The Royal Wedding

The wedding ceremony looked most impressive, even when seen on the minuscule screen that perched between two drooping spider plants. Diana looked suitably radiant as she repeated her vows, mixing her groom’s string of names into a glorious nonsense as she went.

‘I think she just married his Dad,’ muttered Carl, sliding two blackened eggs off the grill plate and onto the damp slabs of toast that mournfully awaited them.

James heaved himself over to the glass dish of cream cakes and regretfully binned the ones with the thickest yellow crust. His face that summer was perpetually gloomy, his lips theatrically grim. He was relishing his current role as a doomed and desperate lover, having conceived a burning, forbidden passion for his aunt by marriage. He drooped against the ice cream machine for hours, blocking my access to the tins of cherry sauce, breathing pungently into my face and discussing his plans to emigrate or commit suicide. After three weeks of this, I was surely not alone in hoping he might do both.

By the time the happy couple had driven slowly down the Mall and were safely back inside Buckingham Palace, the freezer was full of snowy glasses, all with an extra sprinkling of nuts in honour of the occasion. Carl leaned heavily against the grill, sighing loudly at the thought of having to fire it up for the lunchtime rush. Diana and Charles were now on the balcony at Buckingham Palace, smiling and pretending not to hear the vast roar from the crowd. As Charles finally leaned over and kissed his bride, George sniffed richly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Beautiful, just beautiful. Hold the fort a minute, James. I’ve got to go again.’

After working for three weeks at Berty´s, I had become more familiar with the vagaries of George’s bladder than I would have liked. It was a peculiar organ, sending him scuttling off to the mens’ room at the most inopportune times. He was peculiarly proud of his inability to tackle tasks of any length, regarding this as a charming eccentricity, and describing each new symptom very fully to whoever happened to be in the lunchroom at the time. After the first few days, I began eating my sandwiches in the gardens, preferring to brave the radios and blue smog rather than risk further distressing details. My sister whispered to me in my second week that George might also be developing bowel problems and she took to joining me each lunchtime, even though we usually had nothing but insults to throw at each other.

The television switched back to commentary as, with rare smiles and discreet waves, the Royal family finally left the balcony. Inside the palace, or so the permanently smiling BBC reporter informed us, the extended family would be toasting the health of the happy couple in the finest champagne, a gift from the President of France. The reporter had a faintly resentful look in his eyes, as of one whose own invitation had been lost in the post.

Sprinkling a delectable topping on the last strawberry parfait and humming Rule Britannia slightly off key, I was slow to focus on the screams at the far end of the counter. When they finally pierced my somnolence, I rushed across to find my sister, doubled over and retching. Next to her stood James, concerned yet defiant, holding a suspicious yellow bottle. Exhaustive enquiries later revealed that Carl had been making a stream of unpleasant remarks on the subject of incest and inbreeding. James, taking exception to these oedipal jibes, had devised a revenge worthy of any Greek tragedy and laced what he mistakenly took to be Carl’s lime cordial, with the finest lemon-scented bleach. My sister had only taken a sip so, unlike most tragic heroines, survived, but James was sent off with his bottle of bleach to clean the toilets for the rest of his shift. As George was on particularly fine form that day, it seemed a fitting retribution.

The afternoon passed without further incident. George spent some time tasting the rest of the drinks in the chilled cabinet in order, he protested later, to satisfy himself that James hadn’t decided to poison the customers as well as the grill chef, but the manager caught him and put a stop to it. At 8 p.m. we finally shut the doors, leaving the hungry multitudes outside. My sister had been sent home after the bleach incident so I wiped down the freezers alone. The BBC reporter was describing the glories of Broadlands, where the Royal couple planned to honeymoon. The bride and groom had left the reception, Diana dressed in a frothy peach outfit that cost more than the entire week’s takings at Berty´s. I threw my bile-coloured uniform into the corner of my locker and escaped, passing George in the doorway, face tense as he headed for the men´s room one last time.

Outside, the late evening sun was still warm and the walk through the gardens was pleasant now that the students had moved on to the clubs for the evening. I breathed deeply and calculated the number of days I still had left to work at Berty´s and then multiplied it by twenty five to see how many bathroom trips that might make for George. Both answers were equally depressing. I sat in the dusty golden sunshine under the pine trees and relaxed at last, glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done. It had been a memorable day for me. I expect it had been for Diana too.