‘I’ll come straight out with it,’ says His Maj, because straight-talking is always the best way ahead. ‘Camilla and I are going away on holiday for the Christmas season.’
‘Tomorrow, in fact,’ says Camilla. ‘I say, these madeleines
are jolly nice. You must let me have the recipe…’
‘Yes, tomorrow,’ says Charles, attempting to regain mastery
of the conversation, although Mrs Miggins suspects that this is a rare thing in
his marriage. Camilla definitely looks like she is in charge of the biggest and
best Royal trousers. ‘And we need some reliable sorts to manage the Royal
Christmas for us.’
‘What about your son and his wife?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘More
tea, Your Majesty?’
‘Oh, I say, thanks very much,’ says Charles, handing over
his cup. ‘Well, that depends on the son and wife combo of which you speak. The
heir and his missus have quite enough on their plate this year without managing
Christmas, too.’
‘And the spare pair are quite unsuitable,’ says Camilla, a
look of soft steel glinting in her eyes.
‘Quite,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘What was it King Lear said? ‘How
sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child?’’
King Charles nods. The hens can see that he is quite weary
with all the cross-Atlantic drama that’s been going on. ‘Let sleeping dogs
lie,’ he says, and Camilla places a gentle hand on his arm. The King shakes his
head. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, in a brighter ‘moving onwards’ tone, ‘I have it
on very good authority that you lady hens would be the perfect custodians of a
Royal Christmas. Would you do us the honour of moving into Buckingham Palace
and running the Royal Christmas Show until Boxing Day?’
‘We could rename it Cluckinghen Palace,’ says Mrs
Pumphrey, who enjoys a good pun.
‘No, we could not,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘We are beyond that
kind of chicken cliché, thank you very much.’
Mrs Pumphrey looks disappointed but it was worth a try.
‘And then, of course, you’d need to move to Sandringham
House on Christmas Eve for Christmas Day,’ says Charles. ‘It’s the traditional home of the Royal Christmas.’
‘You mean, Sandring – hen House, surely?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Stop it, Gloria!’ says Mrs Miggins. She turns her attention
to the Royal couple, who are in the process of polishing off a couple more
madeleines each, much to the delight of Mrs Slocombe who is wondering if she
can be cheeky and ask for a Royal Warrant.
‘Sir,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘May I enquire about the source of
your authority? You said something about a Royal recommendation? From whom and when and where?’
‘Ah, well,’ says King Charles, recrossing his legs and
shifting to his other royal buttock, ‘it’s a story that goes way back to the
Second World War and starts with my mother, Queen Elizabeth, or Princess
Elizabeth as she was then. As part of the war effort, the gardens of Buckingham
Palace were dug up for the growing of vegetables and the such like, and a
significant area was also set aside for the keeping of hens…’
‘…what with eggs being rationed,’ chimes in Camilla.
‘Yes,’ says Charles. ‘And Mummy, the Princess, was very keen
on hen-keeping so a dozen chickens were brought into the Palace with the idea
that they would supplement the kitchens with their eggs.’
‘Sounds very practical,’ says Mrs Miggins, whose own
great-great-great grandhen was so committed to the war effort that she never
took time off laying over Winter, installing a light bulb over her head that
stayed on all night in order to stimulate her ovaries. (N.B Don’t try this at
home. No good will come of it. Especially if it’s a red light bulb.) She had
tried using a candle at first, but the wax dripped on her. However, her experience of being
dripped on by wax and its ensuing depilatory effect on her feathers lead to her
creating the new beauty treatment ‘Wax On, Feathers Off.’ Or WOFO, as it became
known.
The Lady Author digresses…
‘The hens were all given names,’ says King Charles, ‘and
Mummy kept a diary of their characters and laying habits. And one of the hens
turns out to be a direct descendant of one of you good ladies!’
‘I think you’ll find all hens are related in some way, shape
or form,’ mutters Mrs Poo, who has been sitting at the back of the kitchen
feeling conflicted because she has always maintained a republican stance and
yet she is finding the presence of royalty somewhat enchanting.
‘Ooooh,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘Do tell! Which of us has royal
connections?’
‘Shouldn’t that be ‘conn-egg-tions??’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Oh, very good,’ says Camilla.
King Charles rolls his eyes. ‘Our connection to you is
through the line of you, Mrs Polovitska,’ he smiles, looking at Mrs Poo.
There is a gasp as all the hens and Ptolemy Pheasant turn to
face Mrs Poo. Mrs Poo, in turn, takes on a bright pink hue. Here’s a real moral
dilemma for her – Republican at heart, but with genuine Royal connections in
her blood.
And, as if driven by some innate force, Mrs Poo finds
herself standing up and bowing. ‘This is indeed an honour…your Majesties,’ she
says.
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