The Autobiography of The Queen Read Online Free Page A

ONE printed next to an unfamiliar (presumably American) face, she had removed a bill and then another, until a gust of wind from the open doors on to the concourse removed and distributed the rest. The honesty ofthe customs broker (the Queen, forgetting she had, at least nominally, abdicated, promised silently to award the man at least a CBE in the New Year honours) and the swift realisation that these were hundred-dollar notes, brought a moment of indecision to the swarming porters. Finally, threatened by the customs broker, they handed over the money, although at least half was missing when the Queen arrived at her final destination and with the dogged sense of order which had characterised her reign as sovereign, counted out the greenbacks and compared the sum to the neatly-written note accompanying the documents.
    But where the Queen would spend the remainder of her years now occupied her thoughts more than any other. So far, the landscape of the southern part of St Lucia was similar to the brochure: lush, with flamboyant trees and coconut palms and banana plants poking up in dense undergrowth. There were few houses, but those that stood by the road appeared generally well maintained. They were made of wood and they had red roofs and sometimes people sitting on a veranda or out the back, under the shady tree in the garden. At a small, dusty place above the village of Choiseul, Alvyne stopped the van and went into a barn-like building, emerging with a crate of bottles marked Piton Lager; and here the Queen was able to glance past him as he emerged, and saw a dusty billiards table and a gaggle of youths. The Queen approved of youth hostels,and of efforts made to keep occupied those who would otherwise be liable to turn to crime – and for a moment, as Alvyne tried to force the ancient van back to life, the young of the hamlet above Choiseul saw an old lady with white hair smiling at them from the back seat. Then the door of the hall was kicked shut and the van shuddered, roared and moved on. But by this time, the Queen of England and Head of the Commonwealth – the woman to whose recent Jubilee the people of Britain and her past dependencies had flocked with love and joy – had turned to look from the window at the sheer impossibility of the Gros and Petit Pitons, rising, as they did, two thousand feet out of the sea.
    â€˜Heavens!’ the Queen said.
    â€˜Pitons!’ Alvyne said. He could glimpse his passenger’s excitement at the sight of these giant needles, volcanic fossils clad with green tropical vegetation. (He had also noted the hundred-dollar bills so freely dispensed by his passenger at the airport and had agreed with himself that doubling the usual tariff of fifty bucks was only fair, given the problems that lay ahead when they arrived.)
    â€˜Are we nearly there?’ asked the Queen. Alvyne thought he had seldom seen anyone so excited – not of that age, at least
    â€˜Non Bananaquit,’ Alvyne replied, for he had not fully understood the query. Also, it did seem kinder to warn the Queen what she was likely to find. ‘Non Joli,’ Alvyne repeated several times.
    But, ‘Je pense qu’ils sont très jolis,’ said the Queen. If the people here could only communicate in French, then she must address them in that language. ‘Numéro cinq, Bananaquit Drive,’ she added with the piercing clarity familiar to those at home who still listened to the Queen’s Christmas broadcast. ‘Combien de kilomètres encore?’
    Alvyne ignored this question and made a play of concentrating ferociously on the road – which dipped down, lost its new-tarmac appearance and entered a series of ill-constructed hairpin bends. He reached for a beer from the crate on the front passenger seat and placed it between his knees. Looking into the rear-view mirror, he noted a serene expression on the face of the elderly lady, and attacked the beer-top with his teeth. The