Charlie is my Darling

The royal blue velvet curtains were drawn open by unseen hands pulling on gold braid cords. A misty grey dawn filtered into his bedroom. The familiar half-whispered tones of his equerry announced, ‘Your tea, Sir.’

Roy woke with a start. It was still dark outside, no light penetrated the thin beige curtains. The seven o’clock alarm had not gone off. It was the dream again. He reckoned it was his subconscious ridiculing him for it was he, himself, who slipped gingerly out of bed every morning to make tea. Barbara lay asleep next to him, the sound of her breath barely a whisper. Tea-making had been his morning ritual for the last forty years or so. Not even today, his birthday, did he expect a cup of tea to be brought to him as he woke.

He had stopped keeping track of his own age, he calculated it mentally every time he was asked how old he was. Today he must be 75 years old. His birthdays no longer had much significance. During his teenage years, every birthday added new responsibilities and opportunities. In his twenties and thirties, milestones were fewer but each passing year reminded him of the need to achieve, something. In middle age the pressure was less, but their children brought new deadlines.

His slippers flapped quietly as he went downstairs to the kitchen. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he watched as the dawn lightened the sky to mid-grey. He made the tea, carried two mugs upstairs, and carefully placed Barbara’s on her bedside table. Without opening her eyes she murmured an acknowledgement. He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Every morning he was surprised at the image of the old man who looked back at him. He stroked his chin and wondered if he should shave. He should try to look his best on his birthday. His Dad had taught him to shave. Most mornings, even now, he recalled the ‘Brushless Shaving Cream’ used by his father which he applied with a shaving brush.

Staring into the mirror, he imagined the ghostly outline of another man’s old age features. Try as he might he could not avoid the spectre. They shared a name, Roy’s middle name, Charles. The Charles in the mirror had no inkling of Roy’s existence.

Roy had been haunted all his life by this other Charles, every stage of whose life had been reported by radio, television, newspapers and cinema newsreels. As Roy grew up, there were reports of another boy, the same age, but in a parallel distant dimension. Roy could not put his finger on why, but he found this irksome.

Roy and Barbara had retired a few years previously, They resolved to make the most of the novelty of their free time. After decades spent in mundane careers, they felt that they deserved it. The other Charles did not have to work. He had a big house in the country and clearly wasn’t short of cash. Something to do with his mother, Roy assumed. Instead of applying for a pension which he clearly did not need he was given the top job in the country. That also had something to do with his mother. Roy vaguely wondered why no-one else got to apply, not that he thought he could do the job better.

Roy put his head round the bedroom door. ‘You ready for another cuppa?’ he enquired. A barely audible murmur from Barbara gave assent. He returned to the kitchen and clicked on the kettle. There would be nothing recognisable as conversation until well after the second cup.

He got on with checking the list of tasks for the day that he had prepared the previous evening. He had always been a list-maker but these days it was even more necessary. They had managed to fill their days with walks, visits, friends, discussion groups and whatever. And with grandparenting responsibilities they had little free time. During the day, he would check off a couple of tasks and add one or two more as he remembered new obligations. The other Charles probably had a private secretary to keep his lists up to date.

The weekend passed pleasantly with visits to family and friends on familiar territory with no protocols to worry about. He enjoyed the time he spent with his grandchildren, especially Oliver who was now ten years old and at the age of curiosity, reading books rather than watching television or tapping at computer games. Oliver would ask Roy questions about history which he struggled to answer but he had become adept at fast internet searches which increased his knowledge and produced enough interesting facts to satisfy a ten-year old’s enquiring mind.

--oOo--

Waking the following day, Roy relished the idea that it was Monday. For the last forty-odd years it had signalled the end of the weekend. The words of the Boomtown Rats coming back to him.

The letterbox snapped shut as the newspaper came through the door and flopped onto the mat. His regal namesake’s face was spread across the front page, smiling with his Queen. Being King, he had two birthdays. An official one in the summer so that soldiers in old-fashioned red uniforms could parade about in summer weather, even if it meant fainting. Today was his actual date of birth. Roy thought he might have wanted to keep away from all the pomp but the newspapers felt it necessary to remind everyone.

