‘What on EARTH is going on?’ says Mrs Slocombe, as she and
Mrs Pumphrey return to the party with two trolley-loads of fish and chip suppers.
Spending time amongst the warmth and lovely smells of a
British fish and chip shop has improved her mood enormously but that good mood
takes a nose-dive when she finds the Not Forgotten Party in total disarray. The
Palace Staff are marching around the edge of the room chanting loudly and
waving a few hastily scrawled banners made from table cloths and linen napkins.
The guests of the Not Forgotten Party have barricaded themselves in the centre
of the room, using all the tables and chairs as a make-shift fortress. There is
a lot of shouting going on, mostly about chickens and being hungry, although
the Lady Author hastens to add that the two are in no way connected.
‘It’s all gone a bit mad,’ says Mrs Miggins, who is perched
high on a side board and defending herself with a pair of rather fine silver
Georgian candlesticks. ‘The staff is rebelling and the guests are unhappy with
the wait for food. Some of them are already writing poor reviews on Trip
Advisor…’
Mrs Pumphrey, who is in charge of the trolley containing the
battered sausage option, immediately blames herself. ‘I should never have
presented those chocolate bow-ties and fascinators,’ she wails.
‘Nonsense,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘We did our best.’
‘Clearly our best is not good enough,’ says Mrs Miggins. She
glances around. ‘Can you see Mrs Poo anywhere? I lost her in the meleé about
five minutes ago. I hope she’s okay.’
‘Mrs Poo is more than capable of holding her own in a
rebellion,’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘It’s who else’s she’s holding that worries me,’ says Mrs
Miggins.
Yet Mrs Poo is, indeed, okay. She has escaped the room and
is running around the corridors in search of help.
‘Grand Duchess Yekaterina!’ she calls. ‘Great-great-great
grandhen – where are you? We need help!’
‘I should bloomin’ vell zay zo,’ says a voice, and the Grand
Duchess appears in front of Mrs Poo. ‘Vot a noise! Vot a mess! Can’t you even
manage a few staff and run a party vizout all zis chaos?’
‘It appears not, Grand Duchess,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘How we are
going to rescue the Phantomime when all this is going on, I don’t know.’
The Grand Duchess huffs. ‘I have spoken viz your Phantomime.
He has a qvick brain and he iz prepared to play hiz part in ze plan. But ve can
turn zis impromptu rebellion to our advantage, my great-great-great grandhen
daughter. Us Poos are resourceful and very good at zinking on our feet. Go back
to ze party room and announce zat ze King has been kidnapped and iz being held
hostage in ze Throne Room by highly dangerous anarchists.’
Mrs Poo looks at the Grand Duchess as if she is mad. ‘Are
you MAD?’ she says. ‘The Palace staff knows that the Phantomime isn’t the real
King Charles. They’re not bothered about what happens to Kenneth.’
‘Aah,’ says the Grand Duchess, ‘but ze party guests don’t
know. And vot do members of ze British Armed Forces promise ven zay join up?’
Mrs Poo automatically straightens her back and salutes. ‘To be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty King
Charles III, His Heirs and Successors and they will, as in duty bound, honestly
and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, in Person, Crown
and Dignity?’ she says.
‘Exactly!’ says the Grand Duchess, triumphantly. ‘And can I
zay zat, for a professed Republican, it iz very odd zat you can recite zat
oath. Anyway, ze Palace staff vill also vant to save face. And keep zeir jobs.
Just go and make ze announcement. See vot happens. I suspect ve vill have a
very pleasing outcome to all zis chaos.’
Well, Mrs Poo realises that, given the circumstances,
there’s no other choice than to trust in her great-great-great grandhen and do
as she is told. Therefore, she turns on her chicken heels and races back to the
party room. The ruckus and noise is incredible and even though Mrs Slocombe and
Mrs Pumphrey have distributed the fish and chips in an attempt to placate at
least half of the rabble, all that has achieved is to create more squabbles
about who’s got the biggest haddock.
Mrs Poo climbs on a chair. ‘THE KING HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED!!’
she shouts at the top of her chicken voice. ‘He is being held hostage in the
Throne Room by a gang of ruthless and highly dangerous anarchists! The King has
been KIDNAPPED!!!!!!!’
A sudden hush descends on the room.
‘He’s not the real King, you idiot!’ shouts the Chief-of-Staff.
‘It’s only your pretend AI King.’
‘What do you mean, ‘e’s not the real King?’ says one of the
party guests, whom, for the sake of continuity, we shall call Bert. ‘Of course ‘e’s
the real King. I saw ‘im being crowned in the Abbey, so I did. Saw it with my
own eyes. What are you? Some kind of traitor, telling us Charles ain’t the real
King??’
Another stunned silence. All the hens hold their breath,
which makes Mrs Pumphrey feel a bit dizzy.
And then…
‘GOD SAVE THE KING!!’ shouts Bert, and his cry is taken up
by more and more guests and staff until the whole room is chanting and the size
of a person’s haddock no longer matters.
‘To the Throne Room!’ shouts Mrs Poo, taking quick advantage
of the sudden change in mood.
‘To the Throne Room!’ echoes Bert. ‘Come on, fellow service
men and women! Our King needs us!’
And, like a herd of wildebeest stampeding across the plains,
the party guests charge en masse from the room, sweeping up the Palace staff in
their wake, and the Palace staff go along with the charge because it would seem
churlish not to, and probably a bit disloyal to the Monarch who pays their
salaries.
‘Well, that did the trick, didn’t it?’ says Mrs Poo, wings on
hips and looking very pleased with herself.
‘Told you zo,’ says the Grand Duchess Yekaterina.
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