Jack said, in his flat Midlands accent, ‘there was such a thing called the Royal Family. There was a queen, princes and princesses, and they lived in big castles and had lots of money and cars and servants and jewels and stuff.’
Annabel said in her, to Jack, disconcertingly posh voice, ‘
I’m
going to be a princess when I grow up.’
Jack laughed and said, ‘No, Annabel, you won’t be a princess, you’ll be something useful to society: an engineer perhaps, or a scientist.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be a princess and wear a sparkly dress and a crown and live in a castle.’ She sat up in bed and folded her arms.
Jack said, ‘You can’t be a princess, because Granddad’s got rid of them. He’s sent them all away to live like ordinary people. I’ve sent them into exile.’
‘Can I go to exile to see them?’ asked Annabel.
‘No, you can only go to exile if you’re a very bad person,’ said Jack.
Jack and Annabel were in one of the guest bedrooms at Number Ten. Jack could hear Mitzie, that bloody King Charles spaniel, yapping through the party wall again. He felt his pulse racing, he was sick of complaining about that bloody dog. Mitzie had been a cause of contention since the Chancellor, Stephen Fletcher, had, with a great deal of press coverage, walked Mitzie from Battersea Dogs Home to Downing Street. Fletcher’s approval rating had risen by fifteen per cent in the next YouGov opinion poll. Jack’s team of advisers had urged him to be photographed in the back garden of Number Ten with Tommy, his ex-wife’s big black cat. But Tommy, unaccustomed to being held by the Prime Minister and frightened by the unruly crowd of press photographers, had resisted and clawed Jack’s face in his struggle to be free. A headline in
The Daily Telegraph
the next day had stated: ‘BARKER HOLDS ON TO POWER BY A WHISKER.’
Jack said to Annabel, ‘Lie down again, pet, and I’ll tell you a different story, shall I? About a lady engineer.’
Annabel said, ‘No, thank you.’ She lay down and turned her back on Jack.
As soon as he got to his office, Jack telephoned the Chancellor on Number Eleven’s private line. ‘Steve,’ he said, when the Chancellor answered. ‘Shut that bloody dog up, will you? Our Annabel can’t get to sleep. She’s got a big day tomorrow.’
8
Graham Cracknall was sitting at his dining-room table in a detached, 1970s pebble-dashed bungalow in Ruislip writing a letter in his neatest handwriting. He could type at a rate of sixty words a minute but he was aware that history was being made and he thought that an historical document, one that would be placed in an archive to be studied by scholars, deserved to be personalized.
He was a tall thin man with jug ears and a prominent Adam’s apple. He had been on the books of a dating agency for eighteen months, but the only women to show any interest in him had been on the books even longer. A few thought he had kind eyes and a lovely deep voice on his two-minute video CV.
Graham wrote:
Dear Mr and Mrs Windsor,
I expect this letter will come as a bit of a surprise, not to mention shock!
My mother and father died 62 days ago in an unfortunate lawnmower accident. I do not wish to go into detail at this point in time. Perhaps when we get to know each other better I will tell you the whole tragic story. I comfort myself with the thought that at least they died in the garden, a place they loved.The artificial waterfall they so lovingly built is cascading as I write. I will get to the nub of this letter without more ado.
It came as an awful shock to me to find out that the ‘parents’ I had always called ‘Mum and Dad’ were, in fact, my adoptive parents.
When their wills were read to me there was a codicil letter from my mother (signed by two witnesses) to say that I am the result of a love affair between Prince Charles and Mrs Camilla Parker Bowles.
As you must know, I was born on 21st July 1965 in Zurich, Switzerland, in
Annabel said in her, to Jack, disconcertingly posh voice, ‘
I’m
going to be a princess when I grow up.’
Jack laughed and said, ‘No, Annabel, you won’t be a princess, you’ll be something useful to society: an engineer perhaps, or a scientist.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be a princess and wear a sparkly dress and a crown and live in a castle.’ She sat up in bed and folded her arms.
Jack said, ‘You can’t be a princess, because Granddad’s got rid of them. He’s sent them all away to live like ordinary people. I’ve sent them into exile.’
‘Can I go to exile to see them?’ asked Annabel.
‘No, you can only go to exile if you’re a very bad person,’ said Jack.
Jack and Annabel were in one of the guest bedrooms at Number Ten. Jack could hear Mitzie, that bloody King Charles spaniel, yapping through the party wall again. He felt his pulse racing, he was sick of complaining about that bloody dog. Mitzie had been a cause of contention since the Chancellor, Stephen Fletcher, had, with a great deal of press coverage, walked Mitzie from Battersea Dogs Home to Downing Street. Fletcher’s approval rating had risen by fifteen per cent in the next YouGov opinion poll. Jack’s team of advisers had urged him to be photographed in the back garden of Number Ten with Tommy, his ex-wife’s big black cat. But Tommy, unaccustomed to being held by the Prime Minister and frightened by the unruly crowd of press photographers, had resisted and clawed Jack’s face in his struggle to be free. A headline in
The Daily Telegraph
the next day had stated: ‘BARKER HOLDS ON TO POWER BY A WHISKER.’
Jack said to Annabel, ‘Lie down again, pet, and I’ll tell you a different story, shall I? About a lady engineer.’
Annabel said, ‘No, thank you.’ She lay down and turned her back on Jack.
As soon as he got to his office, Jack telephoned the Chancellor on Number Eleven’s private line. ‘Steve,’ he said, when the Chancellor answered. ‘Shut that bloody dog up, will you? Our Annabel can’t get to sleep. She’s got a big day tomorrow.’
8
Graham Cracknall was sitting at his dining-room table in a detached, 1970s pebble-dashed bungalow in Ruislip writing a letter in his neatest handwriting. He could type at a rate of sixty words a minute but he was aware that history was being made and he thought that an historical document, one that would be placed in an archive to be studied by scholars, deserved to be personalized.
He was a tall thin man with jug ears and a prominent Adam’s apple. He had been on the books of a dating agency for eighteen months, but the only women to show any interest in him had been on the books even longer. A few thought he had kind eyes and a lovely deep voice on his two-minute video CV.
Graham wrote:
Dear Mr and Mrs Windsor,
I expect this letter will come as a bit of a surprise, not to mention shock!
My mother and father died 62 days ago in an unfortunate lawnmower accident. I do not wish to go into detail at this point in time. Perhaps when we get to know each other better I will tell you the whole tragic story. I comfort myself with the thought that at least they died in the garden, a place they loved.The artificial waterfall they so lovingly built is cascading as I write. I will get to the nub of this letter without more ado.
It came as an awful shock to me to find out that the ‘parents’ I had always called ‘Mum and Dad’ were, in fact, my adoptive parents.
When their wills were read to me there was a codicil letter from my mother (signed by two witnesses) to say that I am the result of a love affair between Prince Charles and Mrs Camilla Parker Bowles.
As you must know, I was born on 21st July 1965 in Zurich, Switzerland, in
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