Supper

The letter came back on Wednesday, second class, as predicted.

Dame M brought it up at six, on no salver, in her hand, and gave it to him at the table under the window in the small sitting room, and stood by the door while he opened it, because, she said, she had been told by Mr Pargeter that it was irregular for the Master of the Household to deliver the Prince’s private correspondence by hand, and she wished to be present for the irregularity.

It was the small cheap white envelope again, from a packet of fifty, addressed in green, in the quick strong sloping hand, to Frederick, Columbia Palace, New Westminster. Not His Royal Highness. Not the Prince of Columbia. Not even Prince Frederick. Just Frederick, and the house, and the city, as you would address it to a boy at any house in any city, and the Post Office had delivered it, as the Post Office delivered everything, without comment.

He opened it.

Dear Frederick,

Thank you for your letter. It came on Monday. I have put it in the drawer with the other card.

I am glad he said please and thank you. He does not always. I am glad nobody fell in the pond. Theo says it was on principle. I do not know where he gets principles from, it is not from me, I only have rules.

The cat is under the sofa still. He will come out when he is ready. He always does. You do not need to be sorry about the cat, it was Kate who screamed.

Theo says you have never had a dumpling. I do not know if this is true. He says a great many things. If it is true, it should be put right. You would be very welcome to come to supper. A Friday is best, because Peter is on earlies and I am off. Any Friday.

Yours sincerely,

Anneliese Hartigan

And underneath, smaller, after the name, in the same green:

P.S. You do not have to write back to this. If you write back I will have to write back, and then you will have to, and we will be at it until Christmas. Just tell Theo yes or no.

Frederick read it twice.

He looked up. Dame M was standing by the door with the folder under her arm and her face doing nothing at all.

“She’s asked me to supper,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t, sir,” said Dame M, “until now. But I have been Master of the Household for nine years, and I have learned that when a mother writes to a boy, second class, four days after he has been to tea, she is either complaining or asking him to supper.” She paused. “And Mrs Hartigan did not look to me like a woman who complains by post.”

---

He asked at the Friday meeting.

Dame M came at six, with the folder, and sat in the chair by the fire with her hand on it, and went through the next week, Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday, Miss Hellström, and Thursday, and Friday, Mr Lorimer, because his mother had views; and at the end she said is there anything, sir, for next week, that the Household should know, and he said:

“I would like to go to supper. At the Hartigans’. On a Friday.”

Dame M did not open the folder.

She sat by the fire with her hand on it and looked at him across the hearth, and he saw, as he had seen in her office with the bowling alley, that she was thinking a great many things very quickly, and that some of them she had been thinking for some time, since perhaps the step of the north wing at a quarter to two on Sunday the second of November, or before.

“You may go, sir,” she said.

He looked at her.

“There is nothing that says you may not,” said Dame M. “You are twelve and a half.” She allowed herself the half. “A boy at school is asked to supper at a friend’s house by the friend’s mother, and he goes. It is entirely ordinary. The Household does not stand in the way of ordinary things.” She put both hands on the folder. “But I should be failing in my duty if I did not tell you what it would involve before it could happen. And this time, sir, it is not a bowling alley. It is a house. And a house is different.”

“Why?”

“Because a bowling alley is a place you go once,” said Dame M. “And a house is a place you go back to.” She looked at the fire. “If you go to supper at the Hartigans’ once, it is a bowling alley. The Inspector will look at the street and the building and the stairs and put a car at the corner, and you will go, and eat, and come home, and that will be that.” She paused. “But you will not go once.”

Frederick did not say anything.

