3-33（在线收听）

33.

Cloudy, blustery day. I jumped into the venerable old Land Rover, the ancient Army ambulance

that Grandpa had repurposed. Pa was behind the wheel, Willy was in the back. I got into the

passenger seat and wondered if I should tell them both what I was intending.

I decided against it. Pa already knew, I assumed, and Willy had already warned me not to do

it.

It’s too fast, he’d told me. Too soon.

In fact, he’d actually been pretty discouraging about my even dating Meg. One day, sitting

together in his garden, he’d predicted a host of difficulties I could expect if I hooked up with an

“American actress,” a phrase he always managed to make sound like “convicted felon.”

Are you sure about her, Harold?

I am, Willy.

But do you know how difficult it’s going to be?

What do you want me to do? Fall out of love with her?

The three of us were wearing flat caps, green jackets, plus fours, as if we played for the same

sports team. (In a way, I suppose, we did.) Pa, driving us out into the fields, asked about Meg. Not

with great interest, just casually. Still, he didn’t always ask, so I was pleased.

She’s good, thanks.

Does she want to carry on working?

Say again?

Does she want to keep on acting?

Oh. I mean, I don’t know, I wouldn’t think so. I expect she’ll want to be with me, doing the job,

you know, which would rule out Suits…since they film in…Toronto.

Hmm. I see. Well, darling boy, you know there’s not enough money to go around.

I stared. What was he banging on about?

He explained. Or tried to. I can’t pay for anyone else. I’m already having to pay for your

brother and Catherine.

I flinched. Something about his use of the name Catherine. I remembered the time he and

Camilla wanted Kate to change the spelling of her name, because there were already two royal

cyphers with a C and a crown above: Charles and Camilla. It would be too confusing to have

another. Make it Katherine with a K, they suggested.

I wondered now what came of that suggestion.

I turned to Willy, gave him a look that said: You listening to this?

His face was blank.

Pa didn’t financially support Willy and me, and our families, out of any largesse. That was his

job. That was the whole deal. We agreed to serve the monarch, go wherever we were sent, do

whatever we were told, surrender our autonomy, keep our hands and feet inside the gilded cage at

all times, and in exchange the keepers of the cage agreed to feed and clothe us. Was Pa, with all

his millions from the hugely lucrative Duchy of Cornwall, trying to say that our captivity was

starting to cost him a bit too much?

Besides which—how much could it possibly cost to house and feed Meg? I wanted to say, She

doesn’t eat much, you know! And I’ll ask her to make her own clothes, if you like.

It was suddenly clear to me that this wasn’t about money. Pa might have dreaded the rising

cost of maintaining us, but what he really couldn’t stomach was someone new dominating the

monarchy, grabbing the limelight, someone shiny and new coming in and overshadowing him.

And Camilla. He’d lived through that before, and had no interest in living through it again.

I couldn’t deal with any of that right now. I had no time for petty jealousies and Palace

intrigue. I was still trying to work out exactly what to say to Granny, and the time had come.

The Land Rover stopped. We piled out and lined up along the hedge being placed by Pa. We

waited for the birds to appear. The wind was blowing, and my mind was all over the place, but as

the first drive began I found that I was shooting well. I got into the zone. Maybe it was a relief to

think about something else. Maybe I preferred focusing on the next shot, rather than the Big Shot I

was planning to take. I just kept swinging that barrel, squeezing that trigger, hitting every target.

We broke for lunch. I tried, repeatedly, but wasn’t able to get Granny by herself. Everyone

was surrounding her, talking her ear off. So I tucked into the meal, biding my time.

A classic royal shooting luncheon. Cold feet warming by the fires, toasty potatoes, juicy meat,

creamy soups, staff overseeing every detail. Then perfect puds. Then a little tea, a drink or two.

Then back to the birds.

During the day’s final two drives I was constantly sneaking peeks in Granny’s direction, to see

how she was doing. She seemed good. And very locked in.

Did she really have no idea what was coming?

After the final drive the party scattered. Everyone finished picking up their birds and returned

to the Land Rovers. I saw Granny jump into her smaller Range Rover and drive out to the middle

of the stubble field. She began looking for dead birds, while her dogs hunted.

There was no security around her, so this looked to be my chance.

