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‘Indeed!’ His nose deepened its glow. ‘What we’re doing, at any one time, is projecting brain hypotheses onto the physical world. We think we’re just seeing what’s there. But what’s there is more a product of our mind than anything.’
‘A product of our mind?’ asked Her Majesty perceptively. ‘Or of our brain?’
‘My mistake, Your Majesty.’
At this point, Professor Monday’s nose turned positively beetroot in colour. ‘As a neuroscientist, I am unqualified to talk about anything except the workings of the brain. Mind is a different phenomenon.’
‘And how do the two interrelate?’
‘The brain is like a television set. We’re learning more and more about how it operates. But we’re still unable to explain basic facts like how consciousness is produced. There is a growing conviction that the brain is to consciousness as the TV receiver is to a broadcast. Even if the TV set breaks down, that is not necessarily the end of the broadcast.’
‘And we are creating our own broadcast?’ asked the quantum scientist.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ agreed Professor Monday.
‘You see, this goes to the heart of quantum theory too.’
‘It does?’ Her Majesty was following the exchange with interest.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the professor. ‘Dr. Johar is getting at the non-duality of the observer and the observed.’
His fellow scientist nodded, brushing her hair back from her face. ‘Quantum theory tells us that it is meaningless to divide the observing apparatus from the observed.’
The Queen absorbed this with a pensive expression.
I noticed Dr. Johar flash an apprehensive glance at Professor Monday, as though she may have waded too far into quantum soup. Then Her Majesty said, ‘Someone was explaining to me only recently how things are much less solid than we believe. How perception is misleading.’
Dr. Johar smiled with some relief. ‘A quantum scientist, perhaps?’
The Queen regarded her kindly. ‘Actually, someone from a spiritual background.’
‘There is a convergence going on,’ said the Professor.
‘Is there?’
‘Oh, yes!’ chimed Dr. Johar. ‘The esoteric traditions of both the east and the west tell us that we create our own reality, even if we don’t recognise this. In my own field, Erwin Schrodinger once said: Every man’s world picture is, and always remains, a construct of his mind and cannot be proved to have any other existence. There is . . .’ she slid the fingers of both hands together, ‘a harmony between science and spirituality at their highest levels.’
The Queen nodded. ‘If only these essential truths were better understood by all.’
‘Quite so, ma’am,’ responded the Professor in agreement.
Her Majesty’s canine representatives made their way home from this meeting separately. Because I was at the Queen’s ankles when she was ushered out of the room to prepare for her next engagement, I went with her. Winston and Margaret would return to our quarters in the company of Lady Tara. Which was why, of all the royal corgis, I alone had the privilege of being with Her Majesty when we both had one of the most extraordinary encounters of our lives.
Dusk was falling as we made our way through the winding corridors of Windsor. There was also an unusual coolness in the air, even though the central heating was usually reliable. Security kept a discreet distance, out of sight both in front and behind, so that it felt as though the two of us were alone, as we returned to Her Majesty’s private suite.
It so happened that our route passed the entrance to the royal library, a sumptuous room with red leather sofas, reading lights and wooden bookshelves that reached all the way to a toweringly high and ornate ceiling. Every one of the shelves was packed with leather-bound volumes, some of which seemed to be of very great antiquity.
The door was ajar and, the room being unused, no lamps had been switched on. But as the two of us passed by, we heard the unmistakeable sound of clicking heels on its wooden flooring. The Queen paused. I did too. Was a family member visiting to find something to read? But if so, who?
The footsteps were decidedly female. Her Majesty decided to investigate. Pushing the door wider, she stepped inside. I followed, snout to ankle, as curious as she . . . if not more so.
We found ourselves looking at a woman standing at the window, wearing a black dress and shawl and who I sensed was a family member. But she was not one I had yet encountered and nor, to judge by the Queen’s expression, had she.
The woman was only a short distance away from us, in silhouette. She was staring outside as though absorbed in a very different time and place. Without the need for words or even gestures, she conveyed the unmistakeable presence of greatness. ‘How do you do?’ the Queen greeted her, as she did people of all rank. At the window, the visitor nodded in acknowledgement, just once and very slowly, as though in a trance.
After a while, when it was evident the lady in black wasn’t going to say anything further, the Queen asked her directly a question to which we both wanted to know the answer: ‘Who are you?’
She turned and looked at us directly. Her features were pale, eyes perceptive, auburn hair unadorned. And yet, in the instant that she faced us, we were suddenly presented with an altogether different image of bejewelled magnificence, crown and ermine, sceptre and sword, of a high, white collar and ancient splendour.