“You will go again,” said Dame M. “I know you will, sir, and so do you, and so, I think, does Mrs Hartigan, who wrote any Friday. And a house you go back to, regularly, on Fridays, with your protection officer at the corner of the street, is a place the Inspector has to know about properly. Not the stairs and the street. The people.” She looked at him. “Who lives there. Who comes and goes. Who the neighbours are. Whether anybody in the building has a reason to wish you harm, or has ever been in trouble that matters, or knows somebody who has. What work the parents do and where. Whether there is anything in the family that a newspaper could find and use, so that the Household can know it before the newspaper does, and protect them from it.” She paused. “It is called a security screening. It is done for every house the heir visits regularly, and every family. It was done for Brookside. It was done for every teacher at Ellicott before you started in September, and for Mr Pavlik, and for Mr Obi, and for Mrs Tolliver.” A pause. “It was done for Bridget, nineteen years ago. She has never forgiven it.”

Frederick sat very still.

“They’d look at them,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“At Theo’s mum and dad. And Kate. And Mr Dabrowski. And Mrs Okonjo.” He heard his own voice. “Because of me.”

“Because of you, sir,” said Dame M. “Yes.”

---

He did not sleep very well on Friday.

He lay in the dark under the wall map with the curtains open and looked at the Axis, at the two lines of lamps going away east to the white buildings, and the city beyond them, and he thought about a woman in a navy coat on the step of the north wing who had not curtseyed, and a man at the bottom of the step who had said thanks for having him, son, and a girl in the back of a brown car who had lifted one hand off her folded arm about an inch; and about somebody, a person he had never met, in an office somewhere, with a folder, looking at them. At their names and their work and their neighbours. At whether there was anything in them that a newspaper could use. Because a boy from the end of the Axis wanted to eat a dumpling.

He felt hot all over, in the dark, the way he felt when the room looked at him; except that this time it was not him the room was looking at, it was them, and he had done it.

He had not felt it before. He had known about the screening, in the way he knew about the fire exits; it was a thing that happened, like the weather. He had known that people at Brookside had been looked at, and the teachers at Ellicott; he had not thought about it. He had never once thought about it from the other side. From the side of a family who had been sitting at a kitchen table four floors up over a bus depot laughing about distant for nine weeks, and who were about to find out that, because they had laughed, somebody was going to come and look at them.

He got up at two and went to the window and stood there in his pyjamas.

On the gravel below, by the north wing door, there was a light, very faint, under the door, in the passage. He knew what it was. It was the lamp on the table by the hard chair, where Castellanos sat in the evenings with his notebook; except that it was two in the morning, and Castellanos went off at ten, and the night officer did not sit in the chair, he walked.

Frederick went down.

---

Castellanos was in the chair.

He was in his shirtsleeves, with his jacket over the back of the chair and his tie loosened and a mug of something on the table beside the lamp, and he was reading a paperback book with a cracked spine that looked as though it had been read a great many times, and when Frederick came round the corner of the stairs in his pyjamas and his bare feet he looked up, and closed the book on his thumb, and stood up.

“Sir.”

“You’re not on.”

“No, sir.” Castellanos did not explain. “The night man’s walking. I’m sitting.” He looked at Frederick’s feet. “You’ll get cold, sir. The floor’s stone.”

Frederick sat down on the bottom step of the stairs, with his feet on the stone, which was cold.

Castellanos looked at him for a moment. Then he sat down again in the hard chair, with the book on his knee, and did not say anything, and waited, the way the Inspector had sat in Mr Pavlik’s chair for forty minutes.

“There’s going to be a screening,” said Frederick. “Of Theo’s family. If I go to supper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you know?”

“I wrote the request, sir,” said Castellanos. “On Monday the third. After the half-birthday. The Inspector asked me to.” He looked at the book. “It’s my job to write it. I’m the one who’ll be at the corner of the street.”

Frederick looked at him.

“You asked for them to be looked at?”

“I asked for it to be done properly,” said Castellanos. “That’s what I wrote. Properly.” He turned the book over on his knee. “Sir, it’s going to be done. It’s always done. It was done for Brookside and Ellicott and Mr Pavlik and the man who comes to tune the piano in the Blue Drawing Room. There’s no way you go to a house on Fridays and it isn’t done. If I didn’t ask, the Inspector would, and if the Inspector didn’t, London would.” He paused. “So the only question was how.”

“How what?”

