Queen’s Guard

There’s a gaping crack in a wall somewhere in London. It’s a cozy little hole, more like a crevice, really; there’s a sheet and a blanket that’s been nailed outside to keep the wind chill out, and inside there’s stacks of photos, newspapers, clothes, bottles, and souvenirs. A handful of pillows replace a mattress, and atop them but beneath tatters of rags dreams a red mop of hair, whose snores ebb and flow. Her limbs are pressed together even as they scratch the itches that come with sleeping in a crack.

She wakes and whistles. Her eyes dribble the scribbles of sleep and she wipes them away. Her prim nose wiggles as she spots the sunlight dancing upon her checkered leggings when people pass. Her blue eyes pop and retaliate against the dirty bags beneath them

She reaches for her cleanest cardigan, slipped between wrinkled black pants and socks strung on the wire. She pours dabs of water from the crinkling bottle on her face and hair, then mashes the petals of the flowers from her pot and rubs them on her wrist, collar bone and the joints of her knees, where the leggings are ripped.

Poking her head out into the street, she steps over the hoard of her possessions and out onto the concrete with the sunlight catching her fully. She speaks to passersby:
“’Scuse me, you got the time, dear?”
“It’s quarter past ten.”
“Thank you. Have a nice day!” She springs her arms outward like a zipline reaching for the buildings on the horizon until her joints click. She seeps a sigh and rolls her neck. “Quarter past ten.” She ducks back inside her crack in the wall and rummages for the glass jar she has wrapped in brown paper, so as to trick any unsuspecting thieves. This is where she keeps the coins.
Coin​. “Damn.” She pockets the saving and tosses her items about, looking for her wicker basket.
There it is. She exits the crack again, trudging into a skip down the sidewalk, the sun blossoming the street and the colours of the cobblestone, the clouds, and all the people in between.
“It’s a beautiful day today.” She sings it out loud, alone. Most of those passing by pay no heed as their own busy rhythms keep feeding their ears and keeping their eyes on their respective tracks.
But ​her​ eyes wander always; to and from the points she marks on her clustered mental calendar. She looks at all the windows, she examines the lines in the concrete, and she reads all the posters put up on the lampposts. But nothing ever gets in the way of seeing the man she loves. Today, like last Thursday, she is on her way to see Rupert; she visits whenever he’s working. She talks and he listens. He is a great listener, she thinks.
Rupert is a Queen’s Guard, and “It is the task of the Queen’s Guards to remain prepared for immediate defense if any threat is made to the throne.” In all torrents of weather, they stand unwavering, protecting the Royal properties, and put none other before their Royal duty. Such devout chivalry tends to get the heart beating, but Miriam’s heart skips forward with her.
Nearing the ‘Hope Church’, she notices a small crowd gathered before the front entrance. Tourists. Might as well be pigeons, she thinks. I’ll wait. But her impatience makes haste.
They are taking too long. They are keeping her from him​– Them with their phones and their photos and their skirts and their cheek kissing.
But nobody kisses Rupert’s cheek except for ​her​, Miri Morris.
Her impatience catches up with her.
She launches toward them, swinging her basket, and her voice shreds the air like a war cry. “Bugger off, slags! That’s ​my​ man!”
In a flurry of yelps and frightened footsteps, the entrance to the Chapel is clear of all tourists.
Miriam huffs and places her basket, standing before the dapper Rupert, wide-eyed, as always. She turns to him, “I know you couldn’t help it, I don’t blame you Rupert. I’m not mad.” She looks upon his jaw of stone. His gaze is outstretched, a foot above her head, and keeps looking long past her. She begins to unload her basket.
She readies the checkered tablecloth she’s pulled from the wicker and lays it gently yet quick upon the stone floor at his feet. She sits down on her haunches, and opens the basket beside her. She snags a bottle of rosé and swigs it from the neck after a glance around to make sure all’s decent. She nudges in a little closer to his black leather boots, leaning her head against his calf, and says, “I’ve missed you. A lot.”
She continues, “I hope you had a nice week. The weather’s been letting up lately; today it’s nice and bright, though. Me, I’ve been tryin’ ta keep busy like; they let me into the shelter a few days ago and Darla didn’t skimp on breakfast. There were even some scones. I took a few and woulda brought them to show you, but ​–​ they didn’t last.” She smiles a tad, and feels the hunger pangs reminding her.
“I know you can’t eat anything, being on duty an’ all, but I think I’ve found a trick.” Miriam looks up at Rupert, awaiting a reaction. She reveals an open jar of two pickles, and a little pipette. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner”.
