The Palace staff have gathered in the enclosed courtyard at
the back of the Palace. It’s the traditional place for them all to meet in
order to receive their puddings and gifts a) because there are a lot of staff members and it’s less of a squash and b) it keeps all their mucky feet from trampling
over the carpets. The atmosphere is generally convivial and there is an air of
excited expectation because one of the highlights is actually meeting the King
and Queen properly and not whilst in passing as they go about daily business.
There is a moment of disappointment, then, when instead of
the King and Queen emerging from the Palace, the staff is greeted by two hens.
Although the staff is aware that the King and Queen are away on their secret holiday, a rumour had been circulating that they might make a brief return for the giving out of the presents, such was the strength of the tradition.
‘Good morning, everyone!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, trying at least to look regal in a pink chiffon two-piece but looking more like Barbara Cartland in a high wind. ‘Thank you for gathering so promptly. As you
know, we have the Not Forgotten Party this afternoon and our guests will be
arriving soon. But now is YOUR time, when you receive a little Royal thank-you for
all your service over the past year.’
The gathered staff emit a gentle round of applause. They do
like to be appreciated.
‘First of all, in keeping with tradition, there are your
Christmas puddings,’ says Mrs Slocombe, and she points to a barrow to one side
of the courtyard. ‘Please help yourself to one as you leave.’
The staff look at the barrow, then back at the Mrs Slocombe,
then back at the barrow. One of the butlers raises a hand.
‘Excuse me,’ he says. ‘But they seem rather…er…small…’
‘Yes!’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘They are special individual
Christmas puddings. How quaintly bijou is that?’
(You’ve got to hand it to Mrs Slocombe – she can be positive
about pretty much everything.)
‘That’s not going to feed my family of six come Christmas
Day,’ mutters one of the under-housekeepers. ‘We’d be lucky to get a teaspoon
each.’
There are moments of assent around her, and mutterings
begin to spread throughout the gathered staff.
‘And here are your gifts!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, becoming aware
of the change in atmosphere and, therefore, the need to make her speech quickly. ‘Bow ties for the gents and fascinators for the
ladies. All hand-crafted in the finest chocolate by moi. You’ll never find
anything as unique in the shops…’
Someone near the front of the crowd takes a neatly
gift-wrapped box from the pile and tears off the paper. ‘What is THIS?’ he says. ‘Call
THIS a Christmas gift?’
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, taking a
step backwards.
‘It’s an insult, that’s what it is,’ says the disgruntled
man. Other staff members have, by now, helped themselves to a gift, and the
atmosphere is no longer convivial. Words like ‘appalling’, ‘cheapskate’ and
‘tat’ are circulating amongst the crowd. Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey are
backing away to the safety of the door behind them. The unmistakable scent of
rebellion is spreading through the air.
And then the Chief-of-Staff steps forward and the crowd
settle into silence. In a very calm and clear voice, she begins to speak.
‘Now,’ she says. ‘We know that their Majesties have taken a
much-needed break and that you hens have been trying your best to manage the
Royal Christmas, but these puddings and gifts are way below the standard we
normally expect. However, because we are professional people and we have some
honoured party guests due very soon expecting a good party, we shall over-look
this error of judgement for now. But don’t think we’ll forget it. Because we
won’t.’
‘Here, here,’ chorus the staff.
The Chief-Of-Staff nods, then turns on her heel and leads
the rest of the staff out of the courtyard in a stony silence.
‘Well,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘That went well.’
‘I thought I was going to end up as chicken nuggets,’ says
Mrs Pumphrey, fanning herself and wondering what on earth they were going to do
with all the remaining chocolate bow ties and fascinators, let alone the
individual Christmas puddings.
Mrs Slocombe straightens herself and shakes her wings. ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘We have a party to deliver. Chin up, chest out, Mrs P.'
Meanwhile, in the Throne Room, Kenneth the Phantomime King
is feeling like someone is watching him. And then he is feeling like someone is
poking him in the ribs.
‘Pssssst,’ says a voice in his left ear. ‘You hear me, yes?’
‘I can hear something,’ he whispers back. ‘But it could be that I am light-headed because they,’ and he points an accusing finger at
the kidnappers who are down the far end of the Throne Room tucking into what
looks like a very nice Ploughman’s supper, ‘haven’t fed me for at least twelve
hours. My blood-sugar levels are all over the place and…’
‘Oh hush, you silly man,’ says the voice, crossly. ‘I am ze
Grand Duchess Yekaterina and if you vant to escape ze clutches of zees
anarchists you need to listen. Zis is ze plan…’
And the Phantomime, who does love a good plan, leans in
carefully to listen to the mystery voice. At one point, his fingers close over
the lever on the throne, and one eyebrow raises in surprise…
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