Albert.
They were standing with Louise on the slope of lawn below the West Terrace. Further down, on the level, Mother and Father were talking to Mr Farren, the Head Gardener. A little to the right Mr Jones was arranging his tripod, watched by Commander Tank, the Press Secretary. Louise hated photograph sessions. The less formal they were the more trouble they seemed to be, with endless fiddling to achieve the apparently snapshot effect. Usually Mr Jones was quick and clever, but even so there was a lot of waiting about.
âFoiled him?â said Sir Sam sharply. âFar from it. It was dashed annoying. I had to attend the reception in these trousersâthank God His Majestyâs not like King Edward. Old Toby told me he once heard Edward blow his top about the width of braid on a guestâs lapel. Pin-striped trousers with a boiled shirt! Whew!â
âWhat happened?â asked Louise.
âOh, it was just silly and tiresome. My office has a bathroom, you know, and I keep a few clothes in the wardrobe there. Canât always be dashing home every time Iâve got to change. Hadnât left myself much time last nightânever doâitâs pretty well automaticâI reckon to get out of these duds and into tails in four minutes flat. Fact, itâs so automatic that I was into my trousers before I realised that the blighter had scissored both legs off at knee-level!â
âYou must have looked like a boy scout in mourning,â said Albert.
âThatâs right,â said Sir Sam. Even on almost-private occasions such as this he used his royal-joke smileâneat, eager, appreciative, but at the same time vaguely nervous, as though feeling that things could quickly get out of hand if much more of that went on.
âBut youâve got a spare pair of pants, havenât you?â said Albert. âI remember last week, when Mrs Kissinger spilt her borscht in your lap, you snapped your fingers and somebody twinkled off, and a couple of minutes later you disappeared behind the service screen and popped out all immaculate, like a quick-change turn.â
âYes, of course Iâve got spares. Fact, Iâd three suits of tails and two dinner-jackets up there, each with two pairs of bags. Theyâd all had the treatment.â
âWhat a waste,â said Louise.
âEnglish tailors are no good at trousers anyway,â said Sir Sam. âIf I were a rich man Iâd have my jackets cut in London and my bags in New York. Anyway, there they were, all hung up on their hangers. The blighter had even had the insolence to take off only one leg of those pairs and hang them up so that it didnât show. Heâd had plenty of time. My secretaries push off at five-thirty and then I have a session with HM until six. And, you know, that pair Mrs Kissinger chucked the soup over, I suddenly remembered theyâd only just come back from the cleaners. They were still in their box in the outer office. Done him, by God! I thought. But by heavens heâd found it, done his deed, folded the trousers neatly back and pinned his damned red cross to them? Hello, youâre wanted.â
This year Commander Tank, after taking his mysterious soundings of public feeling, had come up with a number of subliminal targets to be aimed for in the annual Royal Wedding Anniversary photo. It had to demonstrate a strong sense of family unity, of course. It should hint that the Royals were helping to fight inflation by doing things for themselves, but not overtly suggest that they were on their uppers. Whatever they were doing should be rather English and middle-class, because the last official photographs had shown them at a champagne picnic on President Giscard dâEstaingâs country estate, and so on. These effects were to be achieved by showing His Majesty and the Prince of Wales planting a Queen Isabella rhododendron to mark the anniversary, Queen Isabella herself standing by
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