Chain Reaction (49 page)

‘Bitch from hell.’

Sir Hugh cannot but agree. ‘It has been decided by those in authority over you that you must make every attempt to change the Princess’ mind. Now the business has come to this, eventually the public will accept it, and this instant divorce she is demanding would be quite unacceptable to anyone.’

‘Peaches has us over a barrel.’

‘You could well put it like that.’

‘So what must I do?’ Prince James must indeed be suffering to display such abject obedience.

‘You must court her, sir, in a gentlemanly manner, surreptitiously, of course, and try to get her to agree to move into your apartments at Kensington Palace.’

‘She’d laugh in my face. Just as she did straight after the wedding.’

‘Nevertheless, somehow this attitude must be overcome. And no more gadding about and whoring. Arabella is clearly not another Lady Frances. She has her pride.’

Jamie is not quite so self-confident this morning. He answers with a new and rather attractive humility. ‘And if this course of action fails?’

‘It must not fail, sir. You must pull yourself together and try to behave like a gentleman. Already you have made a public spectacle of yourself and the spin-off has fatally tainted the reputation of The Family. Matters are at their direst for years. Your poor mother is doing her best by flying down south to sort out another unpleasant little matter, and while she’s away it is up to you to play your part unless you want to be greeted with jeers and brickbats wherever you go.’ And although glory lies no longer in the downward path of Sir Hugh, he is an Englishman after all and determined to do his best and not end his career parked in some Palace corridor.

Poor Dougal has already been demoted and will soon be selling wickedly expensive cardboard clocks and picture frames four months a year at the Palace gift shop.

‘Look at this! Read this! Granny is going to be meeting The Queen!’

‘Lucky old Granny.’

‘Poppy, please don’t talk about my mother in that sneering voice!’

‘Why not, Mum? You do.’

‘Not any more I don’t.’

‘Only because everyone hates you. They all think you are hard and horrid.’

Yes, Frankie has to agree, that is all part of it. She thought her divorce was painful enough but never did she imagine she would have to face the fury of the whole British public, defending her decision to put her mother away. My God, the sort of spiteful twaddle they have written about her! She’d never recognise herself as the unfeeling and acquisitive cow they painted her in print. But over the last few terrible days she has been forced to rethink her position and yes, she admits, she could have been more supportive when Mother begged to stay in the flat, on those various terrible occasions when she ran away from Greylands and they dragged her back against her will. Just like a child.

It hadn’t seemed so dreadful then; it had seemed like the only sensible option. How would they have paid for daily care when the local authority refused to help, when the experts said she should go into Greylands because of the expense? ‘I don’t need daily care,’ Frankie remembers her mother insisting. ‘Just leave me to get on with it. If I fall down and there’s no one around, so what? I’ve got to die of something, Frankie. If I set fire to myself with a fag the fire alarms will go off long before the fire can spread, and if I get burnt alive then there’s no need for you to feel guilty! If I get knocked over crossing the road, tiddly or not, then so be it. I like my gin and I’m not afraid, and whoever knocks me over can be reassured by knowing it was probably all my fault. I’ll even buy an alarm so that if I get ill all of a sudden I can contact someone and they can take me to hospital. What I want is to make my own decisions! Not have them torn out of my hands like this as if my opinion is suddenly not worth anything. There might well come a time when I need to go into a home,
but let me decide,
Frankie, please!’

It’s all down to guilt in the end, because what would everyone have said if something awful had happened to Mother and Frankie had ignored the advice of the experts? They would all have blamed her, wouldn’t they, would have said she was uncaring. Hah, that’s a laugh, they’re all blaming her anyway. How can you win? How the hell can anyone win these days, whatever they do?

She has been amazed by Irene’s courage. Mother is a far cry from the humble fool Frankie thought her. Mother is a powerful and independent woman. And after her brave protest, after she’s won the support of the world, how can Frankie continue to despise her feeble relationship with Dad? Quite clearly, that was Mother’s decision. She was not betraying her independence, she probably regrets it now, now she knows she can cope without him, but at the time there was possibly no other way. We all have to cope however we can—and how can you blame anyone else for choosing a different road?

