No problem, said Mr Hutchings.
One is a pensioner, said the Queen, not that she was sure that made any difference.
Maam can borrow up to six books.
Meanwhile the ginger-haired young man had made his choice and given his book to the librarian to stamp. Still playing for time, the Queen picked it up.
What have you chosen, Mr Seakins? expecting it to be, well, she wasnt sure what she expected, but it wasnt what it was. Oh. Cecil Beaton. Did you know him?
No, of course not. Youd be too young. He always used to be round here, snapping away. And a bit of a tartar. Stand here, stand there. Snap, snap. And theres a book about him now?
Really? I suppose everyone gets written about sooner or later.
She riffled through it. Theres probably a picture of me in it somewhere. Oh yes. That one.
Of course, he wasnt just a photographer. He designed, too. Oklahoma!, things like that.
I think it was My Fair Lady, maam.
Oh, was it? said the Queen, unused to being contradicted. Where did you say you worked? She put the book back in the boys big red hands.
In the kitchens, maam.
She had still not solved her problem, knowing that if she left without a book it would seem to Mr Hutchings that the library was somehow lacking. Then on a shelf of rather worn-looking volumes she saw a name she remembered. Ivy Compton-Burnett! I can read that. She took the book out and gave it to Mr Hutchings to stamp.
What a treat! she hugged it unconvincingly before opening it. Oh. The last time it was taken out was in 1989.
Shes not a popular author, maam.
Why, I wonder? I made her a dame.
Mr Hutchings refrained from saying that this wasnt necessarily the road to the publics heart.
The Queen looked at the photograph on the back of the jacket. Yes. I remember that hair, a roll like a pie-crust that went right round her head. She smiled and Mr Hutchings knew that the visit was over. Goodbye.
He inclined his head as they had told him at the library to do should this eventuality ever arise, and the Queen went off in the direction of the garden with the dogs madly barking again, while Norman, bearing his Cecil Beaton, skirted a chef lounging outside by the bins having a cigarette and went back to the kitchens.
Shutting up the van and driving away, Mr Hutchings reflected that a novel by Ivy Compton-Burnett would take some reading. He had never got very far with her himself and thought, rightly, that borrowing the book had just been a polite gesture. Still, it was one that he appreciated and as more than a courtesy. The council was always threatening to cut back on the library, and the patronage of so distinguished a borrower (or customer, as the council preferred to call it) would do him no harm.
We have a travelling library, the Queen said to her husband that evening. Comes every Wednesday.
Jolly good. Wonders never cease.
You remember Oklahoma!?
Yes. We saw it when we were engaged. Extraordinary to think of it, the dashing blond boy he had been.
Was that Cecil Beaton?
No idea. Never liked the fellow. Green shoes.
A book. I borrowed it.
Dead, I suppose.
Excerpted from The Uncommon Reader by Forelake Ltd. Copyright © 2007 by Forelake Ltd. Published in September 2007 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.
Blood at the Root
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