Free The Queen and I by Sue Townsend

knew about stitch-ups in the locker room, he had never been a party to one himself. “Now look here,” he said. He touched the sleeve of her anorak.
    The small group moved as one, blocking Charles’s entrance to the back of the van. What he now saw was a policeman gripping the arm of a hugely-pregnant young woman who was struggling to be free. He had read accounts of police brutality. Could they possibly be true?
    PC Ludlow was now in the centre of the little mob of shouting, shrieking women. If he wasn’t careful, he would be knocked off his feet. He hung onto the sleeve of the pregnant woman, whom he now believed to be called Marilyn, according to the shouts of the other members of the mob. Even as he was swayed this way and that, he rehearsed what he would write in his report, because this had now become an “incident”. Reams of paper stretched ahead of him.
    Charles stood on the edge of the group. Should he intervene? He had a reputation for his conciliatory skills. He was convinced that, given the chance, he could have ended the miners’ strike. He had wanted to join the University Labour Club at Cambridge, but had been advised against it by Rab Butler. Charles saw Beverley Threadgold slam her front door and race across the road. Her white lycra top, red miniskirt and bare, blue legs gave her the look of a voluptuous union flag.
    She ploughed into the group, shouting, “Leave our Marilyn alone, you cowin’ pig.”
    PC Ludlow now saw himself in court giving evidence, because Beverley was grappling with him, had him down on the ground. His face was pressed into the pavement, which stank of dogs and cats and nicotine. She was sitting on his back. He could hardly breathe; she was a big woman. With a mighty effort he threw her off. He heard her head hit the ground, then her cry of pain.
    “Then, your honour,” said the running commentary in his brain, “I was aware of a further weight on my back, a man whom I now know to be the former Prince of Wales. This man seemed to be making a frenzied attack on my regulation police overcoat. When asked to stop, he said words to the effect of – ‘I stood by during the miners’ strike, this is for Orgreve.’ At that point, your honour, Inspector Holyland arrived with reinforcements and several people were arrested, including the former Prince of Wales. The riot was eventually stopped at eighteen hundred hours.”
    During the riot, the remaining contents of the box van were stolen by Warren Deacon and his small brother, Hussein. The Gainsboroughs, Constables and assorted sporting oils were sold to the landlord of the local pub, the Yuri Gagarin, for a pound each. Mine host was refurbishing the smoke room, turning it Olde Worlde. The paintings would look all right next to the warming pans and horns of plenty stuffed with dried flowers.
    Later, the Queen tried to comfort her mother on her loss by saying, “I’ve got a nice Rembrandt; you can have that. It would look nice over the fireplace; shall I fetch it, Mummy?”
    “No, don’t leave me, Lilibet. I can’t be left; I’ve never been alone.” The Queen Mother clutched her elder daughter’s hand.
    Night had long since fallen. The Queen was tired, she craved the oblivion of sleep. It had taken forever to undress her mother and prepare her for bed and there was still so much to do . Ring the police station, comfort Diana, prepare a meal for Philip and herself. She longed to see Anne. Anne was a bulwark.
    She could hear inane studio audience laughter through the wall. Perhaps the next-door neighbour would stay with her mother until she went to sleep? She gently withdrew her mother’s hand and, under the guise of giving Susan a bowl of Go-dog in the kitchen, she quietly let herself out of the bungalow and went next door and rang the bell.
    Philomena answered the door wearing her coat, hat, scarf and gloves.
    “Oh,” said the Queen. “Are you going out?”
    “No, I just come in,” lied Philomena, shocked to see the