The Uncommon Reader

took longer.

    SLIGHTLY TO her own surprise that year the Queen turned eighty. It was not a birthday that went unmarked and various celebrations were organised, some more to Her Majesty’s liking than others, with her advisers tending to regard the birthday as just another opportunity to ingratiate the monarchy with the always fickle public.
    It was not surprising, then, that the Queen decided to throw a party of her own and to assemble all those who had had the privilege of advising her over the years. This was in effect a party for the Privy Council, appointment to which is for life, thus making it a large and unwieldy body that in its entirety meets seldom and then only on occasions of some gravity. But there was nothing, thought the Queen, that would preclude her having them all to tea, and a serious tea at that, ham, tongue, mustard and cress, scones, cakes and even trifle. Much preferable to dinner, she thought, and cosier altogether.
    Nobody was told to dress up, though Her Majesty was as groomed and immaculate as she had been in the old days. But what a lot of advice she had had over the years, she thought, as she surveyed the crowded assembly; there were so many who had tendered it that they could only be accommodated in one of the grandest rooms in the palace, with the sumptuous tea laid out in two adjoining salons. She moved happily among her guests, unsupported by any other member of the royal family, who, though many of them were privy councillors, had not been invited. “I see quite enough of them as it is,” she said, “whereas I never see all of you and, short of my dying, there’s no occasion when you’re all likely to see each other. Do try the trifle. It’s wicked.” Seldom had she been in such good spirits.
    The prospect of a proper tea had fetched the privy councillors out in greater numbers than had been anticipated: dinner would have been a chore, whereas tea was a treat. There was such a crowd that chairs were in short supply, and there was a lot of running to and fro by the staff in order to get everybody seated, though this turned out to be part of the fun. Some sat on the usual gilt party chairs, but others found themselves ensconced on a priceless Louis XV bergere or a monogrammed hall chair brought in from the vestibule, with one former lord chancellor ending up perched on a little cork-topped stool brought down from a bathroom.
    The Queen placidly surveyed all these goings-on, not quite on a throne but certainly on a chair larger than anyone else’s. She had brought her tea in with her and sipped and chatted until at last everyone had made themselves comfortable.
    “I know that I’ve been well advised over the years but I hadn’t realised quite how numerously. What a crowd!”
    “Perhaps, ma’am, we should all sing ‘Happy Birthday’!” said the prime minister, who was naturally sitting in the front row.
    “Don’t let’s get carried away,” said Her Majesty. “Though it is true one is eighty and this is a sort of birthday party. But quite what there is to celebrate I’m not sure. I suppose one of the few things to be said for it is that one has at least achieved an age at which one can die without people being shocked.”
    There was polite laughter at this and the Queen herself smiled. “I think,” she said, “that more shouts of ‘No, No’ might be appropriate.”
    So somebody obliged and there was more complacent laughter as the nation’s most distinguished tasted the joys of being teased by the nation’s most eminent.
    “One has had, as you all know, a long reign. In fifty years and more I have gone through, I do not say seen off” — (laughter) — “ten prime ministers, six archbishops of Canterbury, eight speakers and, though you may not consider this a comparable statistic, fifty-three corgis — a life, as Lady Bracknell says, crowded with incident.”
    The audience smiled comfortably, chuckling now and again. This was a bit like school, primary school anyway.
    “And of course,” said the Queen, “it goes on, not a week passing without something of interest, a scandal, a cover-up or even a war. And since this is one’s birthday you must not even think of looking peeved” — (the prime minister was studying the ceiling and the home secretary the carpet) — “for one has a long perspective and it was ever thus. At eighty things do not occur; they recur.
    “However, as some of you may know, I have always disliked waste. One not wholly