The Uncommon Reader

unintelligent, so it was not surprising that in a short space of time they came to hate books as the spoilsports they were (and always have been).
    Did Her Majesty ever let a book fall to the carpet it would straightaway be leaped on by any attendant dog, worried and slavered over and borne to the distant reaches of the palace or wherever so that it could be satisfyingly torn apart. The James Tait Black prize notwithstanding, Ian McEwan had ended up like this and even A. S. Byatt. Patron of the London Library though she was, Her Majesty regularly found herself on the phone apologising to the renewals clerk for the loss of yet another volume.
    The dogs disliked Norman, too, and in so far as the young man could be blamed for some at least of the Queen’s literary enthusiasm, Sir Kevin didn’t care for him either. He was also irritated by his constant proximity because, while he was never actually in the room when the private secretary talked to the Queen, he was always within call.
    They were discussing a royal visit to Wales due to take place in a fortnight’s time. In the middle of being taken through her programme (a ride on a super-tram, a ukulele concert and a tour round a cheese factory), Her Majesty suddenly got up and went to the door.
    “Norman.”
    Sir Kevin heard a chair scrape as Norman got up.
    “We’re going to Wales in a few weeks’ time.”
    “Bad luck, ma’am.”
    The Queen smiled back at the unsmiling Sir Kevin.
    “Norman is so cheeky. Now we’ve read Dylan Thomas, haven’t we, and some John Cowper Powys. And Jan Morris we’ve read. But who else is there?”
    “You could try Kilvert, ma’am,” said Norman.
    “Who’s he?”
    “A vicar, ma’am. Nineteenth century. Lived on the Welsh borders and wrote a diary. Fond of little girls.”
    “Oh,” said the Queen, “like Lewis Carroll.”
    “Worse, ma’am.”
    “Dear me. Can you get me the diaries?”
    “I’ll add them to our list, ma’am.”
    Her Majesty closed the door and came back to her desk. “You see, you can’t say I don’t do my homework, Sir Kevin.”
    Sir Kevin, who had never heard of Kilvert, was unimpressed. “The cheese factory is in a new business park, sited on reclaimed colliery land. It’s revitalised the whole area.”
    “Oh, I’m sure,” said the Queen. “But you must admit that the literature is relevant.”
    “I don’t know that it is,” said Sir Kevin. “The next-door factory where Your Majesty is opening the canteen makes computer components.”
    “Some singing, I suppose?” said the Queen.
    “There will be a choir, ma’am.”
    “There generally is.”
    Sir Kevin had a very muscular face, the Queen thought. He seemed to have muscles in his cheeks and when he frowned, they rippled. If she were a novelist, she thought, that might be worth writing down.
    “We must make sure, ma’am, that we’re singing from the same hymn sheet.”
    “In Wales, yes. Most certainly. Any news from home? Busy shearing away?”
    “Not at this time of year, ma’am.”
    “Oh. Out to grass.”
    She smiled the wide smile that indicated that the interview was over and when he turned to bow his head at the door she was already back in her book and without looking up simply murmured ‘Sir Kevin’ and turned the page.
    SO IN DUE course Her Majesty went to Wales and to Scotland and to Lancashire and the West Country in that unremitting round of nationwide perambulation that is the lot of the monarch. The Queen must meet her people, however awkward and tongue-tied such meetings might turn out to be. Though it was here that her staff could help.
    To get round the occasional speechlessness of her subjects when confronted with their sovereign the equerries would sometimes proffer handy hints as to possible conversations.
    “Her Majesty may well ask you if you have had far to come. Have your answer ready and then possibly go on to say whether you came by train or by car. She may then ask you where you have left the car and whether the traffic was busier here than in — where did you say you came from? — Andover. The Queen, you see, is interested in all aspects of the nation’s life, so she will sometimes talk about how difficult it is to park in London these days, which could take you on to a discussion of any parking problems you might have in Basingstoke.”
    “Andover, actually, though Basingstoke’s a nightmare too.”
    “Quite so. But you get the idea? Small talk.”
    Mundane though these conversations