Let’s face it, Frankie has to admit that her way hasn’t worked too well.

Frankie, so embarrassed, so mortified at first, as if Irene had come to school wearing an outlandish hat, has gradually come to feel proud of her mother. She’s a heroine. She’s a fighter. The children, Poppy and Angus, have been infected by Frankie’s attitude. If Frankie had been less critical of Irene over the years, the children would have followed her lead as children mostly do. Now that the sale of the flat has fallen through there is the chance of starting afresh, of getting to know each other again if Mother is prepared to do so. In future the experts can say what they like; in future Frankie is determined to try and listen to Mother.

‘We’re going to be there when The Queen comes, we’re going to be there to support her.’

‘They’ll only slag you off again, Mum.’

‘Well, I can put up with that—if you can.’

They pick up all the litter.

They erect barricades. They move the crowd behind them.

The large police presence in the small town of Swallowbridge is massively reinforced.

They clear the rest of Albany Buildings and Miss Benson and her press associates are forced to pack up and go. ‘For security purposes.’ Miss Benson regrets that all this excitement will soon be over and life will resume its boring old routines again. Although not quite… Her expertise has been recognised by several leading charities and Animal Aid have invited her to act as their Chief Press Officer, an opportunity she cannot turn down. Think of all the good she can do. She might, in the end, even make enough money to buy her own piece of land and start a small animal sanctuary—something she has dreamed of doing since childhood. She longs to tell Mrs Peacock about that. She hopes her old friend will survive this ordeal. Miss Benson stands at the front of the crowd and keeps her small fingers firmly crossed.

As the black, shiny motorcade makes its dignified way through the pressing crowds, a dainty gloved hand can be seen raised at the window of the second car. Some people give the occasional small shout of appreciation, but most are mute and waiting, watchful, for this is a tense and dramatic moment. Will Mrs Peacock be all right after this period of incarceration? Will she agree to come out? Will The Queen actually get out of the car and go and knock on her door, or will a hireling do it for her? Communal anxiety stirs. And what will happen to poor Mrs Peacock if she consents to be released? Will they haul her off to hospital like an astronaut returning to earth, for medical tests? And mental ones? And what if she should fail either?

At this, his proudest moment, the Mayor of Swallowbridge stands before the entrance of Albany Buildings resplendent in his golden chain. His wife made him wear white gloves, fearing The Queen might be concerned about picking up germs, as she herself is. The rest of the Council dignitaries have been advised to stay away, as it was their policies which caused the furore in the first place, and the security people are concerned that nothing should inflame the unpredictable crowd at this most sensitive stage. The few men beside the Mayor are either policemen or involved in Palace security.

The cars draw to a halt. Someone with experience steps forward and opens the door of the Queen’s car. She climbs out, her handbag on her arm, and surveys the scene with a mild look of interest. Journalists jabber over their phones and television cameramen jostle for position for this is quite unprecedented. Accompanied by two officials—one is a doctor in disguise—she walks calmly and purposefully towards the entrance of Albany Buildings and disappears inside.

The crowd leans forward and holds its breath; it hasn’t long to wait. In less than five minutes the Queen is on her way back, arm-in-arm with a wildish-looking Mrs Peacock. So she hadn’t stayed for a cup of tea. The Queen stands by as Mrs Peacock, her hair all over the place and stains down her cardigan, is helped into the limo and then She gets in beside her. The bullet-proof window on the crowd’s side rolls slowly down and out comes the stick with a hound’s-head handle which is waved triumphantly at all her loyal supporters.

A sigh passes over the people like a sharp shudder of wind in a wheatfield before cheers begin to break out and catch on until there’s a great roaring of approval. Flags, hidden away up jumpers just in case things should go wrong, come out and are waved energetically.
Somebody cares.
Somebody cares enough to go to the rescue of poor Mrs Peacock and take sides against the faceless men at the top. And that somebody is their Queen and Sovereign, the very spirit of the nation. Nobody cares much about the motive; all must be well because The Queen Herself has answered their prayers.