The photographs were the latest of thousands of others Roy had been bombarded with over the years, with Charles in different poses, different uniforms, and the same ageing face with eyes that Roy thought were a bit too close together. Roy’s own portrait had only ever been printed once in a newspaper, at university. He wondered if he still had it somewhere, cut from Student News circa 1971, with long hair, flowered shirt and neckerchief.

Today he would meet Pete, an old friend in more than one sense. They were long-standing companions, having met forty years previously on a charity run. Since then they had walked hundreds, perhaps thousands, of miles together, hiking up mountains and following rivers, in all weathers.

Their Monday walks together were sacrosanct. No other appointments were permitted, their diaries permanently blocked. They would take a bus or train to the outskirts of the city, walk a few miles, go to a pub for a pint and a sandwich, find another bus or train and return home. It was a weekly pilgrimage.

After a sensible breakfast of muesli and fruit, he packed a small rucksack, water bottle, waterproof, phone charger, first aid kit. He had downloaded all the maps and timetables he needed. He pulled on his old boots. He had paid a lot of money for them nearly twenty years ago, as essential equipment for a five-day trek in the Spanish mountains. Remarkably, the rugged soles showed barely any wear and the chestnut leather uppers were still waterproof with regular waxing. He called them his ‘Rolls-Royce’ boots, they were his only luxury.

His phone rang, it was Pete. ‘Are you ready? See you at the station?’

    ‘Yes,’ said Roy. ‘As usual, in the usual place.’ It was a well-practised routine. Their phone conversations were short and to the point. Rambling discussions could wait until they were out in whichever field or forest was the day’s objective.

Roy called upstairs, ‘Bye, Love! I’m off.’ Monday was Barbara’s book group and she was probably reading the last few paragraphs of their chosen title. He took the bus to the station. On weekdays he might see one or two other people, of a similar age and attired in weather-resistant clothes and walking boots. He wondered where they all went; he rarely met them out on the footpaths in the country. Today, the only one at the entrance to the station was Pete.

    ‘Glad to see you are still up for it, Old Man!’ Pete grinned.

    ‘Let’s go. The train will be here soon.’ There was no time for banter.

The train carried them beyond the city boundary, suburban streets replaced by muddy open fields and woodland becoming bare as their yellow and orange leaves fell. They got off at a village station with a large commuter car park.

Pete had plotted their route on his phone. They crossed over the railway line by a footbridge and took a path towards the fields. Roy stopped briefly, adjusted his rucksack and took a deep breath. He was only a little stiff this morning and was eager to stretch his legs. The path was flat, stretching towards a clump of trees in the distance and he began a steady pace with measured strides. He looked up at the cloudy sky, grey and sunless, but the weather report predicted no rain. He loved just looking at the sky. In the city there’s no time to look up, always looking to avoid obstacles, vehicles or people.

Slowly, conversation started and flowed easily between the two friends.

    ‘How is so-and-so?’

    ‘Have you heard about ... ?’

    ‘Have you been watching … ?’ 

    ‘Did you hear what that pillock said on tv yesterday?’

    ‘Did Crystal Palace win?’ Inexplicably, Pete had followed the team for years but never went to their matches.

Conversation flowed easily, with mild banter and a few attempts at humour. Their opinions rarely differed, except about Crystal Palace. Roy watched the television news every day and voted every few years but he did not think it made any difference. He somehow knew that the King also had a vote but declined to use it. But then, he had a private conversation with the prime minister every week where presumably he might offer an opinion. No-one had ever asked Roy his opinion about anything other than the mundane.

--oOo--

They walked for about eight kilometres, Roy mentally converting the distance to five miles, which sounded more solid, more substantial than the imported measurement. They reached their planned stop at the White Horse, a half-timbered pub which claimed a history going back to the sixteenth century. He briefly wondered what his ancestors were doing back then but he knew that they were probably peasants scratching a living in a field. No-one had traced his ancestry beyond half-remembered memories of his grandfather who was an ironmonger in a small market town.

