Read Online The Last Queen of England by Steve Robinson - Free Book Online Page B

but through it.   He was subconsciously tapping his foot, feeling both excited and overwhelmed by the news he had just received.
    McAlister was in his fifties, clean-shaven with dyed brown hair that he had cut twice a week to keep up the impeccable image he strove to maintain.   He wore a pinstripe suit, shoes polished to a high shine and a tie that bore the red, white and green stripes of the British republican tricolour.   He was as proud of his support for a British republic as he was open about it, and having built his career from humble beginnings he liked to think of himself as the perfect role model for a New Britain, engendering the belief that possibility was for all and not just for the lucky few.   There were no skeletons in McAlister’s closet.   At least, none that anyone had ever found.
    When a tap came at the door he turned away from the bright window with a tear in his eye.   Like the foot tapping it was something he hadn’t been overly aware of until he felt that tear roll down his cheek.   He quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand, but little escaped the attention of his long-serving assistant, Beatrice, who had just entered the room.
    “Anything wrong?” she asked as she set McAlister’s morning cup of tea down on the desk.
    “Thank you, Bea,” he said, his accent a gentle blend of Edinburgh Scots on his father’s side and Middle English on his mother’s.   He sipped his tea and turned back to the window.
    “Well?” Beatrice said.   “ Is something wrong?”
    “Far from it,” McAlister said.   “I’ve had some good news.   Great news in fact.”
    “Tears of joy then?”
    McAlister turned and smiled, flashing whitened teeth that any Hollywood actor would have been proud of.   “If I’m feeling a little emotional this morning it’s because I believe that all my campaigning might finally be getting somewhere.   And maybe sooner than I’d hoped.”
    “Anything you want to share?”
    “In good time, Bea, in good time.”
    “Suit yourself,” Beatrice said.   She turned to leave, adding, “Your ‘news man’ confirmed seven-thirty this evening.   I’m sure you’ll tell him what you’re feeling so emotional about, won’t you?”
    McAlister ignored the familiar quip and checked his watch.   “He called already?” he said, surprised at such an early response to a message left no more than half an hour ago.   “My, but he’s a keen one, isn’t he?”
    As Beatrice left the room McAlister sat down and sipped his tea again, smiling to himself as his thoughts turned to his two sons.   They were both in their thirties now and had taken up the republican campaign with him as soon as they were old enough to deliver pamphlets door-to-door.   He had no doubt they were both equally proud of him, but he hoped he would soon make them prouder still.
    For the first time in Trenton McAlister’s political career he believed he might actually see his efforts come to fruition in his own lifetime.   The dream felt almost tangible, but there was still much work to be done.   Public opinion polls showed that around seventy percent of the nation believed that Britain would be a republic in fifty years time.
    Fifty years, he thought, chuckling to himself.   If his caller made good his claim then he believed Britain could see its first president long before that.
      
    Tayte couldn’t recall having seen a copy of the newspaper he and Jean were now looking at inside the Document Reading Room, which by now had begun to fill with visitors.   It was called the Daily Courant.   He knew of it but he’d never actually held a copy - not that he could quite do that now as this single sheet newspaper was inside a clear protective cover.   Even so, he liked to see original records whenever he had the chance.   Marcus was right about that.   It wasn’t the same looking at a digital scan on the Internet or a copy on a microform reader.
    He thought about Marcus again and about