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‘What?’ Despite his post-operative state, Jasper pushed himself up on his front legs in surprise.
‘And they’ll never get one.’
‘You sure?’ He was scandalised and his large, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth.
‘They never knowingly supplied the royal family with anything. In fact, they demanded total secrecy.’
I observed the bewilderment on Jasper’s face before saying, ‘Let me tell you the story.’
You know better than anyone, my fellow subject, that the tale of what happened that fateful afternoon in Slough was not an edifying one. But being able to explain the whole thing to my brother came as a curiously unexpected relief. Of course the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting knew what had happened, as did Her Majesty, in summary version. My fellow royal corgis had also heard the exchanges between Tara and Sophia. But none of them really knew what it was like to live with the Grimsleys—not like Jasper. We had been through the same puppyhood together. So it was wonderfully cathartic to share the story of those final few hours in Slough and my subsequent journey to Windsor.
Jasper understood. He got it. He was also scandalised by the Grimsleys’ claims. Within weeks, he assured me, every dog at the Kennel Club would know the truth about the matter, even if none of the humans did—at least, not yet.
Then he told me about his own adoptive family. How Ronnie Bowers, a ten-year-old boy who had pleaded with his parents for months to have a dog, was the best companion a corgi could possibly have, and that they went for long rambles in the countryside. How Mrs Bowers’ sister, being a corgi enthusiast and owner of Desdemona, had connected the family with the Grimsleys. Apart from being a distant and prize-winning relative, Desdemona was also a conduit of family news. Through her, Jasper had heard that our mother, still living under the kitchen sink, was heavily pregnant with another litter of pups. Tarquin, the long-time alpha male of the household, was suffering from a touch of rheumatism. Meanwhile, an American heiress had made an offer to buy Annabelle.
As Jasper passed on news of all the beings, both corgi and human, who had been my whole world in the early days, the feeling of connection I had to him grew even stronger. Even the way he called me ‘Number Five’ was delightfully nostalgic.
‘You know, Jasper,’ I told him through the cage bars, ‘I never had the chance to say thank you for all you did for me back in Slough.’
‘Didn’t do anything.’ He seemed genuinely mystified.
‘You cheered me up. It was a scary time for me, you know, with the shed.’
‘We’ll never know what happens in there.’ Even now, he was a determined optimist.
‘No corgi ever came back,’ I reminded him.
‘No.’ He readjusted his hindquarters somewhat gingerly. ‘But things turned out alright for you in the end, didn’t they?’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
‘You won’t want to be seen with the likes of me anymore.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You, the Queen’s corgi. Me, inescapably middle class.’
I was suddenly reminded of what Charles’ visitor had said so recently in the drawing room at Highgrove. ‘Just a few days ago a visitor was saying how, by making positive reconnections, especially with those who’ve helped us in the past, we can find purpose and wellbeing. How wealth and status become irrelevant.’
‘Who was the visitor?’
‘Don’t know.’
Brown eyes gleaming, Jasper could tell I wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. He stretched his paw between the bars and pressed mine.
‘Actually, it was the one whose leg I . . .’
He grinned widely. ‘An Earl or a Duke or some such?’
‘Could be. But the family don’t just welcome people with pedigrees. They entertain all
sorts. Even bitzers. I still don’t know who that person was. Do you think it’s important?’
‘Who knows?’ He looked away.
I knew that gesture. It was Jasper’s way of avoiding a hurtful truth.
So it did matter. But who was the mild-mannered man with the cerebral air—and the fluffy white temptress? And why now was the thought of her suddenly so devoid of temptation? And was this how it was going to be for the rest of my life?
