It is late November. All is quiet at Much Malarkey Manor.
Missus’ Miggins, Pumphrey, Slocombe and Poo are VERY much looking forward to a
calm and restful Christmas this year. Fat chance of THAT happening, says the
Lady Author…
‘King Charles is at the front door,’ announces Mrs Poo,
marching into the room where Mrs Miggins is currently ensconced. ‘He says would
we mind awfully if he had a quick word, thanks very much?’
‘King Charles?’ says Mrs Miggins, looking up from her work.
She is sitting in her new craft studio, which was added to
the footprint of Much Malarkey Manor during its rebuilding in 2023, after the
devastating fire that razed the old Manor to the ground just before Christmas
2022. She is trying not to lose her temper with a new machine which punches out
attractive shapes from cardboard for attaching to greetings cards. She has
already, somehow, managed to punch the shape of a jolly robin out of her best
smock top. Practical jokes á la Mrs Poo, then, are the last thing she needs.
Mrs Poo rolls her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she says, somewhat
impatiently. ‘King Charles the Third, Monarch of this Realm, Defender of the
Faith, gawd bless ‘im and all who sail in him. Shall I let him in? It’s a bit
nippy out and the tips of his ears look pink to the point of frostbite.’
Mrs Miggins, who is also knee-deep in raffia, various
colours of felt, and pots of glitter in her attempt to make some artisan Christmas
cards, narrows her eyes. ‘The ACTUAL King Charles?’ she says.
‘Oh well, if you don’t believe me, go and see for yourself,’
says Mrs Poo, airily. ‘Quite frankly, I have better things to do than stand
here waiting for you decide whether something is fact or not.’
‘THE KING IS HERE!!!!’ shrieks a voice at the doorway of the
studio, and the voice is swiftly followed by the appearance of Mrs Pumphrey wearing
a hastily assembled outfit of cream twinset with navy trim and a fascinator in
the shape of a petunia, the best she could rustle up at short notice for an
unexpected regal visit. ‘He is actually here!’ she puffs. ‘I found him on the
doorstep when I went to put out the milk bottles.’
‘See,’ says Mrs Poo, glaring at Mrs Miggins.
Mrs Miggins, who is more inclined to believe an hysterical Mrs
Pumphrey, especially when she is wearing a cream twinset, jumps to her feet,
scattering miniature pompoms everywhere. ‘Well, where is he now?’ she says,
making haste towards the craft room door.
‘Mrs Slocombe is entertaining him in the kitchen,’ says Mrs
Pumphrey.
‘In the KITCHEN??’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Is that the best she
could offer our esteemed monarch? The kitchen?? Why didn’t she take him into
the formal drawing room, for the love of St Brigid?’
‘She has some madeleines in the oven,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘They need keeping an eye on because it’s a very fine baking line between
perfectly spongy but with a delicately crisp surface, and burnt to a cinder.’
But Mrs Miggins can’t hear her. She has raced off down the
hallway at high speed, most impressive in fact for a hen that is now
approaching seventeen years old. At the door of the kitchen, which is slightly
ajar, she brakes to a sudden halt, smooths down her feathers and flicks a stray
Pritt Stick from her wing. Inside, she can hear Mrs Slocombe chatting away and
then an unmistakable voice responding with a big laugh. Taking a deep breath,
Mrs Miggins makes to step into the kitchen but is, instead, buffeted in by a
hotly-in-pursuit Mrs Pumphrey, whose braking ability is pretty non-existent,
especially in a pair of sling-backs.
‘And then I wrung it out and hung it over the fence. Took
three weeks to dry properly!’ says Mrs Slocombe.
King Charles, for yea verily, it is ACTUALLY him himself, is
wiping tears of hilarity from his eyes.
‘Betty, you are an absolute hoot!’ he says. ‘Three weeks to
dry out – hilarious!!’
‘Betty?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘First name terms already??’
‘Aah,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Your Majesty, may I introduce the
other lady residents of Much Malarkey Manor – Mrs Laetitia Miggins and Mrs
Gloria In Excelsis Deo Pumphrey.’
Mrs Pumphrey has already flumped into a massive curtsey and
resembles a collapsed feather duster only with more crêpe de chine. She has
been waiting all her life for this moment. ‘Your Majesty,’ she says, looking up
and grinning like a loon.
Mrs Miggins bobs a far more sedate greeting, on account of
her knees. ‘Your Majesty,’ she says, ‘what a great and quite unexpected
honour.’
King Charles has risen from his seat and shakes both hens
warmly by the wing. Mrs Miggins notices his jacket is covered in a light
dusting of madeleine crumbs. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both,’ he says. ‘And
I am sorry for the unannounced arrival but I wanted to travel incognito. I have
a special request to ask of you all and I don’t want to the Press to catch a
whiff of it. You know what they’re like…’
‘Scare-mongering, manipulative, holier-than-thou git faces?’
says Mrs Poo, who has appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Morning, Your Maj.’
‘This is Mrs Polovitska, Your Majesty,’ says Mrs Miggins,
grimacing slightly at her friend’s over-familiarity. ‘Also known as Mrs Poo. She
has no manners and votes Labour, but we forgive her because she’s jolly handy
with a spanner.’
‘As was my mother, the late Queen Elizabeth the Second,’
says King Charles.
‘Gawd rest her soul,’ chorus the hens.
There is a moment’s silence whilst everyone remembers what
an all-ground great gal was Queen Elizabeth.
‘Is Queen Camilla not with you, Sir?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Oh yes,’ says King Charles, waving his hand vaguely in the
direction of outside. ‘She was parking the Jaguar then went after some suspicious-looking
pheasant that was hanging around in your herbaceous borders.’
‘Oh, that’ll be Ptolemy,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘He isn’t a
threat to the herbs, Sir. He went out to pick some sage and thyme for me, for
the stuffing.’
‘Ah,’ says King Charles. ‘In that case, we might want to….’
‘Caught the little thief!’ comes a shout, and through the
back door of the kitchen bursts Queen Camilla, an hysterical pheasant caught in
an iron head-lock beneath her arm. ‘Helping himself to the herbs he was,’ Queen
Camilla continues. ‘Bold as brass. Even had a pair of those little herb
snipping scissors on him.’
‘Eeeuuurghhhhhh!’ says a semi-strangled Ptolemy, his eyes
bulging and his beak turning blue.
‘It’s all right Camilla,’ says King Charles, ‘you can let
him go. These ladies say they know him.’
Camilla looks reluctant to release her grip on her captured
quarry.
‘Camilla…LEAVE HIM!’ says Charles.
‘Well, really, Charles,’ says Camilla, releasing the
unfortunate Ptolemy and brushing down her coat. ‘There’s no need to SHOUT!’
Mrs Miggins has been watching all the action in stunned
silence. Sometimes, she thinks, you get up in the morning and the day never
pans out how you expect it to.
‘What is it exactly we can do for your Majesties?’ she says,
when all the hubbub has died down and Mrs Slocombe has made another pot of tea.
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