As she siphons the pipette with pickle liquid, a little gleam on the ground catches her eye. And then another. She puts down the jar and pipette.
The fallen change of scared and scattered tourists: “Oh, would you look at that!” She begins to pick it up. “Pardon the expression. I mean, I know you can’t.” She counts the coins in the palm of her hand ’till a toothy grin kicks in. “Oh, we can splurge today! I’ll be right back, mind the picnic!”
Off she goes, running to the nearest corner store. The pep in her step is rapid, but the treadmill of her thoughts gets tougher as she enters the grocer and gets a grave grimace from the manager, and a shifting glare from the girl at the cash.
Miriam can practically hear their gnawing thoughts at the quiver of her ears as she approaches the marmalade section.
This broad’s a looney.
She’s scaring away the customers. Look at her.
Don’t mock her; she’s unstable.
To tuck away the bites of the bystanders, she buys a jar of jam, but also pockets some peanut butter. She hurries away with the wind.
“I’m back, dear!” Miriam places the groceries on the floor. “​And​ I’ve brought us lunch.” She unpacks a small bag of bread from the basket, and upon realizing mold had frayed the edges ​– “Bollocks!” ​– ​reaches for her pocket knife to cut the crust.
“I read an article in the paper the other day. It was in the ​Laughing Parsley​, d’you know that one? Funny title, anyway. Word has it some lad sent out some private investigators on the royal family an’ all, d’you hear what they found?” She lifts the jam. “Actually, maybe I shouldn’t say it so loudly.”
Miriam stands up and leans in Rupert’s ear to divulge the info in a hush, jam jar and bread slice in hand. “They found out the Prince’s son, his wife’s son, is part mermaid; that’s right! Says her family was cursed by Pepplefock years ago, and the poor boy got stuck with the bulk of it.” She handles the bread like a rag washing the rim of a glass, and sits back down on the floor.
She is close to his feet to not speak too loudly while she’s smearing the peanut butter. “He had fins on his feet an’ all and they had to take him to a special doctor to make him fully human. In the article they tried to talk to him about the procedure but he’s sworn to secrecy for all matters to do with the royal feet. But he’ll certainly be no footballer. So they said.” She completes her sandwich, and takes her first bite as she continues talking tabloid: “Makes you wonder where they got those replacement feet, or if they’re still royal if they came from a commoner or someone. I dunno. I guess so.”
The myth of Peppelfauq is one oft mocked, but to Miriam, it is biblical.
“I wish you could tell me what you thought of Pepplefock. I’ve only heard the stories. Eerie bugger, goin’ round cursing children havin’ blood baths in the wee hours, and dancin’ with the yetis… I can’t imagine what he’s like. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it…” She takes another bite from her sandwich. “But I bet you’re not afraid.”
She stands up, shaking the sandwich before him. “Nah, you shouldn’t be neither. Gal like me is probably nothing but Turkish delight to something like that.” She takes another bite. “But I bet you could fight him off. I see how ​–​” she finishes chewing “​– big and strong you are. You can probably take care of yourself.” She smiles and, as she speaks, runs her fingers lightly up his bicep, as if slowly magnetized. She can’t suppress her smile as she looks up at his face and still, his statuesque glare looks past. She feels protected.
She sees him blink.
“You are so good at remaining still. You must sneak a twitch in sometimes, I’m sure of it. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” She absorbs his presence while she can, his dark, hazel eyes, the singular bristles of incoming black hair, and the little mole on his forehead. “You’re even more handsome than the last time I saw you.” She pauses. “I guess I’ll be off.”
She packs up the wine, jam, tablecloth, packing it into her basket, but when she lifts the peanut butter, her bulb brightens. Dipping in her finger, she swipes a swab from its sticky surface, and rises back to the peak of his shoulders.
She laughs quietly as she brushes her fingertip on his lips. “In case you sneak a lick or two.” She winks at him. “’Til next time, love.” She kisses him on the cheek.
She lifts the basket and skips out of their sight.
Three minutes after Miriam leaves, Rupert’s throat begins to puff and swell. His posture worsens and his eyesight coats in tears. After turning to a dark blue, he collapses to the ground as help arrives.

…

The following Thursday, Miriam wakes, and dresses, and prepares a picnic, and returns to the church, singing Rupert’s name in a frolic.
As she gets closer, her heart races for the man in his uniform. Rupert, with his dark, green eyes, those bristles of blond hair, and the little freckle on his nose. She says, “You’re even more handsome than the last time I saw you.”