The Not Forgotten Party guests are arriving at Buckingham
Palace. Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo have joined Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Slocombe, and
they are busy taking coats, pointing out directions to the toilets and asking
who would like a nice cup of tea. Mrs Miggins is taking fish and chip orders,
which the guests are thrilled about, because who doesn’t like a nice fish and
chip supper over tiny sandwiches and nibbly things on sticks?
‘I’m always a bit suspicious of those can o’ peas,’ says one
guest, a chap of elder years who insists on announcing to all and sundry that,
‘I’m eighty-three, you know.’
‘Canapés?’ suggests Mrs Slocombe.
‘That’s the badger,’ says the elder gentleman. ‘They’re very
small. When you’re eighty-three you need something chunky that won’t get stuck
in your dentures or make you choke. Fish and chips are just the ticket!’
Mrs Slocombe is very pleased, because at this point in
proceedings, fish and chips are the only option.
‘Right,’ says Mrs Miggins, appearing from the crowd. ‘I
think that’s everyone’s orders. I’ll ring them through to the chippy, and Betty,
will you and Gloria go to collect them? Mrs Poo and I will host until you
return and then,’ and she lowers her voice, ‘we have something important to do
regarding you-know-what.’
‘Yes, what exactly IS going on regarding the you-know-what?’
says Mrs Slocombe.
Mrs Miggins taps the side of her beak with the tip of her
wing. ‘It’s all in hand,’ she says. ‘At least, I think it is. Mrs Poo seems
very confident that her great-great-great grandhen, the Grand Duchess
Yekaterina, knows exactly what she is doing. We shall have the kidnappers
eaten, I mean, beaten, and Kenneth returned to us by tonight, which leaves
us a couple of days to make the recording of the Christmas Day speech.’
Mrs Slocombe nods slowly. ‘And how is this rescue going to
happen?’ she says. ‘And what do you mean, ‘eaten’?’
Mrs Miggins opens her beak to speak, thinks, and then closes
it again. She scratches her head. ‘Probably best you don’t know,’ she says, and
when she sees Mrs Slocombe looking decidedly cross about being kept in the
dark, adds, ‘I’ll tell you about it when it’s all over.’
‘Humph!’ says Mrs Slocombe. She turns her back on Mrs
Miggins. ‘Come along, Gloria!’ she says to Mrs Pumphrey. ‘We have a fish and
chip order to collect.’ And she and Mrs Pumphrey flounce off up the corridor, flounce
left, flounce up another corridor, flounce right, then right again and exit the
Palace through the servants’ entrance. Flouncing.
In the Throne Room, the King Phantomime is geared up and
ready to go, eager to play his part in the grand plan to secure his own release
from the Granarchist and her albeit small band of rebels. He has been wandering
casually around the Throne Room, looking at the paintings and the architectural
features and, at one point, he walks across a slight indent in the carpet which
he is pretty certain must be the trapdoor to the crocodile pit.
‘Aha!’ he says, just a little too loudly.
The Granarchist, who is regretting eating the pickled onions
that went with the ploughman’s supper because they are starting to repeat on
her, pricks up her ears.
‘Aha what?’ she says, marching over to stand in front of the
King Phantomime and, coincidentally, right on top of the trap door. ‘What are
you aha-ing about?’
The Phantomime tries to look casual. ‘Oh, nothing in
particular,’ he says. ‘Just thinking about rearranging the art work in this
room, and wondering which painting will suit which position.’
The Granarchist snorts. ‘You don’t need to worry about
that,’ she says. ‘All these paintings will be sold off to fund the new
Republican State.’
The Phantomime is wondering if he could be fleet enough of
foot to get from where he is standing and to the throne, so he can pull the
lever and send the Granarchist to her crocodilian end. That’d be good, he
thinks. I’d be the hero of my own rescue! The idea appeals enormously to his
ego. He’d definitely give himself a medal if he could succeed in that mission.
But having spent time in the company of the Granarchist, he
knows she is an extremely highly-strung and volatile individual, and any sudden
movement on his part might trigger goodness-knows-what kind of response. What
would King Charles do, he thinks? King Charles would bide his time.
‘Well,’ he says, smiling. ‘That saves me a job, eh?’
‘Just go and sit down,’ says the Granarchist. She is
becoming irritated by the King’s calm and casual manner. ‘The ransom note has
been delivered and although the Press are being remarkable quiet about the news
I am confident we shall have a response very soon.’
An air of rebellion is beginning to rise in the Throne Room.
Or maybe it’s the after-effects of the pickled onions.
An air of rebellion is also rising in the room where the Not
Forgotten Party is being held. The Palace staff are deeply unhappy with the
whole fish and chip catering arrangements and that, along with their
disgruntlement about the individual Christmas puddings and ridiculous chocolate
gifts, has finally overcome their sense of loyalty to the Monarchy.
‘We are NOT serving fish and chips,’ says the
Chief-of-Staff. ‘This is NOT a standard to which we are accustomed to working. I
am going to call His Real Royal Majesty and inform him of the travesty that is
occurring in his esteemed name.’
Mrs Miggins is horrified. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Please wait – the
guests are really enjoying the idea of fish and chips…’
‘THAT is NOT the issue here,’ snaps the Chief-of-Staff. ‘The
issue is that standards are not being maintained and we are not happy.’
And from somewhere near the crowd of gathered staff comes a
chant, quiet at first but increasing quickly in volume…
‘Chickens, chickens, chickens…out, out, out…chickens,
chickens, chickens…out, out, out…chickens out, chickens out…chickens, chickens,
chickens…out, out, OUT!!’
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