Roy wondered why pubs did not serve ploughman’s lunches anymore. Once upon a time it was the only thing resembling a meal that you could get in a pub. Nowadays, you might be offered the cuisine from half a dozen distant countries, all on the same menu. Roy usually settled for a burger, which he found unusually satisfying as he grasped the dripping bap with both hands and sank his teeth into a thick meat patty and washed down with a pint of local ale.

They relaxed, wondering if they would be able to stand up again and walk the next few miles. From outside, at first barely discernible, a mechanical noise grew louder and louder into a cacophony. Roaring and clattering, it grew to a crescendo above the pub. They stood up, pushing their chairs back, and went outside. Five military helicopters in formation were passing directly over them. As they passed, the noise did not subside as another formation of helicopters thundered overhead. And then passed over them three Chinooks, twin engines and rotors adding more noise to the pandemonium.

Instinctively, everyone clamped their hands over their ears to blot out the decibels. If anyone tried to speak, their words were lost to the tumult. And then the noise faded as the flotilla disappeared towards the horizon.

    ‘What the hell was that?’ said someone to no-one in particular.

    ‘Are we being invaded or something?’ said another voice.

    ‘Probably for the King’s Birthday,’ announced the bartender. ‘Flying back to Biggin Hill, over east. Happens a lot. We have to get used to it.’

    ‘Even out here,’ Roy thought to himself, ‘I cannot escape.’

Roy brooded for the rest of the walk. Pete looked at Roy quizzically, wondering if he had said something wrong. This was not like Roy at all. On the train on the way back, Roy seemed to relax. Their conversation resumed but his responses were desultory. Roy was contemplating retribution.

The opportunity came a couple of weeks later from an unexpected source. Daughter Emma and her husband Dave came over for Sunday lunch. A freezing rainstorm in the afternoon kept them all indoors Roy sat on the sofa with his grandson, Oliver.

    ‘What have you been reading lately?’ asked Roy.

    ‘Horrible Histories are good fun. I’ve read the one about King Henry. Number eight? Now I am reading about Roundheads and Cavaliers.’ The boy said cheerily, pleased that his Grandad was interested.

    ‘And what did you think of it?’ Roy was genuinely interested to find out what the boy thought about the opposing sides.

    ‘The Roundheads don’t have much fun, do they? I prefer to be a Cavalier!’

    ‘Didn’t the Cavaliers lose?’ enquired Roy.

    ‘I haven’t got to that part yet,’ said Oliver. ‘They seem to be winning a few battles!’

    ‘You know, the Cavaliers were the King’s men. Do you remember who the King was? Asked Roy.

    ‘Charles, I think. I’m not sure what happened to him.’ Oliver frowned, trying to recall. ‘Isn’t our new King called Charles as well?’

    ‘Tell you what, when you finish the story, ask your Daddy if we can go to London and I will show you something. We can have a day out, eat burgers and chips.’ A plan was forming in Roy’s mind.

   ‘Fries, not chips, Grandad.’ Oliver said, exasperated.

--oOo--

In December, they planned a family trip to the Christmas lights in the West End.

    ‘You know this trip to the West End? Will you and Emma want to go shopping?’ Roy asked, knowing the answer.

    ‘As usual.’ said Barbara. Shopping trips to Oxford Street were not usual but she was not going to miss the opportunity. ‘You’re not interested, are you?’

Today, Roy had an opinion, at  least on that subject. ‘I don’t think Oliver will enjoy it much. Can I take him to a museum or something?’

    ‘Emma and Dave won’t mind. Can we leave you two to your own devices. Will you be able to manage?’ Not having two reluctant shoppers tagging along appealed to Barbara.

    ‘We’ll manage. I’ll talk to Emma. I am sure it will be okay.’ Roy knew exactly what he wanted to do.

A week before Christmas Day, five people, the youngest aged ten and the oldest aged 75, took the train to Victoria. Three of them took the tube to Oxford Circus while Roy and Oliver, well wrapped up against the cold, looked for the number 11 bus. Both were in good spirits, enjoying the adventure together.

    ‘Have you finished your book about Roundheads and Cavaliers?’ asked Roy.

    ‘I read a bit more. I found out that I have the same name, Oliver, as the leader of the Roundheads!’ he replied. ‘But I had to give it back to the library. I was a confused by all the battles so I didn’t mind. And I had to start getting ready for our Christmas show.’