“How it’s done,” said Castellanos. “There’s two ways. There’s the way it’s mostly done. Which is that a man in an office gets the names and runs them, in the Royal Protection Service, through everything, the police and the courts and the tax and the papers, and writes a report, and the report goes in a file, and the family never knows. Never hears a word. Not before, not after. They’re just looked at, and filed, and that’s it.” He looked at the lamp. “That’s the way it’s done for most people. Most people never know.”

“And the other way?”

Castellanos looked at him.

“The other way,” he said, “is somebody goes to the house first. Before anything. And sits down with them. And tells them. What’s going to be looked at, and why, and who’ll look at it, and what happens to it after, and who to ring if they don’t like it. And asks them.” He paused. “If they mind.”

“And if they mind?”

“Then you don’t go to supper, sir,” said Castellanos. “And you still sit next to him in homeroom.”

Frederick sat on the bottom step with his feet on the cold stone.

“Which way did you write?”

“The other way,” said Castellanos. “I wrote, the family to be informed and asked before any checks are begun. And then I wrote, underneath, I would ask that this be done by a person and not a letter.” He looked at the book on his knee. “The Inspector sent it back to me on Tuesday. He’d crossed out I would ask and put the Inspector directs.” A pause. “Which from the Inspector is a medal.”

Frederick did not say anything for a long time.

The lamp burned on the table. The stone was very cold under his feet. Somewhere in the Palace, a long way off, the night officer’s footsteps went along a corridor and turned and came back.

“Why?” he said at last.

Castellanos looked at him over the top of the lamp, for about two seconds, which was a long time for Castellanos; and Frederick saw something happen in his face that he had seen there before, in the mirror of the car, on the second day, when he had asked whether Castellanos had had lunch.

“Because the young man asked whether I got lunch, sir,” said Castellanos. “On the second day. Before he knew my name.” He opened the book on his thumb. “His family can be asked whether they mind being looked at. It’s the least anybody can do.” He looked at the page. “Go to bed, sir. Your feet’ll freeze.”

---

“They’re going to check us?” said Theo, on Monday, on the wall.

He said it with interest. Not alarm. Not anger. The interest he had given the radiator, and the frog, and the dumbwaiter.

“If I come to supper,” said Frederick. “Somebody from the Household will come to the flat first. And sit down with your mum and dad. And tell them what’s going to be looked at. And ask if they mind.” He looked at the depot apple in his hand. “And if they don’t mind, then somebody looks. At all of you. And your neighbours. And your dad’s work, and your mum’s. Everything. For newspapers.” He turned the apple over. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For all of it. For it being because of me.”

Theo looked at him. He bit his apple.

“Freddie,” he said, chewing. “We haven’t got anything.”

“Everybody’s got something.”

“Not us.” Theo considered. “Dad’s got a parking ticket. From 2011. In Racine. He parked outside a bakery for nine minutes to get a kringle for my nan’s birthday and a man gave him a ticket and he’s never paid it, on principle, because he says nine minutes for a kringle is not parking, it’s an errand.” He chewed. “That’s it. That’s the whole family. That and Kate got sent home from school once in Milwaukee for saying a word to a teacher, but she was right, the teacher was a…” He stopped. “Well. She was right.”

“What about your mum?”

“Mum?” Theo looked genuinely puzzled. “Mum’s a nurse. Mum’s never done anything in her life except work and shout at the television about hospitals.” He thought. “She got a speeding ticket once. On the way to a delivery. Somebody else’s. She was driving the midwife.” He shrugged. “She told the policeman and he tore it up.”

Frederick looked at him.

“And Mr Dabrowski,” said Theo, “fought in a war. A long time ago. For somebody. He’s got a medal in a drawer and he won’t tell anybody what it’s for. And Mrs Okonjo’s a deaconess at a church on Canal Street. And Fred who does the boilers is about a hundred.” He finished the apple and ate the bottom of the core. “They can look. They’ll be bored. They’ll be bored in about ten minutes.”

“It’s not about whether they find anything.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Frederick thought about it. He thought about it properly, because Theo had asked properly.

