboding, as though, at this very minute, hawk-faced trade union leaders in smoke-filled cellars were plotting their raids on the dessert trolleys. Whenever Julian, Her Majesty’s secretary, brought up the subject of the impending garden party at morning briefings, Margaret would lift her head from the Persian rug, lips quivering, to reveal her bared teeth.
On one of our daily walks, I somewhat naively asked Margaret what she had against garden parties. Her expression turned very severe as she spoke of things well beyond my comprehension. Eyes bulging and saliva flecking the sides of her mouth, it was clear that she felt very strongly about the matter. Her diatribe only came to an end when I asked her about a phrase she’d used. It had a pleasant sounding rhyme to it, but I knew from the way she spoke that it was a Very Bad Thing.
‘When you say reds under the beds, who exactly do you mean, Margaret?’ I asked.
‘The Socialists!’ she snarled. ‘They want to bring down the monarchy! To drive us out of Buckingham Palace.’
‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ It was the first time I’d heard of such a notion and it seemed preposterous. For the first time, I found myself becoming alarmed.
‘Because they are communists! Red!’
‘And . . . and these reds,’ I wanted to be clear. ‘Is it the flowerbeds they’re under?’
‘Oh,’ she snapped, tugging at her lead to get away from me. ‘You stupid boy!’
I was quite used to Margaret’s displays of ill temper. They always seemed to involve a matter of principle. But they rarely lasted for long.
She continued her deep wariness in the days leading up to the garden party. I didn’t bring up the subject again with her, for fear of once more exposing my apparently deep ignorance. Although I did ask Winston what he thought. ‘Margaret says that reds under the beds want to drive us from the palace,’ I told him. ‘Is it true?’
Winston snorted contemplatively before saying, ‘It is true. But I wouldn’t make too much of it, dear boy. They’ve been saying the same thing for a hundred years and it hasn’t happened yet. You know . . .’ he drew himself up, as he always did when about to impart a special piece of wisdom, ‘a life lived in fear is no life at all.’