The Queen's Corgi

Distracting me from my thoughts, Jasper said, ‘You still haven’t told me the most important thing, Number Five?’

‘Which is?’

‘Your name. What does the Queen call you?’

‘Nothing at the moment. She didn’t want to rush into things. They’re waiting for something to suggest itself. Some particular event.’

Jasper’s mouth broke open and his stump wagged.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You know what that event is going to be, don’t you?’

It took me a moment to catch on. ‘Surely not!’

‘You said the other two are called Margaret and Winston. Hmm. Which head of state is a notorious philanderer?’

‘That’s not the way it works.’ I knew it was only brotherly teasing, but I just couldn’t help rising to the bait.

‘I think you might find yourself called . . .’

‘Her Majesty likes to find the good in people,’ I interrupted.

‘Lucky for you!’ Jasper’s eyes twinkled.

Everything was business as usual when I returned to Windsor in the back of Tara’s car. The royal family and their household staff were busy preparing for a banquet that evening in honour of the Czech president. Margaret, especially vigilant on such occasions, trotted through the corridors with an air of great busyness. But Winston, having noted my absence, took one look at me and instantly deduced what had happened.

‘Ah, the snip,’ he said, in a sympathetic tone. ‘I remember it well.’

‘You do?’

‘Many moons ago.’

‘And how was it afterwards?’

‘No discomfort at all after a couple of days.’

‘I mean, not having balls?’

Winston paused to consider this for a while. ‘Quieter, dear boy. Calmer waters.’

‘Your feeling of corgi-hood wasn’t destroyed?’ With Winston, I knew I could ask such questions.

‘Lord, no!’ He glanced at me, concerned that I should even be thinking such a thing. ‘Wasn’t it Sophocles,’ he mused, ‘who said that freedom from libido was like escaping from bondage to a madman?’

‘Sophocles?’ I asked, casting my mind back to the stables at Sandringham. ‘One of the Queen’s geldings?’

‘Greek philosopher,’ replied Winston. ‘Apart from that thought, I know nothing about him. But it’s a useful one, no?’

In the days that followed, the wound from my surgery healed and I discovered myself to be much the same corgi as I had been before. Although one thing continued to bother me—the identity of the man whose leg I had mounted. It hadn’t been my proudest moment. In fact, it was probably my least proud moment as a royal corgi. No reference had been made to it in my presence, but if Charles had said anything to the Queen, it didn’t seem to have changed her affectionate manner towards me. All the same, I couldn’t help wondering.

When I asked Margaret if she knew the identity of Charles’s guest, she claimed to have been far too busy defending the estate from the predations of rabbits to notice such a thing. Winston claimed age and forgetfulness. I had thought it would remain one of life’s great mysteries unless, of course, the same man made a return visit.

And then, one day all three of us were in the staff kitchen, having just eaten dinner, when the man’s face appeared on TV news. ‘That’s him!’ I told Winston.

‘Who?’

‘Charles’ visitor.’