The Queen's Corgi
‘Yes.’
‘And what’s that if it isn’t some form of telepathy?’ asked Charles.
The Queen digested this observation in silence, before she murmured, ‘Whatever you do, don’t share your thoughts with anyone who might . . .’
Charles groaned. ‘I know. The whole thing would be turned into a circus. The media would have me holding seances with the corgis in between chattering away to my plants.’
‘Exactly. Better to keep one’s mouth shut and provide a silent symbol of continuity.’
‘Very wise,’ said Charles.
‘I was reminded of just that by Michael only recently.’
‘Ah, Michael.’ Charles’s tone was wistful. ‘When am I going to meet him?’
‘You will,’ said the Queen.
‘You’ve been saying that for nearly thirty years.’
I looked at Winston in astonishment. Michael was not only a regular visitor to the Queen, but he enjoyed a position of rare privilege and trust. So why hadn’t he met Charles? Did this mean that the royal corgis were better acquainted with one of Her Majesty’s closest advisers than the heir to the throne?
‘I’ve been saying it,’ the Queen said simply, ‘because it’s true.’
Winston returned my look with an expression of amusement and very deep enigma. Like Charles, I wondered if royal life was always so very mysterious. And why Winston had missed the morsel of lamb that Charles had generously slipped onto the dining room carpet!
CHAPTER 3
There is, in Buckingham Palace, a wardrobe that only a handful of people know about. Its very existence is one of the Queen’s most closely guarded secrets. Its purpose would shock even her closest aides and it is the source of her security team’s worst headaches. Not that there’s anything especially unusual about either the wardrobe or its contents. It’s the use to which those contents are put that few people would believe.
I discovered this unseen dimension of Her Majesty’s activities within a few months of joining the royal family. Winston and Margaret had been left at Windsor that particular week, having come down with a tummy bug for which they were both being treated. This was why I was the Queen’s only metropolitan corgi—and how I was to become the unwitting cause of one of the worst security breaches in recent decades.
It began on a beautiful April morning. The Queen rose earlier than usual and spent some time looking down the Mall towards Trafalgar Square, taking in the verdant greenness of St James’s Park, the flowerbeds adazzle with the yellow freshness of daffodils. A light breeze rippled through the open window and brought with it the stirrings of spring.
There is a particular quality about Buckingham Palace, especially those front rooms that face directly onto the Mall. While Windsor Castle, steeped in royal history, lends itself to withdrawal, reflection and mystic communion with the spirits of kings and queens down the ages, Buckingham Palace is the royal family’s shopfront. Being the epicentre of a throbbing metropolis, it is not only the heart of the nation, but also of a global Commonwealth. When gazing down the Mall, it is as though you are directly facing a main artery of the world. And when it is Her Majesty who is standing there, she gives new life to a flow of energy, a charge that sparks down invisible pathways as powerful as they are ancient and leaps across synapses, channelling through countries and continents, strengthening ties and renewing connections, returning back as an impulse of gathering vibrancy and force.
The Queen stood at the windows, looking out for a very long time. Then she made a decision. Instead of breakfast, she summoned Huchens. ‘I’d like to make an excursion.’
‘Very good. I’ll see to the arrangements.’
Huchens had answered with his usual Scottish burr but, as I watched, I noticed his face blush a shade pinker. What was it about an excursion that perturbed him? ‘When would Your Majesty like to go?’
‘Now.’
‘I see.’
I whimpered softly and the Queen looked at me. I could tell that something was up. An ‘excursion’—whatever that meant exactly—sounded like something I would very much like to be a part of. The same idea evidently occurred to Her Majesty. ‘Huchens, would the security dogs be available?’
I had met these great, prowling beasts. Two German shepherds and a doberman with whom I, and the other corgis, maintained a wary upstairs-downstairs relationship. Huchens glanced in my direction. ‘I can see where you’re going with this, ma’am. I’ll make enquiries.’
Her Majesty nodded. ‘The Bow Room in fifteen minutes?’
‘Very good, Your Majesty.’
Moments later, I followed the Queen to her dressing room and to the wardrobe that was kept permanently locked—except, I was discovering, for when Her Majesty went on an ‘excursion’. Curious to know what she needed to retrieve, given that she was already dressed, I watched her extract the key to the wardrobe from a hidey-hole in a drawer, undo the lock and reach inside. Was it age or excitement that made her hand tremor slightly?
As a corgi, I am no expert on the clothing worn by humans. As a male dog, barely out of puppyhood, I was perhaps even less sensitive to such matters. Nevertheless, even I was astonished by the transformation I witnessed. Her Majesty changed into a pair
of faded, blue Levis and a plastic anorak, before slipping into a pair of robust Nike trainers. This, even I could tell, was no apparel for a Queen. Not even Mrs Grimsley would have been seen in such attire.