A Three Dog Problem

‘Oh dear! You look quite bedraggled!’ the Queen said, laughing, as they finally reached her.

This was not how Mrs May had imagined spending her early days as Prime Minister, shaking herself down like a wet Labrador before climbing into the passenger seat beside the sovereign in borrowed wellies and a waxed jacket. However, none of the days so far had been what she’d imagined. Picturing this life had been quite pointless, she realised: you never knew what it would hold, and it was impossible to guess.

The Queen, meanwhile, was enjoying herself. The Mays were not the life and soul of the party, it was true, but they meant well and tried hard and, really, what more could one ask? The Prime Minister had talked through her plans for the next few months. She had a busy schedule of talks ahead with the European Union, and had ruled out a snap General Election after her appointment by the party, which was a relief. The country had had enough shocks recently. It was time for a steady hand.

They were talking about the unpleasant nature of surprises as the Land Rover pulled up outside the castle. One of the footmen was waiting for her with an umbrella.

‘You might want to come upstairs, ma’am,’ he said with some urgency. ‘They’ve got the nets out.’

‘Oh, have they? Where?’

‘Your bedroom.’

‘Goodness! Yes, of course. I’ll come straight away.’

The Prime Minister asked what the problem was. The Queen grinned, then grimaced.

‘Bats.’

It was as comical as it was frustrating. The poor creatures wanted to get out just as desperately as one wanted to move them from there, but their famous sonar seemed quite incapable of detecting a wide-open window. Usually they caused a nuisance in the white-walled Ballroom below, where the long-handled nets were kept on standby for the purpose of shooing them to freedom. It was rare for them to visit one’s bedroom, and the Queen tried not to think about the droppings that might be accumulating on the fixtures and fittings. Charles said the guano was good for the garden. Well, let the bats do it there.

Meanwhile, from a position of safety in the corridor (the Queen was not a huge fan of squeaky, unpredictable pipistrelles close up, despite appreciating them in principle), she and the Prime Minister urged the staff on as they manipulated the nets. There were only two bats, as it turned out, and they got outside eventually. She congratulated the man and woman who had done the work. They made a comical, mismatched pair; the housekeeper, small and slim, she recognised as the stalwart Mrs Harris, who always did such wonders with the Belgian Suite. They exchanged smiles as the housekeeper curtseyed. The large, balding, broad-shouldered man in the footman’s red waistcoat was not a familiar face.