A/N: In light of recent news about the passing of Queen Elizabeth, I felt the need to offer a tribute of some kind. Keep in mind that some opinions expressed in the following story by the characters are not necessarily those held by the author. Also, as an Antipodean, I am not prone to royalist sentiments.
Suffolk – Thursday 8th September 2022 – 6.12pm:
Ruth Evershed sits at her dining room table staring through the window, barely aware that the garden is already well past its summer best. On her lap, the cat is curled into a tight ball, her front paws covering her eyes.
Harry is late home, but Ruth is more concerned about how he will take the news. After all, unlike her, he had actually met the woman. Just after lunch he'd gone fishing, and were she the one who had escaped to the beach with a fishing rod and bait box, she'd have been back home within the hour. She is tolerant of Harry's enjoyment of standing on the beach, casting a line into the ocean, just as she is aware of his regular need for solitude. Like any couple, for the most part they rub along quite well, but both can be prone to volatility, so they keep their relationship fresh by spending regular time apart. She has her choir, while Harry has his fishing.
Suddenly, Portia stretches her claws before sinking them through the denim fabric of Ruth's jeans, quickly finding living flesh. "Oww!" Ruth says, more loudly than she'd intended, so that Portia leaps from her lap onto the floor, before running from the room, her tail fluffed and bushy with her usual feline indignation. "Bloody cat!" Ruth utters, hoping Portia feels bad, although the chances of that are about the same as the probability that Harry has caught dinner.
No sooner had Portia disappeared up the stairs than Ruth hears the front door opening, and then closing. Next she hears him in the utilities room, where he stows his fishing gear, then washes his hands. When he enters the dining space his face is grim.
"Bloody fish have all crossed the channel," he says gruffly before he places a quick kiss on the top of her head. His words and actions tell her that he hasn't heard the news. And he hasn't brought home fish. "Sorry," he says, taking his snack box to the sink. "I guess we'll have to have scraps for dinner."
"I made a casserole," Ruth says quietly, formally.
Harry quickly turns from the sink. "You have no faith in my fishing skills," he says.
"When was the last time you brought home fish?"
He leans his backside against the sink, staring at the wall opposite. "A month ago?"
"More like six weeks," she says, before standing and crossing to the counter which separates the kitchen and dining areas.
They had moved to the cottage once the Russians had left London. Ruth's recovery from injury had been helped by her living away from London, and so well away from danger. Harry had spent each weekend with her, and after six weeks, he had retired, and joined her full time. That had been almost eleven years ago. Eleven years, and eleven marriage proposals. Ruth hadn't seen the need to formalise their relationship with a marriage certificate, but Harry is a persistent man, and she expects that on her next birthday he'll add his twelfth proposal. She is still considering her answer.
"Ruth? Ruth?" She looks up to see him watching her, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. "Are you alright?"
She nods, but then changes that to a shake of her head. "You haven't heard the news … have you?"
Harry shakes his head. "While fishing I turn my phone off, and I hadn't turned it back on."
"She's gone, Harry."
Harry's frown deepens. "But I saw her sitting at the top of the stairs. She was watching me like she was planning to pounce -"
"Not Portia, Harry. London Bridge has fallen," Ruth adds quietly, formally, knowing he will understand the code.
And he does understand the code for the passing of their monarch. He stands up straight, slowly walking towards her, the kitchen counter still between them. "When?" he asks.
Ruth glances at the clock on the microwave. "An hour or two ago. She died peacefully … or so they said."
Harry nods. He is not normally an effusive man, and this moment is like many others Ruth has witnessed from him. Solid, reliable, stoic, Harry takes the news like an Englishman, like a former military man and intelligence officer. His thoughts and emotions are safely held under lock and key, and they may never leave that vast emotional vault inside him, the place where he stuffs his anger, his rage, his pain, and his grief. Using the depth of her love for him, Ruth would love to open that vault, and let his darkest and deepest passions fly free. She would love to be the one to help him lighten his many burdens. She is also certain that day will never come.
Suddenly Harry is standing in front of her, his arms sliding around her shoulders, as he pulls her against him. Ruth doesn't quite know why she is crying. It's not as though the news is unexpected, and nor was the person for whom she grieves a young person. The Queen was 96, her health failing, and she had served her country and Commonwealth well for seventy years. But the woman was known and loved all over the world. Ruth allows herself to relax against Harry's shoulder, where his dark green fishing sweater absorbs her tears.
They are already half way through dinner before the subject is again raised.
"I'm sorry about earlier," Ruth says, glancing across the table to where Harry is polishing off the last of his wine.
"Sorry about what?"
"I blubbered into your shoulder," she says, a little embarrassed at the memory. "I don't know why I did that," she adds. "After all, I never even met her."
Harry shrugs. "The jumper will survive, I'm sure," he says.
"What was she like?" Ruth asks. "When you met her?"
Harry takes a moment. "She was ..." he begins, "rather short."
"I meant, what was -"
"I know what you meant, Ruth. I … the meeting was brief, and so a bit of a blur. She smiled a lot, and chatted quite easily."
