Outside

Outside is cakes and tins of pop

And you can go into a shop,

To buy the chocolates that you like,

Or training shoes: the best is Nike.

Charles realised that what he was reading was a poem.

Outside is flowers and trees galore

If we could leave the prison door.

There is girls with pretty faces

We could take them to nice places.

Outside is where we want to be,

Charlie, Carlton, Lee and me.

“I say, it’s frightfully good, Oswald,” said Charles, who certainly agreed with the sentiments the poem expressed, though he abhorred the banality of the construction.

Fat Oswald heaved himself onto his top bunk, beaming with pride. “Read it out loud, Charlie,” said Lee, who, until now, had not realised that he was sharing a cell with a fellow poet.

When Charles had read the poem aloud to his fellow cell mates, Carlton said, “That’s a wicked poem, man.”

Lee remained silent. He was burning with creative jealousy. In his opinion, his own ‘Fluffy the Kitten’ was by far the superior poem.

Charles lay on his bunk, the last line of the poem kept repeating itself in his head:

Outside is where we want to be,

Charlie, Carlton, Lee and me.

∨ The Queen and I ∧

40

WOMEN’S WORK

Philomena and Violet knew how to lay out a body. It was something they had learnt to do in the past when times had been hard. They hadn’t expected to be needed in 1992, but their services were once again in demand. Few people in Hell Close could afford to pay for the services of an undertaker. Not unless they went into crippling debt or the cause of death was an industrial accident (in which case the employer was anxious to placate the family). Insurance policies were considered to be items of fabulous luxury, as exotic as having a holiday abroad or eating roast beef on Sunday.

Knowing how important it was to keep busy at such times, the women had sent the Queen out on various small errands. The Queen had gone willingly. Without her mother’s lively presence, she found the bungalow horribly oppressive.

When the two women had finished their work, they went to the end of the bed and looked at the Queen Mother. She had a small smile on her lips, as though she were dreaming of something rather pleasant. They had dressed her in her favourite blue evening gown and matching sapphire jewellery twinkled on her ears and around her throat.

“She looks serene, don’t she?” said Philomena, proudly.

Violet wiped her eyes and said, “I never see the point of ‘avin’ the Royal Family, but she were a nice woman, spoilt but nice.”

They checked everything was tidy, then left the bedroom and began to clean the rest of the bungalow. They anticipated having many visitors over the next few days and they had sent Wilf to the shops for extra tea-bags, milk and sugar. Diana joined them in the kitchen. She had brought a bunch of purple flowers on long stalks. Behind her Ray-Bans, her eyes were swollen from crying.

“I picked these from the garden,” she said. “They’re for…the Queen Mother’s lying in state, or whatever it’s called.”

A pungent smell insinuated itself around the kitchen.

“They’re chives” said Violet, sniffing at the bouquet. “They’re ‘erbs,” she explained.

“Oh, are they?” said Diana, blushing and confused. “Charles will be so cross with me.”

“Don’t matter,” said Violet. “Only they do pong.”

“Lilies is what’s needed,” said Philomena, “but the t’ings is one pound twenty-five each.”

“What’s one pound twenty-five each?” asked Fitzroy Toussaint, entering the kitchen.

“Lilies, the kind that smells so sweet,” said his mother. “The kind the Queen Mother liked.”

Fitzroy had never actually met Diana before. He took her face, figure, legs, hair, teeth and complexion in with a practised glance. He saw that the black suit was Caroline Charles and the suede shoes with the pointed toes were Emma Hope. What wouldn’t he give to take this blushing lady out to the Starlight Club for a few Margueritas and a session on the dance floor? Diana looked over the chives at Fitzroy. He was so tall and beautiful those high cheekbones. And his clothes were Paul Smith, his shoes were Gieves and Hawkes. He smelt so delicious. His voice was as smooth as syrup. His fingernails were clean. His teeth were perfect. She had heard he was kind to his mother.

