Spare

During the day’s final two drives I was constantly sneaking peeks in Granny’s direction, to see how she was doing. She seemed good. And very locked in.

Did she really have no idea what was coming?

After the final drive the party scattered. Everyone finished picking up their birds and returned to the Land Rovers. I saw Granny jump into her smaller Range Rover and drive out to the middle of the stubble field. She began looking for dead birds, while her dogs hunted.

There was no security around her, so this looked to be my chance.

I walked out to the middle of the stubble field, fell in alongside her, began helping. While we scanned the ground for dead birds, I tried to engage her in some light chat, to loosen her up, and to loosen up my vocal cords. The wind was stronger, and Granny’s cheeks looked cold, despite the scarf wrapped tightly around her head.

Not helping matters: my subconscious. It was popping. The full seriousness of all this was finally starting to sink in. If Granny said no…would I have to say goodbye to Meg? I couldn’t imagine being without her…but I also couldn’t imagine being openly disobedient to Granny. My Queen, my Commander in Chief. If she withheld her permission, my heart would break, and of course I’d look for another occasion to ask again, but the odds would be against me. Granny wasn’t exactly known for changing her mind. So this moment was either the start of my life, or the end. It would all come down to the words I chose, how I delivered them, and how Granny heard them.

If all that wasn’t enough to make me tongue-tied, I’d seen plenty of press reports, sourced to “the Palace,” that some in my family didn’t quite, shall we say, approve of Meg. Didn’t fancy her directness. Didn’t feel altogether comfortable with her strong work ethic. Didn’t even enjoy her occasional questions. What was healthy and natural inquisitiveness they deemed to be impertinence.

There were also whispers about a vague and pervasive unease regarding her race. “Concern” had been expressed in certain corners about whether or not Britain was “ready.” Whatever that meant. Was any of that rubbish reaching Granny’s ears? If so, was this request for permission merely a hopeless exercise?

Was I doomed to be the next Margaret?

Oh. A biro. Wow.

I thought back over the many hinge moments in my life when permission was required. Requesting permission from Control to fire on the enemy. Requesting permission from the Royal Foundation to create the Invictus Games. I thought of pilots requesting permission from me to cross my airspace. My life all at once felt like an endless series of permission requests, all of them a prelude to this one.

Granny started walking back to her Range Rover. I quick-stepped after her, the dogs circling my feet. Looking at them, my mind began to race. My mother used to say that being around Granny and the corgis was like standing on a moving carpet, and I used to know most of them, living and dead, as if they were my cousins, Dookie, Emma, Susan, Linnet, Pickles, Chipper, they were all said to descend from the corgis that belonged to Queen Victoria, the more things change the more they stay the same, but these weren’t corgis, these were hunting dogs, and they had a different purpose, and I had a different purpose, and I realized that I needed to get to it, without one second more of hesitation, so as Granny lowered the tailgate, as the dogs leaped up, as I thought of petting them but then remembered I had a dead bird in each hand, their limp necks nestled between my fingers, their glazed eyes rolled all the way back (I feel you, birds), their bodies still warm through my gloves, I turned instead to Granny and saw her turn to me and frown (Did she recognize that I was afraid? Of both the request for permission and of Her Majesty? Did she realize that, no matter how much I loved her, I was often nervous in her presence?) and I saw her waiting for me to speak—and not waiting patiently.

Her face radiated: Out with it.

I coughed. Granny, you know I love Meg very much, and I’ve decided that I would like to ask her to marry me, and I’ve been told that, er, that I have to ask your permission before I can propose.

You have to?

Um. Well, yes, that’s what your staff tell me, and my staff as well. That I have to ask your permission.

I stood completely still, as motionless as the birds in my hands. I stared at her face but it was unreadable. At last she replied: Well, then, I suppose I have to say yes.

I squinted. You feel you have to say yes? Does that mean you are saying yes? But that you want to say no?