King Charles and Queen Camilla accept an invitation to stay
for dinner at the Manor. There is a lot to discuss now that Mrs Poo has agreed
it would be churlish not to accept the great honour that has been extended to
them to be custodians of the Royal Christmas. Indeed, she agrees, it would be
an honour to her distant relative who worked so hard at Buckingham Palace
during the war efforts.
‘You’ve changed your tune,’ says Mrs Miggins, as she and Mrs
Poo set about polishing the best silver cutlery at the request of Mrs Slocombe
who is now 100% certain that here is her golden opportunity to receive some
sort of honour for her cooking.
Mrs Poo sniffs. ‘There is no excuse for poor manners,’ she
says. ‘And who knows – I might be able to bring down the Establishment from within.’
‘That’s traitor talk,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Don’t even THINK
about it. The Palace and Sandringham House will probably be bugged up to the
eaves. You don’t want the secret services swooping in and carting you off to
the Tower, do you?’
Mrs Poo looks marginally disturbed. ‘Does that still
happen?’ she says. ‘Punishment for treason?’
‘Treason is still law,’ shrugs Mrs Miggins, vigorously buffing
a gherkin fork. ‘Although I think the chances of you ending up as chicken pie
are unlikely. More likely you’ll be sent to prison – FOREVER. Or returned to
the land of your ancestors. How does living out your life in a Russian gulag
sound?’
Mrs Poo swallows deeply. ‘Maybe I’ll hide my Jeremy Corbyn
posters,’ she says.
‘Very wise,’ says Mrs Miggins.
In the dining room, Queen Camilla is showing Mrs Slocombe
how to lay the table for a formal banquet. ‘But really,’ Camilla insists,
‘cheese and crackers on a tray in front of the telly is quite adequate for Charles
and I.’
‘Goodness me, no!’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I can’t allow that. I
mean, I can’t rustle up a six-course banquet at such short notice but I can do
better than cheese and crackers.’
‘You are very kind,’ smiles Camilla.
Meanwhile, Mrs Pumphrey and Ptolemy Pheasant are deep in
conversation with King Charles over the history of music hall theatre. King
Charles is very knowledgeable and, it turns out, a treasure trove of scandalous
stories going back to early Victorian times, which is right up Mrs Pumphrey’s
street.
‘Of course, when Gardenia Postlethwaite fell off the stage
during her rendition of ‘I Was Only the Hatmaker’s Daughter But I Knew How to
Handle a Pin’ and into the lap of the Duke of Cheddar, the course of history
was changed, and not necessarily for the better,’ says Charles, nudging Mrs
Pumphrey in the wing. ‘If you know what I mean!’
‘Goodness me!’ says a delighted Mrs Pumphrey. ‘How
enchanting! How trop de gai!’
‘Scandalous!’ says Ptolemy, dabbing tears of hilarity from
the corner of his eyes with his silk handkerchief.
At the sound of raucous laughter, Camilla looks up.
‘Charles!’ she says. ‘You’re not telling the story of Gardenia and Squiffy Cheddar
again, are you?’
‘No dear,’ says Charles, and he, Mrs Pumphrey and Ptolemy share
a conspiratorial tittering moment by the fireplace.
Later, after a rather nice dinner of leek and potato soup,
followed by steak and ale pie, and a bread- and-butter pudding, everyone helps
to clear the table which is then spread with a fresh cloth and becomes the
‘Plan of Christmas Action’ table.
‘I would offer to take minutes,’ says Charles, ‘but I have a
terrible history with exploding ink pens and I wouldn’t want to ruin your
lovely cloth.’
‘I’ll do the Minutes,’ says Mrs Miggins. She whips out her
laptop and opens a new spreadsheet. ‘Continue on!’
‘What’s the date?’ says Charles.
Camilla rolls her eyes. ‘30th November,’ she
says.
‘Ah yes, of course.’ says Charles. ‘Mind like a sieve these
days. Now then, Camilla and I are heading off for our holibobs on 1st
December, which is, er…tomorrow. Destination Top Secret, of course.’
‘Where’s that?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Somewhere in the
Caribbean?’
‘No, you idiot,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘His Majesty means the
destination is unknown to anyone.’
‘Then how will they know where to go?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Well, obviously THEY know where they are going, but no one
else does,’ sighs Mrs Poo. ‘Ye gods, how many martinis have you had?’
‘Only three,’ admits Mrs Pumphrey. ‘But they were enormous.’
‘Can we get back to the planning, please?’ says Mrs Miggins.
King Charles reaches into his pocket and produces a piece of
neatly folded paper. ‘I’ve made a list of everything that need managing,’ he
says, smoothing out the paper on the table. ‘It’s not too bad. Just the usual
Christmas stuff, really – sending cards, putting up decorations, sorting out
gifts, a few parties…’
‘This sounds excellent!’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Oh, and the annual Royal Christmas message for television
broadcast,’ adds King Charles.
‘This has been the only fly in the ointment,’ says Camilla.
‘I think people will notice if it isn’t the actual King delivering the
message.’
‘And I say we can get around it, with a bit of ingenuity,’
says King Charles. ‘All we need is someone who can pretend to be me. Someone
with a bit of gravitas tempered with a hint of flamboyance. Someone with
sartorial elegance and fine way with words.’
At that very minute, the front door bell rings and Mrs
Slocombe hurries off to answer it.
And I bet, dear Reader(s) you’ll NEVER guess who has turned
up at this most serendipitous of moments…
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