As the train sped along, rocking me back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm, I half dozed, only vaguely aware that Uncle Hobart was ordering something from the trolley service.
"One o' them, and give us 'alf a dozen cans o' beer while yer at it." Suddenly my congenial daydreams were rudely shattered by a sharp elbow in my ribs. "What yer want then?" his gruff voice hissed in my ear.
Ordering a sandwich, I pocketed the change from the twenty-pound note I'd handed over. I felt another poke in the ribs.
"Bleedin' 'ell Peter boy," Uncle Hobart said in a loud voice. "All we wanted were a sandwich and a couple o' beers, not ter buy the bleedin' train as well."
The waiter sniffed haughtily before pushing the trolley up the aisle and I set about trying to extract my sandwich from its triangular plastic packaging. Finally admitting defeat, I watched as Uncle Hobart deftly open it with a self-satisfied smirk. There were times when I could have cheerfully strangled him.
"'Ere yer are, then," he crowed, pushing the sandwich across the table at me. "Don't know what all the bleedin' fuss is about."
"I've snagged my nail," I explained, holding up my thumb for his inspection.
Giving me a withering look, Uncle Hobart started pulling the crusts from his sandwich, and while I looked on in fascinated disgust, removed his false teeth, dropping them onto the narrow table separating us, so he could suck noisily on a piece. I looked around the carriage in red-faced embarrassment. "What the hell do you think you're doing!" I whispered urgently.
Pulling a partially dissolved, very soggy looking piece of crust from his mouth, Uncle Hobart waved it at me. "These crusts're too bleedin' 'ard fer me teeth, Peter boy, but I'll be buggered if I'm going ter waste 'em after all the money we just paid."
Snatching the mess from his hand, I threw it under the table, growling. "You'll be buggered alright, if you don't stop embarrassing me like this."
He sniffed haughtily then buried his head in the Playboy magazine he'd bought at the station bookstall. The train gathered speed, rattling his dentures across the hard plastic surface of the table with a noise reminiscent of demented castanets.
*
"'Ere, yer sure about that? We ain't no bleedin' 'ickey tourists yer know!" Uncle Hobart told the taxi driver. The cabby glowered at us, holding out his hand, gesturing for his money with the tips of his fingers. I put two five pound notes into his sweaty palm and watched in fascination as his hand snapped shut, disappearing back into the blackness of the taxi in one fluid motion. The whole process reminding me of a spring-trap going off.
I nudged Uncle Hobart with my elbow. "You got those tickets, then?" I asked him.
Taking the two complimentary tickets, I studied them for a moment. Uncle Hobart had won them by entering a competition on the back of a beer can. I was a bit peeved, never having won anything in my life, but hey, who's counting?.
We had set off early that morning, travelling to London by train. Not the most pleasant way of entering the Great Metropolis because the railway line ran between grimy brick houses, complete with poky little back gardens, the whole scene evocative of an earlier Victorian drama. We hired a cab at Kings Cross Station to take us to Trafalgar Square, intending to walk through the Admiralty Arch and up the Mall to Buckingham Palace, and as I watched the taxi disappearing into the dense traffic with my two five pound notes, I decided then and there that we were going to walk back. Handing the tickets to Uncle Hobart, I told him to put them somewhere safe and he slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Reaching the end of the Mall, we finally joined a long, winding queue waiting to enter Buckingham Palace, rubber-necking the outside of the building with the rest of the tourists.
"Hey Mable, lookee there. Ain't that one of those bearskin soldiers?"
It was obvious that the American's accent was grating on Uncle Hobart's nerves, so I tried to divert his attention before he had the chance to say something that would land us in trouble. "Now listen," I said, tugging at his sleeve. "When we get inside, I want you to stay close to me, understand? No wandering off on your own and getting lost."
"Oh look, Merv," the woman's voice had the same nasal twang as her husband's. "He's coming our way, quick, get a picture before he disappears." The rotund woman clutched at the passing Grenadier Guard, smiling up at him through her pink-glossed lips. "Hold on there honey, while Merv takes a picture of us for the girls back home," she said.
The soldier gave the woman a haughty glare down his long aquiline nose, but waited patiently while her husband, adorned in a bright red shirt and yellow Bermuda shorts, took a series of photographs of them together.
Uncle Hobart pointed at the tableau. "Look at 'em, bleedin' cretins! Don't know 'ow the 'ell we ever managed ter win the war with that lot 'elping us!" Raising his voice a few notches, he continued: "Couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery."
"Be quiet," I ordered in an undertone. "If it wasn't for them we'd all be living in Germany by now."
"Coming over 'ere with their bleedin' flash ways... Ow!" Bending over, Uncle Hobart gingerly rubbed his ankle. "What yer want ter go and do that fer?"
"'Scuse me mac, sorry." The American pushed his way back into the queue, then turned to address us. "Just love your little old country and its quaint traditions," he said. "It's really something ain't it." He beamed at Uncle Hobart and I quickly stepped between them.
"Come on," I said, just in time to stop Uncle Hobart from grabbing the American by his shirtfront. "Let's you and me go and get an ice-cream shall we?"
*
Holding my breath in admiration, I looked around at the high ceiling of the Great Hall. It vaulted away from us in a breathtaking sweep, covered in paintings, fine mouldings, and gold leaf. Tall, graceful windows illuminated the wooden floor, making it glow with a soft, golden radiance that reflected onto people's faces.
"My God, just look at this place!" I whispered, turning in slow circles to experience the full effect. I heard a soft grunt from behind me, followed by the hiss of an opening can. "What the hell are you doing," I squealed in indignation. "You can't go around drinking beer in Buckingham Palace, you idiot." Snatching the can from Uncle Hobart, I looked around for the nearest bin.
