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‘Gives them a completely different perspective. They come back more grounded. Resilient.’
‘The benefit of a broader perspective.’
‘Quite.’
For a while the two strolled towards the oak pavilion in silence before the visitor said, ‘Going back to your question about our social problems, a lot of them have to do with affluenza.’
‘Materialism?’
‘Believing extrinsic things are more important to our happiness than they actually are,’ agreed the visitor. ‘And, by the same token, undervaluing the importance of non-material, intrinsic things.’
There was a pause before Charles said, ‘How eloquently put. And of course, that’s not something I could ever say. Not in public, at least. People would just say, He’s being a hypocrite.’ He fiddled with his cufflinks. ‘Even though if anyone should know how little satisfaction wealth can bring, it’s me.’
Charles looked pensive for a while before he asked, ‘What should the message be? What are the intrinsic things that we should be encouraging?’ He gave a droll smile. ‘Telling people they should go to church more often?’
‘Or even at all,’ interjected his visitor with a wry chuckle. ‘Sadly, for many people any form of organised religion has become irrelevant. If you believe you are nothing more than matter, which is the materialist view, then it is rational to dismiss spirituality. Persuading people that this is a tragically diminished idea of what it means to be human is, of course, our ultimate purpose. But even those with a materialist mindset can be encouraged to review their priorities.’
‘Oh?’ Charles sounded interested.
‘For most people, what’s meaningful are the things that draw us together. What we do with the people we care about. The communities that we’re a part of are important. It’s about what connects us.’
‘Hmm,’ the Prince of Wales digested this. ‘Over the years, I’ve met a number of entrepreneurs who say the most satisfying thing they did was return to the places where they grew up, sometimes quite deprived places, to help out the local sports team or brass band, for example. It can be a deeply moving experience.’
‘Exactly.’ His visitor nodded. ‘When we make positive connections or reconnections with those who’ve helped us in the past, that’s when we find purpose and wellbeing. Wealth and status actually become irrelevant.’
The two men were approaching the veranda when Margaret appeared on the lawn ahead of us, racing from one side to the other. Winston and I scampered after her. Too apprehensive to follow, Mitzy quivered at the ankles of her master in a bewildered state.
It was a short while later, after Charles and his visitor had retired to a drawing room for tea, when I behaved in an unspeakable fashion. You know me well enough by now, my fellow subject, to appreciate that I am not one to sugar-coat things or to avoid an uncomfortable truth. But nor do I wish to dwell on unpleasantness, so I shall tell you what happened—but only once.
Charles was searching for a favourite book on one of his shelves, as he and his visitor continued to talk about deep and meaningful subjects. Margaret and Winston remained outside, savouring the delights of the garden. Meanwhile, following my instincts, I found myself sitting at the feet of the visitor—Mitzy having hopped up onto the sofa beside him the moment that I appeared.
I still had no idea who the visitor was. My initial view of him being a corporate leader had changed—his travels seemed more inclined to the cerebral, even the spiritual. As he and the Prince of Wales had an animated discussion about medicine in the developing world, I wondered if he was the head of one of the aid charities that Sophia talked about so often.
Even had I known who he was, I don’t suppose it would have stopped me from obeying my instincts—which I regret to say were of the basest possible kind. His trousers, which I had found to be so bland and void of interesting smells when he’d first arrived were, by now, thoroughly permeated with the scent of Mitzy. A few telltale white curls had been left behind on the fabric. Mitzy had placed herself up on the sofa, coquettish and unattainable. But the visitor’s leg was pressed to the floor in what suddenly appeared to be a most interesting angle. Overwhelmed by the spell of Mitzy—her scent, her poodleness, her beguiling, fluffy rump—I couldn’t help myself. In a trice, I had mounted the leg of the Prince of Wales’ visitor and began vigorous rubbing.
It lasted only moments. ‘Ugh!’ protested the visitor. He shook his leg and forced me off with a vigorous shove of the hand. I tumbled onto my side.
Turning around from his bookshelves, Charles instantly surmised what had happened. ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed.
‘Bit frisky,’ observed the visitor.
Charles raised an arm, pointed to the door and glowered at me. ‘Out!’ he ordered. Embarrassed by my impetuousness and ashamed to have disgraced myself in front of the heir to the throne, I
made my cringing way out to the garden.
The next morning, a short while after we corgis had returned home to Windsor, Tara was attaching a lead to my collar and taking me outside. A walk in the park, I wondered? Or perhaps along the river? But what about Winston and Margaret? Were they not coming too?
Soon we were in her car and driving out the gates. The steel bars resplendent with the lion and the unicorn closed behind us, as Tara headed into Windsor. The one and only time that I’d been in her car had been when she’d rescued me from the Grimsleys. Since then I’d been on numerous car journeys, but these had always been chauffeured by a royal driver or a police detective. What on earth was happening?
It was only when we turned down a particular street, passing a hairdressing salon that generated a potent and unmistakable melange of scents that I realised where we were going. Dr. Munthe had examined me soon after I came under the care of the Queen, ensuring I’d had the required inoculations. A bearded man with a Swedish accent, he was famous for being a dog lover and I’d felt quite at ease on being taken to his surgery.
What surprised me was how, on this occasion, instead of waiting with me to go into see Dr. Munthe, Tara left me with one of his nurses. ‘I’ll collect you this afternoon, young man,’ she said, exchanging a knowing smile with a veterinary nurse.
I was taken to a back room in which there were five kennels for dogs and, along one of the sides of the room, a number of smaller enclosures occupied by cats. Of the five kennels, three were already occupied. An elderly alsatian, his leg in plaster, was sleeping in the corner kennel. Next to him was a wheezing, middle-aged labrador, who wagged her tail limply as I appeared. A King Charles spaniel was in the kennel next to the one into which I was guided—but he was in the deepest of sleeps.
The nurse crouched down and gave me a reassuring pat, ‘Won’t be long.’
I dimly remember being taken into a room where Dr. Munthe checked my temperature and gave me a quick examination. A needle must have been involved somewhere because, without even noticing, I fell into the deepest of sleeps.
