The Queen's Corgi

But for a single phrase, my fellow subject, the course of that year’s garden party may have taken a very different turn. And who knows where things may have ended up?

It was less than half an hour before the Queen was to make her public appearance that I made my way through her suite. She was in her drawing room with Julian, being told about some of the guests who had been invited that day, including a group of Chelsea pensioners. Outside the sun was shining with skies only partly cloudy—a wonderful day for the event.

I knew that Margaret had already taken herself downstairs. Visitors were already trickling in through the gates and she was no doubt scrutinising them rigorously. Winston lay sprawled under an occasional table next to the Queen, snoring softly. Not feeling in the least bit sleepy, and needing to fill in the time until we accompanied Her Majesty downstairs, I found myself idly wandering through the Queen’s private suite of rooms. These included a spacious dressing room, never of much interest to a corgi, as well as her bedroom. I was strolling past, when I glanced through the bedroom door.

This was when I saw the thing: red and on her bed! Its audacious, scarlet plumage was quivering in the afternoon breeze.

I froze. Paw midair, I could hardly believe what I was seeing! Was this not exactly what Margaret had warned of? And on the very day of the garden party? The brooding menace that threatened to chase us out of our beloved home. No longer was it under the bed—it had already advanced to the top of it!

I set off like lightning. Racing to the bed for Queen and country. Leaping onto it. Launching myself at the loathsome fiend and tearing into its bright, red feathers. While initially it remained inert, as soon as I had it in my jaws, it responded with a painful sting. A rubber-like cord unravelled round my snout like a tentacle, delivering a sharp, metallic thwack to my nose.

So this was how socialists operated? Well, I would show it! I wasn’t going to be cowed by its stings and arrows. I was in the service of Her Majesty the Queen and my valour was needed every bit as much as any knight of the realm. Stout of heart and with implacable resolve, I planted both front paws on the threatening beast and tore into it even more vigorously. Growling and chewing, I was beginning to dominate the wretch—at least it hadn’t responded with any further barbed tentacles—when Her Majesty strode into the room.

‘Nelson!’ she shouted, not in horror or shared outrage at the threat to our way of life, but in wrath. I looked up. ‘Get down here at once!’ She pointed to the floor. Bewildered, I slunk off the bed and cowered. I had rarely seen her so angry and never before with me.

Moments later, Tara appeared in her doorway and looked towards the bed. ‘Your hat!’

Aghast, the two of them stared at the scattered plumage and torn remnants. I could hardly believe my ears. Surely that wasn’t all it had been? The Queen was looking at a clock. ‘It’s not the hat itself that concerns me,’ said the Queen. ‘There are people outside who have been looking forward to this afternoon for months. I don’t wish to be late.’

I noticed that Her Majesty was wearing a summery dress with red blossoms, precisely the same shade as the item I had just destroyed. Was I a dog who had mistaken a hat for a socialist?

The Queen and her lady-in-waiting hurried to the dressing room where they sought out first one hat, then another. What Her Majesty wears is always carefully considered and usually decided well before. Intricate planning goes into her outfit for every event and she has access to unlimited variations of dresses and hats. Getting the right match for each occasion is a task she usually delegates to her dressers, merely confirming their choice or requesting a change a day or two in advance, when the items are brought out of storage. But she had already let her dresser go that afternoon. And finding a suitable hat at last minute from the limited options available wasn’t easy.

‘Plain yellow?’ I heard Tara offer a suggestion.

‘It’s a bit windy today for that one. Last time I wore it, it almost blew off. What do you think of this?’

‘Not an ideal match for the red.’

‘No.’

The two of them spent time trying out a number of variations—none of them anywhere near the perfect match which I had so misguidedly destroyed. Then I heard the Queen say, ‘Fifteen minutes. I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer. I shall simply go hatless.’

‘That would be unusual.’

‘Indeed.’ There was resolve in Her Majesty’s voice, along with a strong sense of duty. ‘But what of it?’

As the two of them walked from the dressing room and out of the Queen’s private rooms she continued, ‘It’s my own fault. I should have realised that it would be a temptation, leaving it where I did.’

Winston, roused from his slumbers, was trotting behind the two of them. If he was surprised by Her Majesty’s lack of a hat, he didn’t mention it. I held back somewhat, ears drooping. I had never felt so mortified. We made our way along a corridor to the staircase and down several flights of steps before reaching the public rooms. About to make our appearance, the Queen turned to the two of us. ‘Now, best behaviour, little ones!’ she said in a kindly voice. I knew she meant it for me, which made me feel all the more undeserving.

There was a curious atmosphere when we walked onto the lawn. I was by now quite used to royal entrances. As one of Her Majesty’s representatives—albeit of the hat-eating kind—I had some experience of how people responded when coming face to face with their monarch.

The mood that afternoon was different. There was strangely brittle laughter when we first arrived, along with an undercurrent of embarrassment. Huchens, who usually kept within short distance of the Queen, but rarely right beside her, accompanied Her Majesty from the moment she made her entrance. His face seemed even more pink than usual.

After the initial awkwardness, things settled down. The mere presence of the Queen and other family members prompted an outpouring of warmth and excitement, as well as that powerful sense of benevolent expectation that accompanied her wherever she went. Yes, today was an occasion of celebration and lightness, a rare chance to engage with one of the most famous beings on planet Earth. But for many it would also prove to be an unexpected encounter with the Queen’s radiant expectations.

As Her Majesty began to be introduced to people, we corgis made our own way across the gardens. I noticed that Margaret was being admired by a group of Chelsea pensioners in their immaculate red uniforms. Winston made his way towards a group of younger people. Within moments, mini pizzas were falling to the grass. I followed quickly in his wake, the two us wolfing down the food appreciatively.

‘So, what was that all about upstairs?’ Winston asked, after we had ensured that not a single crumb of pastry or wisp of cheese remained on the lawn. We were both feeling replete and conversational. I told him about the red thing I’d seen on Her Majesty’s bed and how its feathers trembled in the breeze. I explained that it had seemed to be a sinister presence, in light of what Margaret had said about reds under beds, and how I had leapt up and torn it to shreds in a trice—yes, I did exaggerate a little—before the Queen had arrived. And how she was not amused.

Winston, however, was greatly amused. ‘Go on!’ He nudged me playfully with his snout. ‘You didn’t!’ In a rare burst of energy, he ran across the lawn, tumbling in front of a flowerbed, stubby legs poking into the air, snorting and chortling at what I’d told him. ‘You didn’t! You didn’t!’

‘I’m afraid I did, Winston,’ I admitted ruefully.

He was doing it again, the mischievous energy of that afternoon prompting him to make another short burst across the lawn. Some of Her Majesty’s guests were turning to watch, laughing at our playfulness.

‘You didn’t! You didn’t!’