"Excuse me, sir," a voice said from behind me. I jumped, spinning round, swearing softly as beer splattered onto the highly polished parquet flooring.
A tall, distinguished looking man glared down at me, a look of complete contempt hooding his eyes. "I'm afraid the consuming of beverages in the Palace is not favoured, sir," he informed me in a disapproving tone.
I looked down in horror at the mess that was spreading round my feet. "What?" I asked in a bemused voice.
"'E said that yer can't drink beer in 'ere," Uncle Hobart repeated helpfully. "Yer'll 'ave ter fergive 'im," he continued, doffing his cap at the attendant. "'E ain't got no manners. Yer know 'ow it is with young 'uns these days. Try as yer might, they just don't take the blindest bit o' notice, do they?"
The attendant nodded understandingly then turned his cold, haughty, stare back to me. My face reddened as his gaze lingered on my beer-splattered trousers before settling on the spreading pool of liquid at my feet.
"I'll clean it up right away," I said, squirming with embarrassment. "Er ... could you hold this for me, please?" I pushed the can into his hand and he held it at arm's length, between his thumb and forefinger, as though he was afraid it might contaminate him. Kneeling on the floor, I quickly attacked the pool of beer with my handkerchief.
The attendant took the sodden cloth square and gingerly placed it on top of the can when I had finished. "I'll dispose of these for you then, shall I, sir?" he asked, his tone telling me exactly what he thought of me. Loath as I was to see the end of my best handkerchief, which held special memories of a trip to Southend when I'd been a teenager, I nodded silently, watching the attendant as he glided silently away with the grace of someone who'd spent many hours training in contact sports.
"Uncle Hobart, I'll..." my voice trailed off when I realised I was talking to myself. Shrugging my shoulders, I turned back to the delights of the Great Hall, secure in the knowledge that I would run across my infuriating uncle again, sooner or later. I prayed that it would be later - much later.
*
"Excuse me, have you seen an old man in his seventies? He's wearing a dogs-tooth jacket, a bright yellow jumper, and a dark brown cloth-cap? White hair; blue eyes?"
The woman shook her head. "Sorry," she said.
My shoulders slumped as I turned away to resume my search. "I'll wring his scrawny..."
"No, wait!" the woman called me back. "Did you say a yellow jumper?" I nodded eagerly. "I'm sure I saw someone dressed like that in one of the upstairs State Rooms." She paused, considering her statement for a moment, then smiled. "Yes, I did. It must have been about ten minutes ago."
I thanked her, heading upstairs two at a time, my stomach churning out the message: trouble. Hurrying down a long hallway, I heard a familiar voice as I passed an open doorway.
"I sure would appreciate that, sir. Will two hundred pounds be enough? I've got plenty of travellers cheques with me."
Glancing into the room, I was greeted by the sight of Uncle Hobart dressed in an ermine robe, wearing a small gold crown on his head. He was talking to Merv and Mable, the American tourists. Spotting my bewildered look, he beckoned me into the room. "Ah!" he said expansively. "This 'ere's me 'upstairs 'elper, Marmaduke Grubbins. Marmaduke, I'd like yer ter meet two of our valued overseas visitors."
"Oh, I can't wait to tell the girls back home about how we met a real live duke, Merv. Isn't this exciting?" Mable preened herself as she pursed her brightly glossed lips.
Uncle Hobart ignored my sizzling look, pointing at a large sword hanging to one side of an enormous stone fireplace. "Be a good 'elper and fetch me me sword, Marmaduke," he ordered. "I got some Knighting ter do. Come on, come on," he added impatiently when I hesitated. "We don't want ter keep these good people waiting now, do we?" In a daze, I reached up, unhooked the heavy sword from its mounting and handed it to Uncle Hobart. He raised the sword over the kneeling American's head. "I knight you in the name of the Queen," he intoned solemnly, bringing the sword down onto the American's right shoulder, "and in the name of our Lord," a similar tap on his left shoulder. "Arise Sir Merv, Knight Commander of the Queen's table."
"Gee, thanks, your Dukeship," the American said, handing Uncle Hobart a traveller's cheque. "Have a nice day." And with that the couple made their way from the room, talking excitedly about what a wonderful experience it had been.
I glared at Uncle Hobart. "Just going ter get changed out o' these things," he said, disappearing behind a large screen standing in the corner of the room.
I heard a discreet cough and turned around to confront an old acquaintance, his face as sour as the last time we'd met. "Well, well. It's you again... sir," he said quietly. "And no beer this time, I see." He nodded at the empty space where the sword should have been hanging. "Thinking about pinching the family heirlooms then, were we?"
I dropped the sword with a loud clatter, backing away. "It's not like that," I tried to explain. "You see... we were just knighting this..." I stumbled to a halt, realising just how ridiculous the truth would sound. Deciding to change tack, I added, "Well, I sort of got lost, and accidentally found myself in here, and..."
But before I could elaborate on my story, the attendant had grabbed me in an arm-lock and was marching me out of the room onto the landing. Quickly ushered down the main staircase and along a corridor filled with gawking tourists, I was unceremoniously ejected from the building. As I tumbled down the long, stone staircase leading to the street, the tourists gave a rousing cheer.
"And be thankful I haven't called the police!" the attendant barked after me as I landed in a painful heap on the pavement.
Picking myself up, I wiped the mud from my trousers with angry swipes of my hand, looking around for somewhere to shelter from the pouring rain. Retreating under the cover of a nearby tree, I stood there waiting, repeatedly slapping a stout piece of wood into the palm of my cupped hand, savouring the moment when Uncle Hobart put in an appearance. I was looking forward to teaching him exactly what it felt like to be crowned!