A Right Royal Revelation!

 

It is late in the evening of what has turned out to be a very long and trying day. The hens congregate for supper and a progress debrief.

‘Well, says Mrs Miggins, ‘the drawing room is all set up for the arrival of the film crew and is looking very Christmassy yet also very tasteful – thank you, Mrs Pumphrey,’ and she inserts a big green tick into her spreadsheet. Job done! 

Mrs Pumphrey executes a curtsey from her chair which is no mean feat for a hen wearing enormous bloomers.

‘How’s the Christmas card writing going?’ says Mrs Miggins, turning to Mrs Poo, as this has been a niggly worry in the back of her mind all day, especially when she went to find Mrs Poo earlier in the day and couldn’t track down her hereabouts or whereabouts at all.

Mrs Poo toys with her Croque Monsieur á la Buckingham Palace. ‘Erm…’ she begins.

‘Erm?’ shrieks Mrs Miggins. ’What do you mean, ‘erm’? The van is arriving tomorrow morning expecting to collect eight hundred and fifty signed and sealed Royal Christmas cards. You can’t start a sentence with ‘erm’.’

‘All will be well,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Don’t worry about it. The job is in hand. There is absolutely NOTHING to worry about.’

Unfortunately, Mrs Miggins knows from previous experience that when Mrs Poo says there is nothing to worry about, what she really means is that there is everything to worry about. She abandons her plate of Frog Wellington á la Buckingham Palace, and stands up.

‘Right!’ she says. ‘Show me the finished Christmas cards IMMEDIATELY!’

‘I’m sure Mrs Poo has everything under control,’ intercedes Mrs Slocombe, who is thoroughly enjoying her Tarte de Garlic Snail á la Buckingham Palace and can’t be doing with any dramas or indigestion. ‘Let’s stay calm and enjoy our supper, shall we?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is beak-deep in a jacket potato with cheese and baked beans - á la Buckingham Palace.

But Mrs Miggins’ mind is made up. ‘I shan’t sleep tonight unless I know all those cards are ready to be delivered on time,’ she says.

Mrs Poo looks a tad affronted. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she says.

‘No,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I don’t trust anyone. I don’t trust politicians, train drivers, people who wear orange, anyone involved in telecommunications, lizards with swivelly eyes, or estate agents in blue polyester suits called Xavier. And I especially don’t trust YOU at this moment in time.’

Mrs Poo sighs. ‘Seriously, Laetitia – all will be ready for the arrival of the collection van tomorrow morning. I have a team of, er, people working on it at this very minute…’

‘You have a team of people??’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘How have you managed to accrue a team of people? And why, ‘er, people’? Seriously, Mrs Poo, if this goes wrong, I will never EVER let you forget it. I shall haunt you to the end of time and beyond. With every delivery of a Christmas card at the Manor from here on in, I shall say, ‘Do you remember the Christmas of 2024, when you right royally messed up the Royal Christmas Card tradition?’

‘All right!!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘You give me no option but to break a promise I made this afternoon to, well, to someone who said they would haunt me in a similar way if I broke that promise, but quite frankly, Laetitia, I am more bothered by your exacting revenge than hers.’

‘Hers?’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘My great-great-great grandhen, the Grand Duchess Yekaterina of Polovitska,’ says Mrs Poo, jutting forward her beak.

‘But she’s…’

‘…dead?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Yes, I suppose technically she is. But she isn’t.’

‘Make up your mind,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘You can’t have it both ways. She’s either dead, or a ghost, or the longest living hen in the history of poultry.’

Mrs Pumphrey is agog with sudden excitement. ‘She’s a ghost, isn’t she?’ she says, coming over all Madame Arcarti. ‘You’ve met the ghost of your great-great-great grandhen, and she is helping you with the Christmas cards. How thrilling!!’

There! Mrs Pumphrey is exactly the hen you want on your side when declaring matters other-worldly. She is a hen who has full confidence in the eternity of life’s energies and she doesn’t care who knows it. Mrs Poo is suddenly grateful to have her as an ally, and is thusly emboldened.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘As a matter of fact, that’s EXACTLY what has happened.’

Mrs Pumphrey claps her wings. ‘Oh, how gloriously romantic! Honestly, Laetitia,’ she continues, turning to Mrs Miggins, ‘you really have nothing to worry about. Have faith.’

Mrs Miggins looks around the table. Everyone is sitting enjoying their supper and no-one bar her seems to be at all perturbed that the Royal Christmas cards are being attended to by someone who might be a bona fide ghost with competent organisational skills, or who equally might be a figment of Mrs Poo’s imagination. She reaches across the table and sniffs the contents of Mrs Poo’s wine glass.

‘Lucozade,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘It’s been a long and exhausting day.’