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home she had bought off-plan and to apologise for and explain the delay. Tea would be found at reception: the maid Jolene could provide it and she could unlock the door of the little shop in the foyer while she was about it. The Queen wanted clean clothes in a light material: she might even take a straw hat she had seen hanging on a hook behind the boutique door.
    That she would be unable to pay for these items did not cross the Queen’s mind. She would make a telephone call from the lobby to Brno in Romania where he was buying property for himself as well as overseeing the Prince of Wales’s new house and eco-inspired land there – and Brno would telegraph the money to the monarch whose patronage had enabled him to prosper in a new environment without owing the Exchequer any payment at all. The Queen knew about wiring funds – the Duke ofWindsor had been an ardent admirer of Western Union – and she imagined the funds would arrive when she had ordered her tea and selected summer wear at the shop.
    The Queen walked barefoot to the far end of the beach: the court shoes were unwearable by now, due to a broken heel on one shoe and a snapped strap on the other; and she waited by a sign which again warned her to beware of falling coconuts, for the shuttle up to reception. Sure enough, as if Miss Struthers had indeed organised the transport for the first lady of the realm (and daughter of the head of the British Empire in its last days), a bus appeared almost at once, carrying staff down from a high-up village to prepare food and clean the Rainforest Bar and pool. The Queen, espying Jolene amongst them, gave a regal wave, and found herself asked to wait for a guests’ shuttle to take her up the hill; but – as she gave the impression no one had ever refused her anything before – there was no stopping the indomitable Mrs Smith from boarding the bus and taking the front seat. With the mysterious visitor as its solitary passenger, the shuttle groaned slowly up under the palms to reception.
    The scene there was quite unexpected, for it was still early morning in the Caribbean. The first thing the Queen noticed was the large number of people in the foyer – it was impossible to get to the desk or, as they were all apparently English or American and therefore taller than she, to see over or roundthem to find the concierge. An outing had been arranged for the Joli guests, the Queen supposed; but she feared that ordering tea would be out of the question for a long time. Then it occurred to her that they might be all going back – home – as she still must consider England to be. Would a coach come for them soon and make it possible to get on with her day?
    But now the Queen saw that all these residents – or tourists – or guests – at the Joli Hotel were staring in one direction, and a silence had fallen as an announcer’s voice boomed out from the sitting area on the far side of reception. The TV was positioned there; and as she picked her way through the crowd, the Queen saw Sir Martyn and Lady Bostock standing close up by the desk, their faces purple with excitement, and the concierge plucking at their sleeves and mouthing questions. The Queen pressed on until a hugely tall man, a tennis coach with JOLI printed in towering letters on his T-shirt, almost crushed the old lady determinedly sidling through the crowd.
    â€˜I beg your pardon, ma’am.’ The coach was American: the Queen understood this, while registering that the correct way of addressing a female royal personage had been used for the first time since her arrival on the island. ‘Let me assist you, ma’am.’ The coach had seen that the dignified-looking woman was barefoot, of all things … Who and what could she be?
    The Queen reached the TV at last, and if it had not been for nearly three quarters of a century’s practice in her role as Head of State she would, like the crowd gathered