I walked out to the middle of the stubble field, fell in alongside her, began helping. While we

scanned the ground for dead birds, I tried to engage her in some light chat, to loosen her up, and to

loosen up my vocal cords. The wind was stronger, and Granny’s cheeks looked cold, despite the

scarf wrapped tightly around her head.

Not helping matters: my subconscious. It was popping. The full seriousness of all this was

finally starting to sink in. If Granny said no…would I have to say goodbye to Meg? I couldn’t

imagine being without her…but I also couldn’t imagine being openly disobedient to Granny. My

Queen, my Commander in Chief. If she withheld her permission, my heart would break, and of

course I’d look for another occasion to ask again, but the odds would be against me. Granny

wasn’t exactly known for changing her mind. So this moment was either the start of my life, or the

end. It would all come down to the words I chose, how I delivered them, and how Granny heard

them.

If all that wasn’t enough to make me tongue-tied, I’d seen plenty of press reports, sourced to

“the Palace,” that some in my family didn’t quite, shall we say, approve of Meg. Didn’t fancy her

directness. Didn’t feel altogether comfortable with her strong work ethic. Didn’t even enjoy her

occasional questions. What was healthy and natural inquisitiveness they deemed to be

impertinence.

There were also whispers about a vague and pervasive unease regarding her race. “Concern”

had been expressed in certain corners about whether or not Britain was “ready.” Whatever that

meant. Was any of that rubbish reaching Granny’s ears? If so, was this request for permission

merely a hopeless exercise?

Was I doomed to be the next Margaret?

Oh. A biro. Wow.

I thought back over the many hinge moments in my life when permission was required.

Requesting permission from Control to fire on the enemy. Requesting permission from the Royal

Foundation to create the Invictus Games. I thought of pilots requesting permission from me to

cross my airspace. My life all at once felt like an endless series of permission requests, all of them

a prelude to this one.

Granny started walking back to her Range Rover. I quick-stepped after her, the dogs circling

my feet. Looking at them, my mind began to race. My mother used to say that being around

Granny and the corgis was like standing on a moving carpet, and I used to know most of them,

living and dead, as if they were my cousins, Dookie, Emma, Susan, Linnet, Pickles, Chipper, they

were all said to descend from the corgis that belonged to Queen Victoria, the more things change

the more they stay the same, but these weren’t corgis, these were hunting dogs, and they had a

different purpose, and I had a different purpose, and I realized that I needed to get to it, without

one second more of hesitation, so as Granny lowered the tailgate, as the dogs leaped up, as I

thought of petting them but then remembered I had a dead bird in each hand, their limp necks

nestled between my fingers, their glazed eyes rolled all the way back (I feel you, birds), their

bodies still warm through my gloves, I turned instead to Granny and saw her turn to me and frown

(Did she recognize that I was afraid? Of both the request for permission and of Her Majesty? Did

she realize that, no matter how much I loved her, I was often nervous in her presence?) and I saw

her waiting for me to speak—and not waiting patiently.

Her face radiated: Out with it.

I coughed. Granny, you know I love Meg very much, and I’ve decided that I would like to ask

her to marry me, and I’ve been told that, er, that I have to ask your permission before I can

propose.

You have to?

Um. Well, yes, that’s what your staff tell me, and my staff as well. That I have to ask your

permission.

I stood completely still, as motionless as the birds in my hands. I stared at her face but it was

unreadable. At last she replied: Well, then, I suppose I have to say yes.

I squinted. You feel you have to say yes? Does that mean you are saying yes? But that you

want to say no?

I didn’t get it. Was she being sarcastic? Ironic? Deliberately cryptic? Was she indulging in a

bit of wordplay? I’d never known Granny to do any wordplay, and this would be a surpassingly

bizarre moment (not to mention wildly inconvenient) for her to start, but maybe she just saw the

chance to play off my unfortunate use of the word “have” and couldn’t resist?

Or else, perhaps there was some hidden meaning beneath the wordplay, some message I

wasn’t comprehending?

I stood there squinting, smiling, asking myself over and over: What is the Queen of England

saying to me right now?

At long last I realized: She’s saying yes, you muppet! She’s granting permission. Who cares

how she words it, just know when to take yes for an answer.

So I sputtered: Right. OK, Granny! Well. Fabulous. Thank you! Thank you so much.

I wanted to hug her.

I longed to hug her.

I didn’t hug her.

I saw her into the Range Rover, then marched back to Pa and Willy.