And now the Queen is talking and smiling. She has not got tiny and old, like Vanessa. She has tidy hair and a skirt and jumper.
“I like the cut of her jib,” I tell Charles. When he looks puzzled, I. laugh, and he laughs, politely. “Ha, ha. English English is amusing,” he says. But Charles likes the look of the Queen, as well, though he slightly prefers our own Nnaabagareka Sylvia Luswata, the young, pretty bride of our King Ronald.
We watch Queen Elizabeth meeting people. “There are a lot of African faces,” says my friend the accountant. He drinks more champagne. “The Queen has a lot of African friends.” He is pleased with this. He burps and chuckles.
“They show more Africans at Christmas,” I say, because I have drunk less than Charles. I think of the Ugandans in Forest Gate. They don’t spend their days at Buckingham Palace.
Then I think about the Bible teachings on slander. Christmas Day is a time to be happy. So Itry again, with a mouthful of chicken, which is plump and delicious: soon I’ll suck the bone.
“Maybe the Queen has grown tired of the English. I myself have had enough of them, for now. Soon we will go home again.”
“Perhaps the Queen will come and see us in Uganda.” And I think about Vanessa, who said on the phone, “I should like to come and see you in Uganda.” And I smile, and say to Charles, “Perhaps she will.”
THE END