Free The Queen and I by Sue Townsend Page A

Queen of England and the Commonwealth at the door. The Queen explained her dilemma, stressing her mother’s great age.
    “I’ll help you outta’ your trouble, woman. I see your son bein’ took by the police, bringin’ shame on his family.”
    The Queen, humbled, muttered her thanks and went to break the news to her mother that she would not be spending the night alone; Mrs Philomena Toussaint, former hospital cleaner, teetotaller and Episcopalian, would be sitting by the gas fire in the living room next door; but there were four conditions. While she was in the house, there was to be no drinking, gambling, drug taking or blasphemy. The Queen Mother agreed to these conditions and the two old women were introduced.
    “We met before, in Jamaica,” said Philomena. “I was wearing a red dress and wavin’ a little flag.”
    The Queen Mother played for time. “Ah now, what year would that be?” she said.
    Philomena rummaged about in her memory. The ticking of the Sèvres clock on the dressing table served to accentuate the distance and the time that the two old women were trying to bridge.
    “1927?” said the Queen Mother, vaguely remembering a West Indian Tour.
    “So you remember me?” Philomena was pleased. “Your husband, what’s ’s name?”
    “George.”
    “Yes, that’s the one, George. I was sorry when he was took by God.”
    “Yes, so was I,” admitted the Queen Mother. “I was rather cross with God at the time.”
    “When God took my husband away, I stopped goin’ to church,” admitted Philomena. “The man beat me and took me money for drink, but I missed him. Did George beat you?” The Queen Mother said no, that George had never beaten her, that, having been beaten himself as a child, he hated violence. He was a dear, sweet man and he hadn’t particularly enjoyed being King.
    “See,” said Philomena, “that’s why the Lord took him; to give the man some peace.”
    The Queen Mother settled back onto the fine linen pillowcases and closed her eyes, and Philomena took off her outdoor clothing and sat by the fire on a fine gilt armchair, relishing the free heat.

    Charles was allowed to make one phone call. Diana was emulsioning the kitchen walls when the phone rang. A constipated voice said, “Mrs Teck? Tulip Road Police Station here. Your husband is on the line.” She heard Charles’s voice, “Listen, I’m awfully sorry about all this.”
    Diana said, “Charles, I couldn’t believe it when Wilf Toby came round and said you’d been fighting in the street. I was painting the bathroom. Aqua Green looks stupendous , by the way – I’m going to try and get a matching shower curtain. Anyway, I had my Sony on and missed all the excitement. You being arrested, thrown in the black maria; but I let the boys stay up and watch the rest of the riot. Oh, that boy Warren came round with the video. I paid him fifty quid.”
    Charles said, “But I paid him fifty quid.”
    Diana carried on as though he hadn’t spoken, he had never heard her so animated.
    “It works beautifully. I’m going to watch Casablanca before I go to bed.”
    Charles said, “Listen, darling, it’s frightfully important, could you phone our solicitor for me? I’m about to be charged with affray.”
    Diana heard a voice say, “That’s enough, Teck, back to your cell.”
    11 Knob
    Charles was sharing a cell with a tall thin youth called Lee Christmas. When Charles entered the cell, Lee turned his lugubrious face, stared at Charles and said, “You Prince Charles?”
    Charles said, “No, I’m Charlie Teck.”
    Lee said, “Watcha in for?”
    Charles said, “Affray and assaulting a police officer.”
    “Yeah? Bit posh for that, ain’t yer?”
    Charles diverted this uncomfortable line of questioning and asked, “You are er … in for?”
    “I stole a knob.”
    “Stole a knob?” Charles pondered on this. Was it a piece of arcane criminal jargon? Had Mr Christmas committed some unsavoury type of sexual offence? If so,