do a few hours of work, because she knew that she could not do the work she once could. Shirley had also heard via the palace grapevine that the serving full-time staff sometimes had to redo her grandmother’s work and were annoyed by it. So one summer day, in the run-up to The Queen’s arrival in mid-August, with the Castle gearing up for the longest formal residence of the year, Shirley and her grandmother drove up the South Deeside Road, parked in the staff car park, and went upstairs to complete an inventory of the bedsheets, pillow slips, and towels. Shirley was on a stepladder counting the sets of sheets that were folded into crisp, symmetrical squares on one of the top shelves in the linen cupboard. Her grandmother was standing below, making small checks on a folded piece of paper. The first Shirley knew that something was wrong was when she heard her grandmother say, “Oof,” and saw her lean back heavily on the doorjamb.
“What’s the matter, Granny?”
“Nothing’s the matter. Carry on. Where are we? Six top sheets. All Queen Victoria? Or some King George V?” The sheets had embroidered monograms in the corners and had been folded in such a way as to make the monogram easy to locate. These monograms identified the reign in which the sheets had been acquired. The staff had been trained always to preface the sovereign’s name with “King” or “Queen,” even though many of these figures were long dead. It was an instinctive sign of respect mixed with a practice that was as antique and old-fashioned as the sheets themselves.
“Look at your forehead, Granny. You’re all wet. And it’s not even hot in here.”
“Never you mind, Shirley. It’s the work. Want to get this right.”
“Let’s have a small break, shall we, Granny?”
“Break? Break! We have to get on. The Queen’s coming in two days.”
“This can wait, Granny.”
Shirley’s grandmother now began panting slightly, put down the paper and pencil that had been in her hand, and reached around to rub her shoulder. “Must have put out this joint reaching up to the third shelf just now. Ow.”
Men and women of her grandmother’s generation never admitted pain or ill health unless they had no time consciously to suppress involuntary groans. If possible, this was even truer of the women than the men, and of Scottish old ladies more than the English. So Shirley knew her grandmother was seriously unwell. “Come, now,” she said to her grandmother in a stern voice that allowed no argument, “let’s rest a moment here on this bench.” She had to be severe with her grandmother because when The Queen was in residence this was a corridor off which the upper members of the Household and guests would be staying, and the bench, strictly speaking, was for them. Ordinarily, if her grandmother had been feeling entirely well, she would have refused to sit there.
The bench had worn tartan cushions supported by deer antlers which served as arms and legs. If you didn’t sit carefully, the bench looked as if it might gore you. Shirley and her grandmother sat on the bench, with the old lady still holding her shoulder and unable to get her breath. Shirley massaged her other shoulder, feeling that the bones underneath the blouse and skin were more like those of a bird than of a human skeleton.
Suddenly, to their surprise, a lady-in-waiting appeared, coming down the corridor, wearing a brown corduroy jacket and matching skirt with unflattering cut. “Ah, taking a break, I see. Things always a bit slack here before Her Majesty arrives.” She said this as if she were trying to make pleasant conversation, but it sounded like a rebuke, with a swallowed “Tsk, tsk,” at the end of it, just barely audible. The lady-in-waiting had arrived two days early, before her waiting actually started, to go and see some friends in the neighborhood and to make use of the free accommodation she could claim from the imminent start of her duty.
“My
“What’s the matter, Granny?”
“Nothing’s the matter. Carry on. Where are we? Six top sheets. All Queen Victoria? Or some King George V?” The sheets had embroidered monograms in the corners and had been folded in such a way as to make the monogram easy to locate. These monograms identified the reign in which the sheets had been acquired. The staff had been trained always to preface the sovereign’s name with “King” or “Queen,” even though many of these figures were long dead. It was an instinctive sign of respect mixed with a practice that was as antique and old-fashioned as the sheets themselves.
“Look at your forehead, Granny. You’re all wet. And it’s not even hot in here.”
“Never you mind, Shirley. It’s the work. Want to get this right.”
“Let’s have a small break, shall we, Granny?”
“Break? Break! We have to get on. The Queen’s coming in two days.”
“This can wait, Granny.”
Shirley’s grandmother now began panting slightly, put down the paper and pencil that had been in her hand, and reached around to rub her shoulder. “Must have put out this joint reaching up to the third shelf just now. Ow.”
Men and women of her grandmother’s generation never admitted pain or ill health unless they had no time consciously to suppress involuntary groans. If possible, this was even truer of the women than the men, and of Scottish old ladies more than the English. So Shirley knew her grandmother was seriously unwell. “Come, now,” she said to her grandmother in a stern voice that allowed no argument, “let’s rest a moment here on this bench.” She had to be severe with her grandmother because when The Queen was in residence this was a corridor off which the upper members of the Household and guests would be staying, and the bench, strictly speaking, was for them. Ordinarily, if her grandmother had been feeling entirely well, she would have refused to sit there.
The bench had worn tartan cushions supported by deer antlers which served as arms and legs. If you didn’t sit carefully, the bench looked as if it might gore you. Shirley and her grandmother sat on the bench, with the old lady still holding her shoulder and unable to get her breath. Shirley massaged her other shoulder, feeling that the bones underneath the blouse and skin were more like those of a bird than of a human skeleton.
Suddenly, to their surprise, a lady-in-waiting appeared, coming down the corridor, wearing a brown corduroy jacket and matching skirt with unflattering cut. “Ah, taking a break, I see. Things always a bit slack here before Her Majesty arrives.” She said this as if she were trying to make pleasant conversation, but it sounded like a rebuke, with a swallowed “Tsk, tsk,” at the end of it, just barely audible. The lady-in-waiting had arrived two days early, before her waiting actually started, to go and see some friends in the neighborhood and to make use of the free accommodation she could claim from the imminent start of her duty.
“My
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