“It’s about them looking,” he said. “At all of you. At your lives. Because of me. When you didn’t ask for it. When all you did was sit next to me because of an alphabet.” He looked at the yard. “And laugh about distant.”

Theo was quiet for a while.

He put the core in his pocket. He looked across the yard at the window of Mr Pavlik’s office, eighteen inches up, where Castellanos was sitting with his coffee, and lifted his hand, and the finger came up off the cup.

“Is he the one who’s going to be at the corner?” he said. “On Fridays.”

“Yes.”

“Did he ask for it? The looking?”

“He asked for it to be done properly,” said Frederick. “That somebody comes first. And asks. Instead of just doing it and you never knowing.” He paused. “He said most families never know. He said that’s how it’s mostly done.”

Theo looked at the window for a long time.

“Then I’d rather know,” he said.

---

“Mum says yes,” said Theo, on Wednesday, at lunch, at the round table, quite casually, over something brown with a crust.

Frederick put down his sandwich.

“You told her?”

“Course I told her.” Theo ate. “I told her Monday at supper. I said, if Freddie comes to supper, a lady from the Palace has to come first and sit at the table and tell you they’re going to look at us, and ask if you mind.” He chewed. “And Mum put the spoon down. And Dad put the pencil down. And Kate took out both headphones. And nobody said anything for ages.”

“And then?”

“And then Mum said, well, that’s polite.” Theo swallowed. “And Dad said, what if we mind? And I said, then he doesn’t come to supper, but he still sits next to me. And Dad thought about that. And he picked the pencil up again. And he said, well, I don’t mind, and went back to the crossword.” He ate. “And Mum said, tell him the lady can come whenever she likes, but she’ll have to take us as she finds us. And Kate said, I mind, and Mum said, you mind everything, and Kate said, that’s not the point, and went to the bathroom and locked the door.”

At the round table, Lucía had stopped eating and was staring at Theo.

“What lady?” she said.

“A lady,” said Theo. “From his house. To ours. With a folder, probably.” He looked at Lucía. “It’s private.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being,” said Theo, and June put down her yoghurt with a click and said “Principle,” and Lucía threw up her hands.

“When?” said Frederick. “When can I come?”

Theo looked at him.

“Whenever your lady comes,” he said. “Mum says. Not before. She says she’s not having you at her table till it’s been done properly, because if it’s not done properly, somebody might come afterwards and say she didn’t let them, and she’s not having that.” He considered. “She says she’s never been looked at by a palace and she wants to see what it’s like. Like the museum. She wants the tour.”

---

The lady could not come until February.

Dame M told him on Friday, at the meeting, by the fire, with her hand flat on the folder, in the voice she used for things that were true and that she did not like.

“The household officer who does this kind of visit, sir,” she said, “the kind where somebody goes first, and sits down, and asks, is a Mrs Thursby. In the Private Secretary’s office. She has done it for fourteen years. She is very good at it.” She paused. “She is the only one.”

“The only one?”

“The only one, sir. Because it is not usually done like this. It is usually done the other way. Without anybody going.” Dame M looked at the fire. “Mrs Thursby is in London until the middle of January, at your father’s office, on a matter I cannot discuss. When she comes back she has eleven visits already arranged, to the families of people who will be at your father’s King’s Day in February, which must be done before. After that, she can go to Dunmore Street.” She paused. “Which is the third week of February.”

Frederick sat very still.

“February,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s three months.”

“It is a little over three months.” Dame M did not move her hand. “I could ask the Inspector to have it done the other way. Without Mrs Thursby. In the ordinary manner. It would be done by Christmas. The family would never know.” She looked at him. “But Sergeant Castellanos asked for it to be done by a person and not a letter. And the Inspector directed it. And Mrs Hartigan has said, I understand from Master Hartigan by way of you, that she wishes to see what it is like.” She paused. “So I have not asked.”

Frederick looked at the fire.

