The Queen's Corgi

As it happened, the same unruly gang of schoolboys we had previously watched outside were now passing through the hall and had somehow become separated from their teacher. This time, the fruity tones of the bully rose up the stairs. ‘Simpson, you wuss!’ He cracked the boy over the head. ‘Seeing you know all the kings and queens of England, go up there and have tea with Quee

nie.’

‘Dare ya!’ a colleague challenged him.

‘Yeah—you great girl’s blouse!’ Another kid jabbed him in the ribs.

‘Double dare ya!’ challenged the bully again, knocking him in the back of the leg so he almost collapsed.

‘See if the Queen of England gives a shit about ya!’

Moments later, pale and frightened, the dishevelled Simpson was stepping across the red rope and fleeing up the stairs. He was evidently prepared to do almost anything to get away from his tormentors. As soon as he was out of sight of the group, Simpson stood behind a pillar, panting heavily.

The purpose of the red rope at the foot of the stairs was in fact purely ceremonial, because all of the doors at the top of the stairs were securely locked. Not that Simpson knew this as he stood, crumpled and harassed, waiting for his colleagues to go further through the hallway. Only a short distance away, on the other side of a glass door veiled with curtains, the Queen had been closely following everything that happened.

‘Huchens,’ she asked, as they continued to stand waiting, ‘will you bring that boy to me?’

Her Majesty’s head of security said nothing, but wore a somewhat quizzical expression, as he unlocked a side door and made his way outside.

The schoolboy was aghast to be confronted by Huchens who looked, all six feet four of him, every inch the SAS warrior. ‘I didn’t mean to trespass, sir!’ he spluttered.

‘This way, young man.’ Huchens guided him by the arm along the landing. ‘There’s someone who wishes to speak to you.’

When Simpson was ushered into the room and found himself only a few feet from the Queen, his shaken expression became more complicated—a mix of the surreal and extreme nervousness.

‘How do you do?’ said Her Majesty.

With the utmost formality, Simpson folded his right arm over his waist and bent almost to a right angle. ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he said when once again upright, before correcting himself, ‘I mean, ma’am.’ Then, unnecessarily correcting himself again, ‘Your Royal Highness.’

‘Majesty,’ Huchens directed him in a stage whisper.

‘Your Royal Majesty.’ The boy was tying himself in knots.

‘Just Your Majesty,’ corrected Huchens.

The Queen glanced at Huchens with an expression of droll censure.

‘What is your name, young man?’ she asked.

‘Andrew Simpson.’

‘And tell me, are the other boys always so . . . beastly to you?’

He seemed greatly relieved to discover that the Queen was on his side. ‘Some of them didn’t want to come ’cos it’s school holidays. But I won the group visit for the school as a prize.’

‘Really? For what?’

‘Being able to recite all the kings and queens of England since 1066, Miss . . . er . . . Your Majesty.’

‘That’s quite an achievement.’ There was genuine approval in the Queen’s voice. ‘I wonder how you manage.’

‘I place each name in a different room of an imaginary palace. Memory technique.’

‘And what made you want to learn them?’

‘I want to study at Oxford.’ In the pause that followed the boy’s face clouded. ‘But . . .’

Her Majesty stepped closer, fiddling for a moment with the strap of her handbag. ‘Go on,’ she urged him with a nod.