Two Weeks with the Queen by Morris Gleitzman Page A

Office at Buckingham Palace.
    Colin dialled the number.
    He asked the man who answered if the Queen could come to the phone and the man said that all communications with the Palace had to be in writing and that trouble-makers would be prosecuted.
    Then he hung up.
    That night Colin helped Aunty Iris dry up the tea things and then sat down and wrote the Queen a letter.
    Dear Your Majesty The Queen,
    Â Â Â Â 
I need to speak to you urgently about my brother Luke. He’s got cancer and the doctors in Australia are being really slack. if I could borrow your top doctor for a few days I know he/she would fix things up in no time. Of course Mum and Dad would pay his/her fares even if it meant selling the car or getting a loan. Please contact me at the above address urgently.
    Yours sincerely,
    Colin Mudford
    PS
This is not a hoax. Ring the above number and Aunty Iris will tell you. Hang up if a man answers.
    He went out and posted it straight away.
    Then he waited.

Chapter Eight
    Three days later he was still waiting.
    Sitting at the breakfast table he heard the postman pushing letters through the flap in the front door.
    He raced out into the hall and scooped them up off the mat.
    Gas bill,
Reader’s Digest,
local church magazine, a small parcel from Birmingham that rattled . . .
    Nothing from the Queen.
    â€˜Don’t fret, love,’ said Aunty Iris, taking the letters from him. ‘You only left six days ago. Takes at least seven days for a letter to get here from Australia.’
    â€˜Don’t talk to me about seven days,’ muttered Uncle Bob from behind his newspaper. ‘What about that Christmas card? Came via Israel.’
    Aunty Iris gave Colin a little hug. ‘Feeling a bit homesick, are you, pet? Give Mum and Dad a quick ring. Go on, we don’t mind, just the once.’
    â€˜No, it’s OK, I’m fine,’ said Colin. ‘Thanks, anyway.’
    Part of him wanted to, desperately, but the other part didn’t, not till he could tell them to whack the linseed oil on Luke’s cricket bat, he was coming home with the world’s best doctor.
    Why hadn’t the Queen replied?
    She must have a writing pad. She must have to answer letters all the time.
    Colin had a sudden vision of the front door at Buckingham Palace, letters pouring in through the flap and piling up in great mountains all down the hall, with a queue of postmen outside waiting to push sackfuls more in.
    Of course. What a dill he’d been.
    He’d have to see her in person.
    Aunty Iris and Uncle Bob were putting their coats on for work.
    â€˜Alistair,’ called Aunty Iris, ‘those kelp tablets have come and they’re on the bench in the kitchen. Take two every hour with water and if you go into the garden wrap up and no climbing. And I don’t want you out near that traffic. Bye.’
    The front door closed.
    Colin looked at the marmalade jar in front of him on the table. By Royal Appointment to Her Majesty The Queen. What did he have to do to get to see her, become a marmalade manufacturer?
    â€˜Colin?’ said Alistair.
    For three days he’d been stuck in the house with Alistair, who wasn’t allowed to do anything even remotely interesting in case he hurt himself Even though the doctor had said that not only was Alistair not sickening for anything, he was the healthiest thirteen year old he’d ever seen apart from the dandruff.
    Three days of questions about Australia.
    â€˜Have you really ridden a trail bike,’ asked Alistair, ‘or were you just pulling my leg?’
    â€˜Yamaha 250,’ said Colin, ‘twin exhaust, cross-country gear ratios.’
    Alistair’s eyes shone as he chewed his bacon.
    â€˜Must have been brilliant.’
    â€˜It was OK till the brakes failed and I went off a cliff.’
    â€˜A cliff?’ Alistair stared at him in admiration.
    Colin pulled himself together. This was what it had been like for three days,