The Queen's Corgi

‘Jenkins and the others . . .’ he gestured.

‘The bully?’ confirmed the Queen.

‘Yes. He says he’s going to make my life a living hell next term, Your Majesty. He says he’s going to play the bagpipes every single study break, so I fail the entrance exams. I wouldn’t put it past him.’

Simpson seemed to have got over the shock of finding himself in the presence of the Queen and was talking more freely. ‘Bannerman had a nervous breakdown when Jenkins had it in for him. He had to leave school. And Weaver is still on antidepressants. You should see Jenkins turn the fire hose on the freshers when they’re in the changing rooms!’

‘What does your headmaster say about all this?’

‘Miss Thwaites.’ The boy looked even more forlorn, as he tilted his head downstairs. ‘Every time she tries discipline, Jenkins’s father goes ballistic. He’s a rich businessman and is on the school board.’

‘I see,’ said Her Majesty.

Andrew Simpson was a pitiful sight—intimidated by the prospect of months of bullying ending in academic failure. Approaching him, I sniffed his ankles and wagged my stump in a consolatory way.

‘Bagpipes?’ queried the Queen. ‘Most unusual.’

‘He’s the leader of the school band. He’s very loud.’

‘Hmm.’ Her Majesty stepped even closer and looked her unexpected guest in the eye. ‘You know what bullies want to do Andrew, don’t you? They want to destroy your self-confidence. To make you believe that you can’t do something. To give up hope.’

Following her intently, the boy nodded.

‘Well, let me tell you something.’ Her tone changed to one of defiance. ‘I don’t personally know anyone who can recite the complete list of kings and queens of England since 1066.’

The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

‘It’s a very impressive achievement and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go on to greater things. You may have an annus horribilis ahead of you. But you will get through it. A few years from now, Jenkins will be nothing but a memory, but you will have a degree from Oxford. How would that make you feel?’

‘Pretty amazing.’ Her Majesty’s uninvited guest pushed his spectacles up his nose, as he drew himself up.

The Queen’s words, combined with the fact that he was being personally advised by the monarch in Buckingham Palace, seemed to be filling Andrew Simpson with new purpose.

‘You must never forget that you are a very special person.’

In an act of unusual friendliness, the Queen placed her gloved hand on the boy’s arm. His eyes were gleaming. ‘In all the years that Buckingham Palace has been open to the public, I have never received a visitor until today. Isn’t that right, Huchens?’ She glanced over.

‘Correct, Your Majesty.’

‘Don’t forget that, Andrew Simpson.’ She smiled as his lips trembled and he blinked back tears.

Huchens’ phone bleeped and the head of security gestured to the Queen that all was ready for her departure. Realising that his audience was over, Andrew grasped at his blazer pocket in some frustration. ‘I wish I’d brought some paper; I’d really like to ask for your autograph,’ he said.

‘Write to me care of Huchens,’ replied the Queen, extending her hand to shake his. Then somewhat mysteriously she said, ‘I’m sure our paths will cross again.’

Some minutes later, we three corgis were sharing the back of a Range Rover driven by Bradshaw, the Queen’s regular London driver. Huchens occupied the front passenger seat. The plan was for us to make our way out of a side entrance, where unmarked police cars idled in waiting. As we were proceeding slowly in that direction, something caught Her Majesty’s attention: the group of St George’s boys were walking towards the front gates. ‘Bradshaw!’ commanded the Queen. ‘Over to those schoolboys. I’d like a word.’

Huchens raised his eyebrows. ‘We must exit through the side gates,’ he confirmed with Bradshaw.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Her Majesty, ‘but a minute’s delay is of no consequence.’

The boys had to clear the driveway to make way for the Range Rover that drew to a halt in their midst. As the tinted glass of the rear window lowered to reveal Her Majesty, the effect on the group could not have been more instant or dramatic. I know—I was sitting on the back seat right beside her and watched as every last one of them regarded her with an expression of stunned incredulity. ‘I’ve just had a nice meeting with your prize winner, Andrew.’ The Queen nodded towards where he was standing. ‘He tells me there are some boys at the school who wish to disrupt his studies.’

Her gaze moved from one end of the group t

o the other, before pausing on the class brute who was standing, shirt untucked from his trousers, the knot of his tie tugged halfway down his chest. ‘Jenkins?’

The boy opened his mouth several times, but no words came out of it, before he finally managed in a hoarse tone, ‘Yes, your um . . . Queen Elizabeth.’