The Queen's Corgi

‘Don’t

you be worrying,’ the newsagent reached out and touched him confidentially on the arm, ‘my lips are completely sealed.’

After we returned to the palace, Her Majesty and I went upstairs, where she changed into more queenly attire. Huchens hadn’t said anything about the duck-chasing incident, but it was evidently on the Queen’s mind when she emerged from her dressing chamber looking her usual, regal self.

‘I hope you enjoyed your little romp this morning, young man.’ She bent to pat me. I looked up at her adoringly, wagging my stump. ‘Huchens wouldn’t have enjoyed it at all. I fear we haven’t heard the last of it.’

She was quite right, my fellow subject. We had not.

The two of us went downstairs for our respective breakfasts. It wasn’t long after we had finished and as I was resting at Her Majesty’s feet, that Huchens arrived in her sitting room. ‘About this morning’s security breach, ma’am,’ he began, rolling his ‘r’s’ severely. ‘I wish to undertake a full root and branch review.’

He went on to detail how Her Majesty’s safety had been gravely compromised, as a result of being accompanied by an untrained and ill-disciplined puppy. He maintained that the police detective’s handling of me had been a serious and avoidable error. He emphasised that the Queen’s disguise had—as he had so often cautioned in the past—proven to be utterly unconvincing. Even the newsagent’s comment about being able to ‘sense’ when the Queen was walking was reported with grim concern.

Looking up from her morning newspaper, Her Majesty took it all in her stride. ‘Well Huchens, I know it’s your job to worry about these things, but there’s no need to overreact. You neglected to mention the main fault, which was that I stopped to read a headline.’ She nodded towards where the magazine was lying on a nearby table.

‘That was . . .’ Huchens searched for the right word, ‘regrettable.’

‘What of it?’ the Queen said with a shrug. ‘The puppy couldn’t resist the ducks. I couldn’t resist the headline. We discovered our local newsagent to be psychic. No harm done.’

‘But ma’am . . .’

‘It’s a nice morning. I enjoyed the air and the exercise.’

Huchens glanced out the window, taking in the blue skies and balmy weather, but he clearly failed to derive any joy in what he saw.

‘I do hope you’re not going to be crotchety with me.’

‘No, ma’am. Of course not, ma’am.’

‘Very good.’ She nodded dismissively, turning back to her paper.

While it is true that the Queen is passionate about horses, there was a particular reason why that headline had caught her eye. That very day she was hosting a lunch for her racing adviser and several trainers. She was doing so not in her capacity as Head of State, but as one of the country’s most enthusiastic thoroughbred breeders and racers.

Within days of joining the royal family, I’d become aware of Her Majesty’s keen involvement in every aspect of her racehorses’ lives. She owned many and her racing colours, inherited from her father, King George VI, and great grandfather, King Edward VII, were a purple and scarlet jacket with gold braiding and a black cap. Her horses have won hundreds of races, including most of the British Classics.

The Queen isn’t a gambler; her fascination is with bloodlines and breeding. The horses that she breeds are foaled at the Royal Stud on her Sandringham estate. She follows the progress of each one of these and, while I had yet to accompany her on one of those visits, Winston and Margaret told me they were always enjoyable. This was because Her Majesty was always so happy to return to the equine world, where she wasn’t automatically the centre of attention, in the company of beings who didn’t pay her any deference because she was the Queen.

That day’s lunch with the racing fraternity was one of easy informality. The guests were all longstanding friends and colleagues and, from the moment they arrived, there was a convivial buzz. Her Majesty took obvious pleasure from the banter that went on around the table. I was allowed to be present in the Queen’s own dining room because this was a private occasion—a more intimate affair than those held in the grand chambers on state occasions. An Indian rug by the window was the perfect spot from which to follow everything that went on. Begging for titbits from Her Majesty’s guests would, I intuited, result in my instant banishment.

The forthcoming season’s calendar was discussed, focusing on the health and training performance of the various horses. There were anecdotes from Sandringham, stories about other owners and trainers and mention of a visit the Queen had made years ago to leading Bluegrass horse farms in Kentucky.

Talk turned to jockeys and who was being considered for some of the key races. One jockey was said to be struggling with his weight. The confidence of another was said to have suffered, after he’d taken a tumble the year before. Athletic fitness and horsemanship were also mentioned.

‘So much to consider,’ the Queen mused at one point. ‘I wonder what you might say is the most important factor for success?’

‘The most?’ repeated Cameron, her racing adviser and a lofty, distinguished-looking man who was, every inch of him, an aristocrat.

‘For my money,’ ventured one of Her Majesty’s trainers, the tweed-clad Ross from Hampshire, ‘it would have to be impulse control.’

There was a pause while the others digested his reply, before a few nodded around the table.

‘I’d agree,’ concurred Armstrong, a large, jolly man who was another of Her Majesty’s trainers. ‘When you consider all that’s required—the training for physical strength; the high level of fitness; the very strict diet to keep weight down; then the actual training with horses—all of those demand exceptional self-discipline.’

‘Emotional intelligence, I believe they call it these days, ma’am,’ said Cameron.

‘They do?’

‘Apparently it’s a more accurate predictor of success in later life than straightforward intelligence. Having a high IQ is no guarantee of later fulfilment. But the ability to defer short-term gratification for the sake of a much greater prize seems to be what separates the sheep from the goats, so to speak.’