"Did she say anything," Ruth prompts, "to you?"
Harry sits back, frowning as he recalls his knighthood investiture from fifteen years earlier. "She said something about enjoying being free to brandish a sword, but I've forgotten her exact words. She seemed quite … normal."
"But she wasn't normal," Ruth answers. "One can't possibly be normal while having to live like that."
"True," Harry says absently while he tops up Ruth's wine glass.
An hour later they are sitting in their usual armchairs either side of the fireplace. Harry had suggested he light a fire, but Ruth had talked him out of it. "It's not really cold enough," she'd said, "and of it gets colder we can put on an extra layer of clothing, or -"
"Or we can have an early night," Harry had said quietly, not looking at her.
"That was a neat move," she'd said, smiling across at him.
"I thought so." Harry's voice was deep and smooth.
"We'll never again be able to say `God save the Queen,'" she says after a long silence
"That was one out of left field, Ruth."
Ruth sighs. "I can't help thinking that Charles has large shoes to fill."
"Metaphorically speaking, of course."
"Of course," Ruth replies, her voice quiet and a little distant. "Charles isn't exactly popular, either, and he's political, which his mother never was."
"She was a rare bird," Harry replies quietly.
"Prince William has the makings of a fine monarch, but he might be sixty before he gets there, if the family's genetics plays out."
Harry has been wondering whether this was the right moment to lighten the tone. "It's times like these that we can be thankful that William is the oldest child of the monarch," he says lightly.
"I assume you're referring to .. The Spare."
"I was, yes. Imagine him being King one day."
"That's harsh," Ruth says quickly.
"Also true."
Ruth has no come-back to that. In her heart she agrees with him. "I just wish Diana were still alive," she says, "and still married to Charles."
"Would you really wish that on the poor woman?" Harry asks, one eyebrow lifted.
"If he hadn't acted … in the way he did, then .. it's possible she could now have been .."
".. the Queen Consort, which would mean walking three paces behind her husband whenever they're in public."
"I could never live like that," Ruth says quietly. "It's all so traditional and … deferential. I admire the way the Queen performed her duties. I couldn't fault her. Ever."
"And it's unlikely we'll see another monarch with her commitment to duty," Harry says.
"And Operation London Bridge is already in place," Ruth says.
"Mmm," Harry murmurs. "It's times like these I'm happy to be retired," he adds.
"The security around the day of the funeral will be ..."
"As tight as a fish's you-know-what," Harry finishes for her. "Even the air space will be monitored, although were there to be any kind of attack on London, the day to choose would be ten days from now."
"Please don't wish that, Harry. I couldn't bear it."
"Of course I don't wish it. I was just thinking like a terrorist," he adds, shrugging his shoulders.
Ruth watches him as he takes their empty wine glasses to the kitchen, and makes them each a coffee. "You don't seem very upset," she says once he returns to the living room.
"About the Queen?" he says.
"Yes. She's been our monarch all our lives. Today is one of those days which, some time in the future we'll be asked where we were when we learned that Queen Elizabeth had died."
"Like 9-11."
"Like that, yes," Ruth replies.
"Or when Diana died," he adds. "Or when we heard that JFK was assassinated."
"I wasn't even born then," Ruth replies cheekily, knowing Harry had added the death of JFK deliberately, just to evoke her response.
He grins a lopsided grin. "I'm sad the Queen has gone," he says, "but she was old, and she must have been tired. Were I to live into my 90s, the last thing I'd want to be doing is meeting a new PM."
"She worked until two days before she died."
"I still vote for an early night," Harry suggests, still hopeful.
"I've prattled on, I know," Ruth says apologetically. "I think I feel better about it all now."
Ruth climbs the stairs ahead of Harry, feeling a little lighter in her being for having shared with him her thoughts about the day's events. She knows that were Portia to leap out from behind a door or the curtains, Harry would be less kind, less understanding than she would be. While he quite likes Portia, and generally tolerates her, she knows that he'd much prefer a dog.
When she pushes open their bedroom door, there is the cat, asleep in the middle of the bed. "We have company," she says over her shoulder to Harry, who is close behind her.
"The bed is made for two people only," he says gruffly. "No room for cats, and especially not this one."
Harry has spoken. He is the-voice-who-must-be-obeyed. In some ways he is like a monarch – stern, loyal, stoic, happy to serve. But Ruth knows how to get around him. Perhaps it is only her and his daughter, Catherine, who have that degree of power over him.
Very gently Ruth picks up Portia and places her on the top stair before returning to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. "She'll sleep on your chair in the living room," she says to Harry, who is already in pyjamas and dressing gown.
"Bloody cat," is all he says.
And blunt. Harry is also blunt, and doesn't mince his words. What he says is generally what he means. She rather likes that about him. For a brief moment Ruth contemplates the probability that he will die before her, but she doesn't wish to think about that, and if she doesn't think about it, then maybe it won't happen.
While Harry heads to the bathroom, Ruth prepares for bed. For her, the day has been stressful, confusing, and terribly final. Surely tomorrow will be better.