Two Weeks with the Queen by Morris Gleitzman

laughed.
    The guard was as motionless as the stone lion on the gatepost behind him.
    Colin controlled himself
    â€˜Look,’ he said, ‘I know you’re probably not meant to open the gate and you probably get people lying through their teeth all the time, but I promise you I’m telling the truth and if you open the gate I’ll explain everything to the Queen and you won’t lose your job or get sent to Northern Ireland.’
    The gate stayed shut.
    Colin lost his temper.
    â€˜You’d better open that gate,’ he yelled at the guard, ‘cause when the Queen finds out you’ve kept a kid with cancer waiting she’s gunna do you.’
    A hand dropped on to Colin’s shoulder.
    He spun round and found himself face to face with the shiny buttons of a policeman.
    â€˜All right,’ said the policeman, ‘break it up. Come on, move along. You lot are never satisfied. We put a guardsman out here to stop you sticking your cameras through the railings and dropping them and what thanks do we get? Go on, you’ve had your lot for today.’
    The tourists wandered away muttering and glaring at Colin.
    â€˜Right, son,’ said the policeman, ‘what’s your problem?’
    â€˜I need to see the Queen about my sick brother,’ said Colin.
    The policeman gave a hollow laugh.
    â€˜Oh really. Well I suggest you ring her up and have a chat about it. If I see you hanging around here again you’ll be the one who’s feeling sick.’
    The first phone box didn’t have a phone.
    The second one had a phone but no receiver.
    The third one had a phone and a receiver but all that was left of the phone books was a pile of ash on the floor and the coin slot was clogged up with bubblegum.
    Colin looked at it and felt like crying.
    It had taken him an hour to find these three phone boxes. He’d walked miles, he had a headache from the roaring traffic and his mouth tasted as though he’d been sucking an exhaust pipe.
    He didn’t cry.
    Instead he crossed the road to a large and very posh hotel. He went up to a large and very posh doorman in a green and gold uniform.
    â€˜Can I use your phone, please?’ he said.
    â€˜Are you a guest at this hotel, sir?’ asked the doorman, glancing down at Colin’s elastic-sided boots. One of them was even more scuffed than usual where he’d kicked the third phone box.
    â€˜Look,’ said Colin, ‘I’ll give you ten pounds if I can use your phone.’
    He held out one of Mum’s brown ten pound notes.
    The doorman took the ten pounds, folded it up very small, tucked it firmly into Colin’s shirt pocket, and directed him to a phone box that worked in a quiet street round the corner.
    Colin ran to the box and pulled the door open. There was a phone. With a receiver. And phone books. He started hunting through them.
    Q for Queen.
    Nothing.
    P for Palace.
    Nothing.
    R for Royal Family.
    Nothing.
    B for Buckingham.
    Someone had torn out all the pages up to Carruthers.
    He rang the operator.
    â€˜Have you got a number for the Queen, please?’ he asked.
    The operator hung up.
    Colin went out and bought a can of lemonade and asked for the change (nine pounds 30p) in 10p pieces.
    Then he rang The City of London Information Centre, The Houses of Parliament, The Home Office,
The Times,
The London Transport Information Centre and Harrods.
    Nobody would tell him the Queen’s telephone number.
    He carried on ringing.
    The Victoria and Albert Museum, The Royal Albert Hall, The Royal Festival Hall, The Royal Opera House Covent Garden and The Royale Fish Bar, Peckham.
    The man in the Royale Fish Bar gave him the number of a man who used to deliver fish to Buckingham Palace.
    The man who used to deliver fish to Buckingham Palace gave him the number of the man in charge of catering at Buckingham Palace.
    The man in charge of catering at Buckingham Palace gave him the number of the Public
    Relations