    ‘You mean that play we came to see you in last week? You liked being a pirate, didn’t you?’ Roy remembered the show, surprised at some of the jokes. Better than those interminable Nativity plays.

   ‘It was good fun! Arr! Arr!’ said Oliver, swinging an imaginary cutlass.

The bus made its way down Victoria Street, colourful shop displays lighting up the street. The sun had set by the time they reached Parliament Square but floodlights and illuminations lit up the streets. The bus stopped after it turned into Whitehall. They stepped onto the pavement and walked back to see Big Ben lit up. They stopped to cross the road, Roy took Oliver’s hand who thought the gesture unnecessary at his age.

    ‘Do you know what that tower is called?’ prompted Roy.

    ‘Big Ben! I’ve seen pictures on telly.’ Announced Oliver.

Roy thought that was good enough. It would be too pedantic to explain to a ten-year old that it only referred to the great bell of the great clock and not the tower itself.

At that point, as the hands of the clock showed 4 o’clock, Big Ben chimed four times as if to greet them. Both Roy and Oliver were pleased with the coincidence.

    ‘We’ll cross here. I will show you something when we reach the other side.’ said Roy.

Standing outside Westminster Hall, Roy tried to sound authoritative. He had done his research online and could announce that for over nine hundred years, this building had been the centre of government. Oliver thought he meant that the Houses of Parliament were all that old, including Big Ben, and they certainly looked it. Once again Roy decided that a correction was unnecessary.

They walked a few steps until Roy told Oliver to look up. Looming over them was the statue of Oliver Cromwell.

    ‘Here’s your namesake, Oliver!’ explained Roy. ‘What do you know about him?’

    ‘I don’t think I am named after him! There’s another boy at school called Oliver.’ he answered. ‘He was the leader of the Roundheads, wasn’t he? Why does he have such a big statue?’

    ‘He is here because he was the leader of the Parliament. About four hundred years ago. It was his army that defeated the Cavaliers.’ Roy began to realise that this man might possibly be his true hero.

Roy grasped the boys hand again and they crossed the road to the church opposite. ‘And here is the man he defeated! King Charles the first!’ he announced.

There, in a niche in the wall of St Margaret’s church opposite Cromwell was a bust of the King, the two implacable enemies staring at each other across the roadway. Roy liked the idea they would be staring each other down for hundreds of years, only interrupted by the occasional red double-decker.

    ‘Come along, young man. I want to show you what happened to King Charles.’ The pair crossed the Square towards Whitehall, passing Downing Street.

    ‘The Prime Minister’s house is behind these gates at number 10. He is the person who runs the country, not the King. And that is because of Oliver Cromwell! Remember this!’ Roy did not feel up to explaining the Restoration, constitutional monarchy and such matters. It was too much for Oliver who looked perplexed.

    ‘Do you know what happened to King Charles?’ Roy asked, knowing the answer.

    ‘Didn’t they chop his head off? They don’t usually do that to kings, do they?’ said Oliver.

    ‘Let’s go up here and I will show you.’ Roy led him further up Whitehall to stand opposite a fine stone building with two rows of windows, pediments and pilasters. ‘This building is much older than the other buildings here. It was once part of a palace called White Hall.’

Oliver wondered where this was leading. Roy continued, ‘I am sorry to have to tell you but this is where King Charles had his head removed, by order of Parliament.’ Oliver was wide-eyed. They crossed the road and Roy pointed out another bust of Charles above the door of the Banqueting House, a memorial.

A shiver ran up his spine when he realised how earth-shattering this event must have been. He wondered if everyone remembered where they were on the day of Charles’ execution.

He had to explain to Oliver that they had not worked out how to run the country without a King. So, after Cromwell died, they invited Charles’ son back to take the throne as Charles the Second but his power was diminished. Parliament was in charge. The realisation dawned on Roy that the King was powerless despite the pomp and adulation. He had faced down own nemesis and exorcised the ghost in his mirror.

    ‘Let’s go and find your Mum and Dad.’ said Roy cheerfully. I’ll phone Granny. We’ll go to Piccadilly Circus where we can see the lights. And have a burger … and fries!