The Queen's Corgi

‘Indeed, dear boy,’ said he.

We three corgis returned indoors with the Queen at the end of the garden party, accompanied by the rest of the royal family, and also by Huchens. The event was deemed a success by Her Majesty and her senior staff, with all comers seeming to enjoy themselves. But she did have a question.

‘Come on Huchens, out with it,’ she demanded, once the two of them had left the public area of the palace and were behind closed doors. ‘You’ve followed me like a shadow all afternoon.’

A puce colour had returned to the cheeks of her security chief. ‘We had an incident earlier.’

‘Nothing serious, obviously?’ queried Her Majesty.

‘It may have been. It revealed a lapse in our defences.’

‘What happened, exactly?’

‘You don’t need to be concerned with the specifics . . .’

‘Huchens!’ It was rare for the Queen to be so imperious.

‘Very well, ma’am. We had a streaker.’

Her Majesty paused for just a moment. ‘Good heavens! At the garden party?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I hope he didn’t upset anyone.’

‘None of the guests, so far as I’m aware. But he upset me.’ Huchens was stern. ‘He . . . flaunted himself at the exact moment when you were supposed to make your appearance. Had you not been uncharacteristically delayed, it would have been profoundly embarrassing.’

‘Well,’ said the Queen, ‘we have Nelson to thank, then. He took it into his head to dismember my hat. In so doing, it seems that he prevented a more serious calamity.’

‘He did.’ Huchens glanced at me only to indulge Her Majesty. I had the sense that the former SAS warrior had no truck with happy coincidences, especially those involving destructive corgis.

‘Was he good-looking then, this streaker?’ asked the Queen.

‘I—I—I mean to say, ma’am . . .’

‘Yes?’

There was a pause while he formulated an answer. ‘That falls completely outside my area of professional expertise.’

‘Oh, don’t be an old stick-in-the-mud, Huchens.’ The Queen flicked her handbag against the side of her leg. ‘One is simply curious.’

‘Well, if you really want to know . . .’

‘I do.’

‘He was a thirty-something Caucasian male. Lanky. Tattooed. Needed a decent haircut. And from what I could see nothing about him was unusual or impressive.’

‘Oh, good,’ said the Queen with just the hint of a mischief. ‘We wouldn’t want to have missed out on anything . . . impressive.’

But it wasn’t until the following day that the full impact of my ignorant attack on Her Majesty’s hat became clear. Next morning, Lady Tara was browsing through that day’s media cuttings, which were always waiting for her by the time she arrived. Several newspapers had reported on the garden party—large, colour photographs of some of the more interesting or well-dressed guests. All the royal correspondents noted the fact that the Queen hadn’t been wearing a hat. What was the significance of this departure from normal royal protocol, they wondered? Was there a deeper meaning to it? Did it mark a new and refreshing informality? Milliners, hair stylists and non-verbal communication experts had all been canvassed for their views. No mention at all was made of the possibility that one of her corgis had been responsible for savaging the red menace.

By far the most popular photograph of the day showed Her Majesty at the centre of the group of Chelsea pensioners, the blooms of her dress matching their jackets, as they all beamed broadly into the camera. ‘She’s a saint!’ one of the pensioners had decided, after meeting her. It was the phrase that had given the papers their headline for another entirely unforeseen reason. It just so happened that the photograph had been taken late in the afternoon, by which time the sun had moved westwards. Its lengthening rays, shining directly through the Queen’s hatless hair, produced a halo effect, so the pensioner’s words appeared self-evident. Some of the papers referred to it as ‘The Queen’s Halo’.

‘Wonderful!’ exclaimed Tara, leaping from her seat and taking the folder of press cuttings in the direction of Her Majesty’s office. Pausing at the door she glanced over before summoning me. ‘Come, Nelson! I am sure the Queen will want to see you. It seems like you have given her the best media day so far this year!’

Across the carpet, Winston regarded me with amusement. As I got up to follow Tara, I walked past him.

‘See what you mean about the Queen and alchemy.’