Mrs Peacock, and anyone else of that respectful, cap-doffing generation, would be the very last person to divulge what was said in that short journey by Daimler, so the press clamour for her secrets in vain. She has agreed to go to live at a very luxurious Home for the Elderly near Clitheroe, purchased by The Queen herself, to be run by a Trust along with several other large country houses planned for the same purpose. Here, the vulnerable elderly will be allowed to behave as eccentrically as they wish, to smoke, to drink, to dance, to sing, to make merry, to keep as many pets as they like—and good luck to them. Nobody will mention Meals-on-Wheels, nobody will mention Bingo, no schoolchildren will sing there at Christmas-time and no blanket squares will be allowed over the threshold. It is whispered that The Queen is planning to send some of her own elderly relatives there, but this could well be nothing more than gossip and rumour.

A
NYWAY.

Here we are then, bidding a final farewell to them all as our little company save one, RIP, trip along to their next encounter, promenading, circling and quickstepping across that embarrassing, slippery and overcrowded dance-floor of life. The next time we see the small, trim, unassuming person of Miss Benson will be on our television screens six months hence when she is called in to speak on behalf of Animal Aid, or raising funds in the short slot before the news on a Sunday. Still something of a national celebrity after her handling of the Swallowbridge Siege, and greatly praised for her managerial skills, she is in her element, organising, encouraging, beavering away on behalf of the animals she loves. Nobody is afraid of her and that is how she achieves so much. Nobody bothers to raise their defences while in Miss Benson’s unthreatening company and that is their undoing. She has found her rightful niche in life. She was born to be a moral crusader.

No more cautious shopping at C&A for Miss Benson, whose salary has risen a hundredfold since her straitened years with the vet. She would now be the envy of poor Joy Marsh, had she lived. But some people don’t care what they look like. Miss Benson could choose to buy her clothes from any boutique in London, and indeed she has a flat there, but her interests do not lie in self-promotion. A country girl at heart, she has her eye on a cottage with fifty acres on the Somerset border, a cottage with barns she can turn into cosy homes for animals in distress.

Of course she invited her friend, Mrs Peacock, to move there with her, should she go ahead with the deal, but Miss Benson already guessed the old lady would turn her down. However, an interesting approach has been made to her, completely out of the blue, by the probation services dealing with Jody Middleton. A Mr Jerome Tigley contacted her by letter after reading an article about Miss Benson in the
Mail on Sunday Magazine.

I have heard so much about you,
this letter read,
as has my client who followed with interest and admiration all your activities during the summer.

As you might already know, the charge of rape was dropped against him after the girl in question admitted that no coercion had been involved.

In fact, poor Janice Plunket, threatened by her father that she would no longer be allowed to live at the Centre away from home, confided in Mrs Maddison, a part-time worker at the Centre, that if only Jody was set free she would be willing to marry him straight away.

‘Marry him, Janice, dear?’ exclaimed that good woman. ‘How could you possibly agree to marry such an animal, after everything he did to you?’

Perhaps Janice was not as clever as was suspected on her various reports.

Janice sobbed, knowing that life at home would be constricted and dull, no freedom allowed, not even a trip to the shop. After the rape Daddy was naturally even more protective of her than normal. ‘But he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do,’ she cried, wiping her nose on her cardigan sleeve, ‘and I could have followed him home only I didn’t want to.’

‘But you never said this to anyone, Janice, not the police, not the counsellors, not the social workers,’ said a bewildered Mrs Maddison, wanting to shake the girl hard, ‘and you must have known, Janice, the trouble Jody was in.’

‘I wanted him to be in trouble,’ the girl snuffled on.

‘But why on earth would you want that, dear?’

‘Because I knew he didn’t really love me.’

‘Well, causing him all this harassment was hardly the way to change that, was it, Janice, surely?’ Mrs Maddison could hardly believe her ears. Janice’s surprise confession was so awful she was in two minds as to whether to pass it on, but eventually common decency got the better of her and she reported Janice’s last-minute retraction to the friendly Constable on the beat.