Fitzroy said to Diana, “I’m going to buy some lilies, fancy a drive?”

Diana said, “Yes,” and they left the oldies in the kitchen and headed for the florist’s.

Diana walked around the front of the car towards the passenger seat but Fitzroy said, “Hey! Catch!” and threw the car keys to her. Diana caught them, crossed to the other side of the car, opened the driver’s door and slipped behind the steering wheel.

At the barrier, Inspector Holyland stared at Diana and Fitzroy and said, “Are you prison visiting today, Mrs Teck?” Diana lowered her eyes and shook her head. Every morning since Charles had been imprisoned she had waited for a Visiting Order but it hadn’t yet arrived. The barrier lifted and Diana drove out of Hell Close and towards a world she was more familiar with: smart cars, handsome escorts and expensive flowers. She drove down Marigold Road and passed the Infants School where Harry was running in the playground. He had his coat over his head and was playing muggers his favourite game. She skirted the Recreation Ground and saw Harris leading a large pack of unruly dogs through a tunnel on the children’s play area.

Fitzroy slotted a cassette into the car stereo. Pavarotti’s voice filled the car ‘Nessun Dorma’.

“I hope you don’t mind?” he said.

“Oh no, he’s my absolute fave, I saw him live in Hyde Park. Charles prefers Wagner.”

Fitzroy said sympathetically, “Wagner’s bad news.”

He leaned forward and pressed another button and the sun roof opened. Pavarotti’s voice escaped and attracted the attention of the Queen, who was standing outside Food-U-R, receiving the condolences of Victor Berryman. The Queen looked up and saw Diana driving Fitzroy Toussaint, who was sitting in the front passenger seat waving his arms to the music.

What now? the Queen thought and she picked her carrier bags up and started to trudge back to Hell Close.

As Diana sped down the dual carriageway which led to the town, she and Fitzroy joined in with the final bars of ‘Nessun Dorma’, adding their own comparatively puny voices to the sweet bellow that was Pavarotti’s. On the opposite side of the road, heading toward the Flowers Estate, was a horse and cart. Traffic was lined up behind it; furious motorists peered ahead, waiting for an opportunity to overtake.

“It’s my sister-in-law and her bloke,” said Diana as she passed them.

“They look like a pair of gypsies,” said Fitzroy disparagingly. “And what did that horse have on his head?”

Diana glanced into the rear view mirror. “It’s the hat that Anne wore at Ascot last year,” she said, adding drily, “It looks better on the horse, though.”

She was pleased when Fitzroy laughed. It was a long time since she had made Charles laugh.

As they passed the prison, Diana said, “Poor Charles.”

Fitzroy said, “Yeah, you must be lonely without him, I expect?”

Their eyes met for a split second. But it was long enough for them both to know that Diana was not going to be too lonely. There would be compensations. Diana blossomed.

Meanwhile, in Charles’s garden, the sun was beating down. And the water was evaporating from the Gro-Bags and the hanging baskets and the seed trays, leaving the compost as dry as the Nevada Desert.

∨ The Queen and I ∧

41

READING THE NEWS

Next afternoon, Violet Toby knocked on the Queen’s back door and walked straight into the kitchen. She was holding that day’s edition of the Middleton Mercury. Harris poked his head out from under the kitchen table and growled at Violet, but she kicked out at him with the sharp point of a high-heeled shoe and he retreated. Violet found the Queen in the living room ironing a silk blouse. The Queen was having difficulty with the collar.

“Wretched thing keeps puckering,” she said.

Violet took the iron from the Queen, and checked the variable control switch. “You got it on linen,” she said. “Tha’s why.”

The Queen switched the iron off and invited Violet to sit down.

Violet said, “I wondered if you’ve seen this. It’s about your mam.”

She handed the Queen the open newspaper. On page seven, under a report that a white tee-shirt had been stolen from a washing line in the early hours of Sunday morning in Pigston Magna, was another small news item: