Adrian poured his coffee from the French press, added a little milk, and turned and sat at the kitchen table with a contented sigh. The sun was streaming into the room and he could see it glinting off the frost on the immaculate lawn. Life was good. He had retired, the boys had left home, his golf handicap was improving and he was able to spend more time at the Conservative Club, with his like-minded friends and associates. He never failed to enjoy his three or four times weekly round of “it’s all the fault of this bloody Labour government”. Not so much of an incisive debate as an echo-chamber filled with the indignant self-righteous voices of those who clearly thought they knew better. The fact that “their lot” had previously been in power for some fourteen years, overseeing a steady decline in almost everything other than immigration, ironically, was a fact they tended to gloss over.
His delivered copy of the Daily Telegraph was folded in front of him and he shook it open with one hand, while holding his coffee with the other. He indulged himself with his daily feeling of contentment as the broadsheet unravelled; the proper size for a newspaper, of course.
He looked at the headline and accompanying picture with a sense of shock and unreality. “Andrew arrested” it screamed, above a picture of a haunted and drained ex-prince slumped in the back of a car. He read the article with a feeling that he was becoming detached from reality. It was bad enough that the Prince (he was still a Prince in Adrian’s eyes) had been stripped of his titles, but to arrest him? A member of the Royal Family (capital R, capital F)? This was beyond the pale. Although, even Adrian had to admit that Andrew had clearly had some shady dealings and undesirable friendships, with hindsight, of course; he was still a member of the aforementioned Family and was therefore entitled his privacy and respect. After all, the man had fought in the Falklands War and had done an awful lot of good through his life. Adrian could not have actually quantified what this “awful lot of good” amounted to, but it was there. He was sure it was.
The telephone rang and Adrian leaned back to pick it up from on one of the kitchen worksurfaces, answering with an irritated, “Yes, what?” It was Ian, one of today’s foursome, offering him a lift later that morning. After agreeing the details and expressing shock and disappointment over the day’s horrifying news, he hung up.
He glanced once more at the newspaper, thinking that even the Telegraph did not seem especially sympathetic to Andrew’s (perhaps he should get used to the lack of an honorific) plight. Through his bubbling outrage he became dimly aware that Sarah, his wife, was moving around in the lounge (always a lounge, never a sitting room). They had been married for over thirty years and had settled into a lifestyle of mutual toleration, as a matter of convenience. Neither had the stomach for a major upheaval, and while they disagreed on most things, them staying together was more convenient than them not doing so.
He got up and poked his head through the lounge door. “Andrew has been arrested,” he said, his shock making him misplace the erstwhile title.
Sarah visibly paled and looked even more affected than did Adrian. “Oh my god,” she said, hands flying to her mouth. And then after a brief pause, “Was that the police?”
Adrian looked at her, wondering at her strange response. “It was the police that arrested him, yes. That’s how we do things in this country. Rule of law and all that.”
“No,” she replied. “On the ‘phone.”
Adrian could feel the conversation slipping away from him. “In person I would imagine. I doubt they would telephone him and ask him to pop down to the local station.” He spoke with an expression of slight bafflement.
His wife looked at him patiently. “Was it the police on the ‘phone just now?” she asked, hoping for clarity.
“No, it was Ian.”
“How does Ian know Andrew had been arrested? He’s a retired quantity surveyor.” Sarah was getting agitated, and even she could sense the non sequitur.
Adrian looked blankly at Sarah. “What’s that got to do with it? He can still read can’t he?”
Sarah took a deep breath and wondered whether she should go out and come back in again, perhaps to engage in a conversation that actually made some kind of sense. She was also trying to control her mounting sense of panic. As calmly as she could she said, “You just told me that Andrew has been arrested. Will you please explain in simple terms why and where he is being held?”
“I’ll have to get the newspaper,” he responded, his eyebrows questioning why she would want to know the location.
“It’s in the paper?” she screamed hysterically, losing the fight against remaining calm. “What the hell has he done?”
“I’ll get the newspaper,” repeated Adrian, turning towards the door.
“Your son has been arrested, you read it in the paper, and you can’t remember why? What’s the matter with you?” Sarah was spluttering with indignation by now.
Adrian turned slowly to face her. “Not our son Andrew. Prince Andrew.” Sarah glared at him briefly and collapsed into an armchair.
“Did you think…?” continued Adrian slowly, a grin breaking out over his face. He started chortling. “You thought I meant….I can’t wait until I tell the others.” He gave up trying to speak and let the laughter take over.
Sarah, eyes flashing, teeth grinding, shook herself out of the chair and stood right in front of her husband, nose to nose. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, then it will be me who’ll be arrested, and you won’t be around to see it.”
The menacing tone in Sarah’s voice cut Adrian’s laughter off as if she had flicked his switch. Not usually the quickest on the uptake, he had received this message loud and clear.
“Yes, dear. I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked shakily, hoping to draw a line under the whole affair.