SATURDAY 3 MARCH
2 p.m. Grafton Underwood village hall. Result of the Grafton Underwood voting as to who would sit next to the Queen during the Queen’s luncheon on the other side from the vicar.
Mark and I entered the village hall, via separate doors, somewhat furtively, so as not to draw attention. Mum was taking the microphone on the stage.
“Lord Mayor, Lord Clerk to her Majesty,” began Mum, in a nervous, querulous voice, quite unlike her usual airy, bossy tone.
“Objection!” Mavis Enderbury leapt to her feet. “That should be Clerk, not Lord Clerk.”
“Oh my godfathers, I’m so sorry.” Mum was seriously losing it. “Anyway, here is our very own master and commander of the seas, and captain of the plucky ship of Grafton Underwood: Admiral Darcy!” said Mum, then slunk back to her seat, looking shaken.
Mark’s father, tall, still handsome in his admiral’s outfit, strode onto the stage.
“Right! Let’s get on. Seating plan,” he boomed. “I am happy to announce that to Her Majesty’s left will be, of course, the vicar, and to her right, as the result of our vote…”
There were ripples all over the hall as the Admiral took out an envelope stamped with an old-fashioned dark red wax seal.
“To Her Majesty’s right,” his face broke into a fond smile, “a woman who has worked tirelessly her entire life for this village…and whose Salmon à la King has kept us nourished for decades: Mrs. Pamela Jones.”
“Objection!” Mavis Enderbury leapt again to her feet, face twisted angrily beneath a hatlike hairdo.
“Could we all please think for a moment, not of ourselves, but of our Leader of Church and State—Her Royal Majesty,” said Mavis. “In our chosen Village Representative—who will be engaging Her Majesty’s right, and in royal banter—do we want a representative of our decency and family values? Or the adulterous mother of an unmarried, pregnant daughter, who doesn’t know who the father is and one of them might be black?”
There was uproar as Mavis looked straight at me, prompting everyone to stare. Mark was heading for the microphone, but the village was already speaking for itself.
“Shame on you, Mavis,” roared Uncle Geoffrey. “Racist and rubbish, and Bridget is a lovely girl with lovely big…”
“Geoffrey!” said Auntie Una.
“Look at Joanna Lumley,” said Dad, leaping to his feet.
Everyone fell reverentially silent.
“Joanna Lumley was a single mother and wouldn’t tell anyone who the father was for years.”
“Good point, excellent woman,” said Penny Husbands-Bosworth.
“Quite so. Military family,” said Admiral Darcy.
“The Virgin Mary didn’t know who the father was!” said Mum, hopefully.
“Yes, she did!” said the vicar. “It was God.”
“Yes, but I bet everyone in the village was saying it was the Angel Gabriel,” said Dad.
“Or Jesus,” I added helpfully.
“Jesus was the baby,” yelled Mavis Enderbury.
“The point is people gossip,” said Dad, gently but firmly. “And gossip isn’t right.”
Mark leapt onto the stage, in full barrister mode.
“Mr. Colin Jones has hit the nail on the head,” he thundered. “We live in a country—a country once renowned for its values—which increasingly is run by the village gossips, in the form of some aspects of the press. But here, in this village hall, with your clear rejection of a small attempt at spite, we see what it once meant, and still must mean, to be British.”
There was the noise of general, if slightly unclear why, self-congratulation.
“Look at Her Majesty herself,” continued Mark.