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I was to learn that Winston sometimes spoke in riddles. He was the kind of dog who was happy to point you in a particular direction, but who preferred you to work things out for yourself. ‘She has a human body, but she was born into extraordinary position and power. You don’t think that happened by chance, do you?’
The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t thought about it at all. The idea of being a Queen was an entirely new concept to me.
‘She is by far the best informed person in Britain.’ Margaret glanced across as the sous chef made his way out of the room. ‘For over sixty years she has been regularly briefed by intelligence agencies, the military, bankers, prime ministers . . . the most powerful people in the land.’
‘From time immemorial her family have been the knowledge holders of all the esoteric traditions of Celtic culture’—a faraway look came into Winston’s eye—‘handed down through the generations. At the top end of a fishbowl, everyone knows all the concepts. Some embody the dark and others the light.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘These things,’ he said mysteriously, ‘are better seen than explained. Keep your wits about you. Look sharp.’
There was a pause, while I digested both my breakfast and the intriguing reality in which I found myself. But there was another question I just had to ask: ‘Why all the red carpets?’
‘Why indeed,’ intoned Winston.
‘Red is the colour of royalty.’ Margaret was matter-of-fact. ‘Of strength and power.’
‘It is also the symbol of bloodlines and lineage,’ observed Winston.
‘Champion pedigrees.’ I confirmed.
‘Yes.’ He regarded me closely, scrutinising my features as though trying to make up his mind about something, before finally saying, ‘For those who embody the esoteric path, the same energies may return to the same bloodlines.’
This was a great deal for a corgi new to the household—and a pup at that—to try to understand. ‘Well,’ I mused after a while, ‘does all this mean that we are unlike other corgis?’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘We are Her Majesty’s representatives.’
‘Ours is not so much a position,’ intoned Winston, ‘as a sacred duty. World without end.’
‘Amen.’ Margaret, finished off, with a lick of the lips.
Winston and Margaret explained that even though we were the Queen’s corgis, I shouldn’t expect to spend much time with her every day. A relentless calendar of activity meant that for much of the year she had little time to herself. But she would try to include us in as many of her activities as possible.
As it happened, that very first morning we were with Her Majesty when she received a visitor—my first witnessing of a royal audience. I watched in fascination as Lord Cranleigh entered the room and approached where the Queen was standing, the three of us at her feet. Margaret bared her teeth ever so slightly as the large, tall, silvering man in the dark suit came closer, before bowing very deeply.
‘How do you do?’ The Queen extended her hand for the briefest handshake, before gesturing towards a chair. The two of them sat, joined by the sovereign’s private secretary, a genial man called Julian. Tea was brought in and a discussion followed about Her Majesty’s forthcoming visit to the Lake District.
Taking my cue from Winston and Margaret, I lay down on a nearby oriental carpet of great antiquity. While the two other corgis dozed through what, for them, was just another day at the office, I rested my face between my front paws and watched the Queen intently.
Something about the atmosphere of the room—of the whole castle—felt special and otherworldly. Later I was to discover that it was the oldest and longest-occupied castle in Europe. Its history was almost tangible, along with the design of this room with its very high ceilings, tall windows and sumptuous fittings. It was a very large chamber lit only by the light of a window and the picture lamps that blazed above large, gilt-framed oil paintings of the Queen’s ancestors. There was the sense of being in an inner sanctum, a place from which you could experience an unusually rarefied view of the world. In time, I came to know that the feeling didn’t actually come from the castle or its fittings—it came from the presence of Her Majesty. And it was a presence she encouraged others to share.
I discovered this for myself on that very first morning, when the conversation took a sudden turn in my direction. Arrangements for the Lake District having been duly discussed, the Queen rose to her feet, thus signalling to Lord Cranleigh that his audience was over. As the two men made their way to the door, the Queen stood. Winston and Margaret roused themselves and went to see them off. I followed.
‘Ah—a third corgi!’ observed Lord Cranleigh.
Julian glanced in my direction. ‘Joined us only last night.’
‘The ear,’ the Lord murmured under his breath as the two men reached the door.
‘What’s that?’ Her Majesty’s hearing was much more acute than many imagined.
‘I was just saying . . .’ Lord Cranleigh turned, struggling to find the right words, ‘your new corgi’s ear . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s not sort of . . . it isn’t entirely . . . the way it’s presenting . . .’
‘It flops.’
