The Queen and I Read Online Free PDF Page A

was a hiccup of history. Mr Barker would make a dreadful hash of things and the populace would cry out for the restoration of the Conservative government and the monarchy – wouldn’t they? Yes, of course they would. The English were known for their tolerance, their sense of fair play. Extremism of any kind was simply not in their nature. The Queen was careful, even in thought to distinguish the English from the Scots, Irish and Welsh, who, owing to their Celtic blood, were inclined to be rather hot-headed at times.
    “That’ll be fifty quid, Your Majesty,” said Spiggy. “Being as it’s after midnight, so to speak.”
    The Queen found her handbag and paid him. She was unaccustomed to handling money and counted it out slowly.
    “Right, ta,” said Spiggy. “I’ll nip round to Prince Charles’s now. He’ll still be up, will he?”

    It was 4 am before Spiggy checked out at the barrier, a hundred pounds better off and with a story to tell in the pub the next day. He could hardly wait, his tongue itched.

    At 4.30 am, Tony Threadgold was sawing through a sofa that had once belonged to Napoleon, on the doorstep of Number Nine. Nobody in Hell Close complained about the noise. Noise was normal and was created with great vigour, both day and night. It was only when there was a lack of noise that the inhabitants of Hell Close came to their doors and windows, wondering what was wrong.
    The sofa gave way and fell apart. Beverley steadied one end. She waited until Tone and Philip had carried the longer half into the living room before following them through with the shorter half.
    “Half a dozen six-inch nails in that tomorrow, it’ll be as right as rain.” Tony was pleased with his carpentry. The Queen looked at her beloved sofa and saw that, even cut in half, it was too big for the room.
    “You’ve been so kind, Mr and Mrs Threadgold,” she said. “Now I insist you go to your beds.”
    “It does look lovely in here,” said Bev, looking round. “A bit crowded, but lovely.”
    “When the pictures are hung,” said the Queen, yawning.
    “Yes, I like that one,” said Bev, catching the yawn. “Who did that one?”
    “Titian,” said the Queen. “Goodnight.”

    The atmosphere between the Queen and Prince Philip was awkward as they washed and undressed for bed. Furniture filled every room. They had to squeeze past each other with frequent apologies for touching. Finally, they lay in bed in the grey light of morning, thinking about the horrors of the previous day and of the horrors to come.
    From outside came the sound of shouting as a milkman tried to defend his float from a Hell Close milk thief. The Queen turned towards her husband. He was still a handsome man, she thought.
    7 Little Treasures
    The Yeoman of the Silver Plate scrutinised Jack Barker, the new Prime Minister.
    Very nice, he thought. Smaller than he looked on the telly, but very nice . Clothes a bit Top Man and shoes a touch Freeman Hardyish, but a good, fine-boned face, adorable eyes – violet, and lashes like spiders’ legs. Yum yum.
    It was 9 am. They were going down in the lift of the disused air-raid shelter which was situated in the grounds of Buckingham Palace. Jack stifled a yawn. He’d been up all night doing his sums. “I expect you’re glad to get out of those daft clothes at night, aren’t you?” he said to the Yeoman, looking at the gaiters and buckles and the jacket with its complicated froggings and fastenings.
    “Oh, I like a bit of glitz, me,” said the Yeoman, producing a key from his waistcoat pocket. The lift stopped.
    “How deep are we?” asked Jack.
    “Forty feet, but we’re not there yet.”
    They left the lift and walked along a U-shaped corridor.
    “What’s your name?” asked Jack.
    “Officially I’m the Yeoman of the Silver Plate.”
    “Unofficially?” said Jack.
    “Malcolm Bultitude Bostock.”
    “Worked here long, Mr Bostock?”
    “Since leaving school, Mr Barker.”
    “Like it?”
    “Oh yes, I