It sat on the mantelpiece, pride of place where everyone could see. The royal crest was the important part. Impossible to ignore with its gleaming gold insignia. Esme found herself sitting on the couch opposite, eyes glued to that oblong piece of card for minutes at a time. She had to force herself to concentrate on something else, not least, what she was going to wear.
Marfield WI was invited to send one of its members to the royal garden party every ten years or so when it was their turn. Members’ names were put into a hat and this time Esme’s had been drawn.
‘What a pity our dear late Queen won’t be there,’ said Maggie Thorel. ‘You’ll have to make do with the Princess of Wales.’
‘That dear, brave girl,’ Esme was outraged. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather meet.’ She’d walked away, flush faced leaving Maggie with her mouth open. Of course, Maggie wouldn’t do. Thank God her name hadn’t surfaced. Esme knew you shouldn’t judge people by appearance but really, she doubted Maggie had had a decent haircut since before lockdown, and her clothes! She’d tried to encourage her into a more stylish wardrobe over the years, steering her towards decent shops and offering items she had grown tired of but Maggie stuck to her dowdy uniform of leggings and baggy tops mostly supplied by charity shops.
The gardener had been informed that he would receive no help from Esme until after the event. She’d be wearing gloves of course but you never knew if you had to take them off perhaps to grip a plate? She couldn’t risk anything other than an immaculate manicure. Leon was a godsend. She hadn’t let anyone else near her hair since she’d discovered him three years ago.
‘DARLING,’ he’d greeted her when she entered the salon. ‘WHAT an honour! I’m so jealous I can’t tell you.’
‘I thought we could try out a few styles before the day.’
‘Have you got your hat with you?’
‘No, sorry, I haven’t chosen one yet.’
‘Fine. Let me know the moment you do and we’ll get going.’
‘Oh, but I thought…’
‘We can’t even THINK about a style without the headgear.’ Leon waved away her objections. ‘We may need to put the hair up, deepen the colour – can’t do a THING until we know what we’re dealing with. Trust me. Once we’ve got the hat you’ll be my top priority. Now, what about a glass of Prossee to celebrate?’ He didn’t wait for her response but clicked his fingers and a bottle of Prossecco arrived along with two glasses.
Finding the right outfit was more trouble than Esme imagined. In the end she engaged a personal shopper at the largest department store in town and they settled on dove grey with dusky pink accessories. Leon worked his magic and came to the house the morning of the party just to ‘finish her off’ as he put it. She could only manage one slice of toast before setting off for the station and tried to steady her nerves on the journey to London by looking out of the window. She took a taxi from Charing Cross to the palace, encouraged by the driver who told her she ‘looked a picture.’ Suddenly she was there, one of the throng chosen to meet royalty, she’d never felt so special.
To this day Esme can’t think how it happened. One minute she was sipping tea from a bone china cup and the next, face down on the grass with her legs sprawling.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Get her a chair, someone.’
‘She must have tripped.’
Esme was gently helped to her feet and sat on a chair while a man in a white coat examined her for broken bones. Satisfied that she could walk she was led away between two uniformed men to a small tent behind the marque with a red cross on the side. ‘Don’t cry’ she told herself, ‘don’t cry.’ She hadn’t felt so humiliated since she’d wet herself in primary school and had to be sent home. A kindly nurse gave her a cup of sweet tea which she held in both hands to stop it from shaking. The nurse showed her to a makeshift restroom, and when Essmmie saw her face in the mirror she couldn’t stop the tears. She washed her face, put her ruined hat in the bin and tried to dab at the grass stains on her dress.
‘I expect they’ll come out at the dry cleaners,’ said the nurse. ‘I’m sure her Highness would meet you if you…’
‘Oh no…’ Esme was horrified. ‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly… I just want to go home.’ Even to her ears she sounded like a five year old again.
‘Of course. I’ll send for a car.’
As the palace receded into the distance Esme felt calmer. She was grateful for the smoked glass windows and the fact that the driver, after an initial ‘Where did you want to be madam? Charing Cross was it? Left her in peace. One thing she was sure of. No one must ever know.
Arriving at the station she crossed the road, walked into ‘Accessorise’, a shop she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in, and bought a large paisley shawl, a pair of dark glasses and a beanie hat. She picked up an evening paper at the station and, having checked the time of the next train, walked into the platform bar and downed a large gin and tonic. When her train was due she scanned the platform for anyone from Marfield, spotted a familiar commuter and dodged behind a pillar until the train drew in. She made sure they entered different coaches.
Satisfied that she’d remained unseen, Esme found her car at Marfield station car park and drove the mile and a half to her house as darkness fell. She’d never been so relieved to get home. She turned the key in the lock, staggered inside and threw her handbag onto the stairs. As she opened the sitting room door the light was turned on and she looked into a sea of faces. Everyone from the Marfield W.I, past and present was there, as well as friends and neighbours. A banner saying ‘Congratulations’ was strung from the ceiling and the words ‘Surprise, surpri…’ slowly died on people’s lips. Maggie Thorel broke the ensuing silence. ‘Esme, whatever happened?’
(c) 2024 Katya Marsh.
