Free Queen Camilla by Sue Townsend Page A

his rarely seen smiles. ‘I’m all right, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m champion.’
    The Queen led him into the front room; it was the closest she had ever been to Grice. His face and scalp showed the evidence of a life lived in violent confrontation; knives, knuckles and broken bottles had embedded themselves in Grice as he had battled and cheated his way to riches. The Queen did not ask him to sit down and they stood facing each other, Grice’s bulk towering over the Queen’s slight frame.
    The Queen said, ‘How may I help you, Mr Grice?’
    Grice said, ‘It’s not so much me I’ve come about, Ma’am. It’s my wife, Sandra.’
    The Queen nodded.
    Grice rumbled on. ‘I don’t know if you are aware, Ma’am, but Sandra runs herself ragged for ’er charities.’
    ‘And what are your wife’s charities?’ asked the Queen.
    Grice said, ‘She’s the one what started VOICE.’
    ‘Voice?’ queried the Queen.
    Grice said, slowly and carefully, ‘Victims Of Incompetent Silicone Enhancement.’ He then added, ‘She ’ad a boob job what went wrong. One of ’er boobs is twice the size of the other. She’s lopsided for life.’
    Grice dropped his head and stared gloomily at the floor.
    The Queen murmured, ‘How very unfortunate.’
    Grice said, ‘An’ she does a lot of work with teenage boys.’
    ‘Very admirable,’ said the Queen, who had often seen Mrs Grice driving around the estate playing pounding music in her cabriolet with various louts in the front passenger seat. Mrs Grice had been cosmetically enhanced to such a degree that she looked like a suntanned trainee astronaut undergoing G-force training.
    The Queen said, ‘And your point is, Mr Grice?’
    Grice said, ‘You wun’t believe the grief she gets from some people. They’re jealous of course, she’s a beautiful woman an’ she ain’t ashamed to show her body off. Some people put it about that she’s a slag. I had ’em dealt with, but if she was Lady Grice she’d feel a bit better about herself.’
    The Queen muttered, ‘No doubt.’
    Grice said, ‘So if you could see yourself honouring her like.’
    The Queen played for time, saying, ‘Perhaps, in the future…’
    Grice said, ‘Couldn’t you give me a knighthood, now, while I’m here. I’ve gotta sword in the boot of the Rolls.’
    The Queen said, ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Grice. There is a procedure to be followed… advisory committees.’
    Grice said, ‘But you’ll be the Queen again soon. If you wanted to honour a local philanthropist what’s overcome all the odds to run the biggest scaffolding business in the Midlands an’ who owns an Exclusion Zone, who could stop you?’
    The Queen looked up into Grice’s scarred face and said, ‘I’m afraid my answer is no, Mr Grice.’
    ‘No?’ said Grice, who rarely heard the word. ‘But I’m the biggest employer on this estate. I break my back for charity. It was me what funded the academy.’
    The Queen said, ‘We live in an age when every citizen is of equal worth, Mr Grice. I no longer have the power or, quite frankly, the inclination to grant your wish.’
    Grice said, ‘But I set your grandson on as a scaffolder.’
    The Queen said, ‘I’m sure William is an excellent scaffolder. He’s a very conscientious boy.’
    Grice said, more to himself than to the Queen, ‘She’s ordered new address cards with Sir Arthur and Lady Grice and a coat of arms on ’em. Three scaffolding poles in a triangular configuration with a rampant lion and a panda bear in the centre; she loves pandas.’
    The Queen said, ‘It was somewhat premature of your wife to have ordered new stationery, Mr Grice.’
    ‘She’s an impulsive woman,’ said Grice.
    He was not looking forward to going home to his restored watermill and telling his wife that he had failed to secure her an honour. She was high maintenance, he thought. He’d spent two hundred and fifty grand on doing the Old Mill up, and his wife was already banging on that