He thought about a kitchen four floors up over a bus depot, that he had still never seen. He thought about a woman at a stove with a tea towel over her shoulder saying well, that’s polite. He thought about three months of Fridays. He thought about the cabbage under his left hand, and twenty-two paces, and not counting.

“No,” he said. “Don’t ask.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t ask the Inspector. Wait for Mrs Thursby.” He looked at Dame M. “Do it properly.”

Dame M looked at him across the fire for a long moment, with her hand on the folder.

“Very good, sir,” she said quietly. And then, as she stood: “Mrs Thursby will be told that the Prince asked that she be waited for.” She went to the door. “I think she will be very pleased. Nobody has ever waited for Mrs Thursby before. They have generally wanted it done by Tuesday.”

---

“February,” said Theo, on Monday, on the wall.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s the lady’s.” Theo bit his apple. “Is she nice?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met her. Dame Margaret says she’s very good.”

“Then she’ll be nice. Mum can tell. Mum can tell in about four seconds if somebody’s nice. It’s from the hospital. She says you can tell a nice doctor from a not-nice doctor by how they say good morning to the cleaner.” He chewed. “I’ll tell Mum February.”

He told her. He reported back at lunch, on Tuesday, at the round table, over something orange with a crust.

“Mum says,” he said, “the dumplings won’t keep.”

Frederick looked at him.

“She says she’s made them,” said Theo. “For you. She made them on Sunday. A batch. She thought you might be coming soon. And they’re in the freezer, and she says dumplings in a freezer for three months are not dumplings, they’re a geological event.” He ate. “She says tell him I’m sorry, but they’ll have to be eaten.”

“Who by?”

“Us,” said Theo. “Tonight. And she’ll make more. In February.” He considered. “She said to tell you that it’s no trouble and that she’ll make more, and that by February she’ll have had a lot of practice, and that you’d better be hungry.” He paused. “And Kate said to tell you she’s going to eat yours.”

“Tell Kate she can.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Theo. “She won’t speak to me, but I’ll tell her.”

At the counter at the end of the hall, Mrs Tolliver, with her ladle, served a boy from the eighth grade, and looked across at the round table by the radiator, at nine people round it and a boy with a sandwich who had just been told, in front of all of them, that his dumplings had been eaten; and she reached up behind her without looking, and did not turn the radio up or down at all, this time, but changed the station, to one that was playing something slow, with a fiddle in it, as though she thought, on the whole, that it was that kind of day.

---

He wrote back.

He was not supposed to. Mrs Hartigan had said, in green, you do not have to write back to this. But he had been brought up to write back. He had been writing back since he was five, in Mrs Forsythe’s loops, and he did not know how not to; and on Tuesday evening, at the table under the window in the small sitting room, with his father’s pen, he wrote:

Dear Mrs Hartigan,

Thank you for your letter and for asking me to supper. I would like to come very much. Theo will have told you that it has to be after Mrs Thursby, who comes in February, because I asked for it to be done properly. I’m sorry it is so long.

I’m sorry about the dumplings. Theo says they were a geological event. I hope they were all right in the end. Kate can have mine.

I know you said not to write back. I’m sorry. I don’t know how not to.

Frederick

Dame M took it at the door. She put it in a plain envelope and addressed it in her own hand and then stopped.

“First class, sir? Or second?”

“Second.”

She looked at him over the envelope.

“Sir,” she said. “Mrs Hartigan will write back.”

“I know.”

“And then you will.”

“I know,” said Frederick. “We’ll be at it till Christmas.” He looked at the fire. “She said so.”

Dame M looked at him a moment longer. Then she put the envelope under her arm with the folder, and went to the door, and stopped there, without turning round, as she always did.

“Sir,” she said. “My mother and I wrote to each other every week for twenty-two years. While I was at sea. Second class, both ways, because she said that if a letter took longer to come, there was longer to look forward to it.” She opened the door. “We were at it a good deal longer than Christmas.”

She went out. He heard her go along the corridor at the pace of somebody crossing a deck, and not stop at the corner at all, this time, but go straight on, quite steadily, down the stairs, to the post.