Fiction
King Bunny
Hugh Massingberd Caroline R David Lancaster (Hutchinson pp. 319, £6.95) Italy has gone communist; the United States has a female President (Diana Ross perhaps?); there is rationing in Britain where half the parliamentary Labour Party are 'Moscow men', inflation is running at 30 per cent, the Vale of Belvoir is being ruined and Goldsmith has suffered some nameless fate brought about by the 'ageing' staff of Private Eye. It is a few years from now but difficult to say precisely how many for, though Botham has apparently been dropped for being too long in the tooth and Angela Rippon is described as a 'veteran newcaster' (the last few months have thrown up more bizarre possibilities for these two), the private secretary to the sovereign is old enough to have been a colonel of cavalry in the Second World War. No, President Berm has not taken over yet; the sovereign in question being a balding man of early middle age whose parents have been packed off to New Zealand where they still subscribe to Country Life (surely the dear old Field would be nearer the mark?) The 'second abdica tion' was caused by a financial scandal involving Swiss bank accounts.
The new King is prone to mimicry and waving his arms, fond of smoked salmon with scrambled eggs and of fishing in Iceland (no mention of The Three Degrees, though), disapproves of smoking and is not really used to women. In short, he bears a remarkable resemblance to the Prince portrayed by Sylvie Krin in Born to be Queen but his bride owes more to Laura Jo Watkins than Lady Diana. Like Laura Jo, the eponymous heroine of this novel is an American blonde. Queen Caroline calls her husband 'Bunny' on account of his enormous ears.
This matrimonial sanctification of the 'special relationship' is •described by the male Tory Prime Minister (rather in the Whitelavv mould) as the 'most dramatic injection of new blood since the Battenbergs. And much to be preferred'. 'However, the royal house is now apparently 'Mountbatten' rather than 'MountbattenWindsor'.) Queen Caroline and Bunny breed Princess Elizabeth and Prince Arthur, but then the wretched girl tries to assert her independence. The Queen's secretary, a bachelor from the College of Arms 'with a slight stoop and an air of dandruff and old cats' puts her behaviour down to 'post-natal oppression'. The consequences are disastrous; she becomes caught between the Scylla of the Royal Household and the Charybdis of 'The Friends of Man', a revolutionary 'front' organisation which she graces with her patronage. Without giving away the plot, it is curious that the two worst villains are Old Harrovians.
'David Lancaster' is a pseudonym of the journalist Tim Heald, now enjoying the rewards that only television can bestow through the serialisation of his Bognor detective stories. Heald is also an established royal hack, having produced an agreeable biography of the present Prince of Wales and now doubtless poised for another bite at the cherry of the royal wedding. Released from the official straightjacket, he has obviously relished the opportunity of relieving himself of a fictional crack in Caroline R which will strike a chord with other jaded royalty watchers. Queen Caroline describes Buckingham Palace as having 'about as much charm as the Kremlin'; one of the carpets is 'the sort of thing you'd expect to find at the Annenbergs'."Jesus was he ever a little creep', says the Queen of the Archbishop of Canterbury, 'And his wife! You should have seen her. She was like a bull elephant in drag, with a brain to match'. Queen Victoria was 'a sort of Highland freak'; Edward VIII is called a fascist and there are references to Princess Margaret, Roddy Llewellyn and 'that old faggot who looked after the royal pictures'. The standard patter of the walkabout is nicely guyed and there are plenty of digs at the household Ca lady courtier with an immaculate knowledge of protocol but a marked distaste for contemporary journalism and journalists'). Heald has bungecJin some jolly jokes about journalism itself and a splendidly awful Canadian premier for a good measure.
As Caroline R is a novel, it is probably unwise to start pontificating about solecisms but there are a surprisingly large number. At his wedding the King should have had two supporters. not 'a groomsman', and the royal mausoleum is at Frogmore not at 'Frognar — the only royal connection with this part of North London that comes to mind is the marriage en seconder noces of the Duke of Edinburgh's best man the late Marquess of Milford Haven. And to be really boring: it is the RAC not the 'RAC Club'; MCC not 'the MCC' (and how can you hit a ball square to the midwicket boundary?); is not the end of school Americanism 'school's out' and would a sleek Tory paymaster-general say 'half twelve'?
Getting such things right may matter if we are expected not to share 'the total disbelief' experienced by Caroline's pen pal on the last page (I believe the American edition has a different ending, incidentally). Although robustly written and a pretty enjoyable read Caroline R falls between several stools. When the Establishment shits are plotting at their club one is ' reminded of Simon Raven; other passages are more in the manner of Tom Sharpe. Perhaps the author should have pursued the latter line an outrageous farce might have worked better than the grafting of a joky royal spoof on to a fairly routine thriller.
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