THE NEXT DAY, the Queen gave instructions that everyone was to gather in the Throne-room. Even Sutton Pufrock was fetched. As they waited, the murmuring of the courtiers filled the room, rising past the chandeliers and right up to the ceiling, where there was a painting of a very large lady riding a chariot through some clouds. They wondered what it was all about. Why did the Queen suddenly want to see them?
At three o’clock precisely, the Royal Usher thumped his cane on the floor. Silence fell. The doors opened, and the Queen entered.
The courtiers moved apart to clear a generous passage for the Queen. She smiled graciously as she passed, without uttering a word. Lord Ronald of Tull watched her from the back of the room. The Queen sat on her throne. She paused for a moment, looking around at the assembled courtiers.
‘I have written a poem,’ she said.
Everyone stared in bewilderment. No one except Sir Anthony Browne, the Court Poet, knew what to think. But there was no confusion in Sir Anthony’s mind. He was livid with rage. If the Queen wanted a poem, she should have come to him. She had no business making one up herself, no business at all!
The Queen was not known as a poet. Occasionally she sang when someone played the piano, although her voice wasn’t really very good. The Queen had been acting so strangely for the last few weeks, some of the courtiers thought that perhaps she had gone completely mad. But she did not look completely mad. She did not look even partially mad. She was sitting perfectly calmly, unrolling a sheet of paper. A moment later she cleared her throat and began to read.
I have had cumquats stewed with raspberries, And cherry pie baked for my tea.
I have found that dates and walnuts Go together perfectly.
I have had peaches, pears and persimmons, And I am never short of plums.
I recall a load of lychees That arrived in wooden drums.
I have had mangoes fresh, and mangoes cooked, And mangoes lightly spiced.
I have had pineapple and cantaloupe, Always thinly sliced.
I have had all these fruits, and more besides, But my life is not complete:
For I have never had a melidrop, Or three, or four, to eat.
The Queen looked up from her paper. After a few seconds, the courtiers began to applaud politely. Some of them even liked the poem, and wondered if the Queen had any more to read them. Others found that it made them feel hungry, and they couldn’t wait to get home and bite into an apple. Only Sir Anthony Browne could not bring himself to clap. It was the worst poem he had ever heard! All about mangoes and chutneys or some such things. There was nothing poetic about it. Nothing romantic. No spring meadows or rosebuds. Who had ever heard of a poem without a meadow or a rosebud in it? And there were hardly any long words, unless you counted ‘cantaloupe’, which was such a silly word that it didn’t really count at all.
The Queen waited until the applause had finished. ‘I think it is very sad,’ she said, rolling the paper up and handing it to a footman, ‘when a Queen feels she must say that her life is not complete. I think it should make her people sad. Yet no one has come forward.’
The courtiers frowned. It was turning into a very bewildering afternoon. What did the Queen mean now?
Sir Hugh Lough took a step towards the Queen. Sir Hugh was the most dashing man at the Court. When someone was needed to come forward, it was usually Sir Hugh, even if he did not know what he was coming forward for.
‘Madam, come forward for what?’ inquired Sir Hugh.
‘To get me a melidrop, Sir Hugh. No one has come forward.’ The Queen looked around the Throne-room. ‘No one,’ she repeated, ‘has come forward.’
‘I have come forward!’ declared Sir Hugh, taking another step towards the Queen to prove that he had. ‘Madam, I would gladly go—’
‘And I, and I,’ cried others behind him.
‘But…’
‘But what, Sir Hugh? It should be so simple, to bring a fruit back for one’s Queen, if one were really prepared to try. You simply go and get it! Really, I would be grateful if someone could explain: what is the problem?’
‘The problem,’ cried Sutton Pufrock from the table where his stretcher had been placed, waving his walking-stick impatiently, ‘is that it can’t be done. Do you know how long it will take to reach the nearest melidrop tree, Your Highness? Two months on the open sea, that’s how long. And a month and a half to get back. And the fruit spoils a day after it’s picked, no matter how green it is.’
The Queen glared at Sutton Pufrock, who was proving to be most unhelpful when it came to melidrops. She was tempted to throw him out again, and probably would have, if just at that instant she had not caught the eye of Lord Ronald of Tull.
‘Pay no attention to him, Madam,’ cried Sir Hugh gallantly. ‘Allow me to go.’
‘Fool’s errand,’ shouted Sutton Pufrock.
Sir Hugh turned angrily on the old traveller. ‘Are you calling me a fool, Sutton Pufrock?’
‘You’d be a fool to go,’ replied Pufrock. ‘To get a melidrop here will take Inventiveness, Desperation and Perseverance. You don’t get that at Court, my boy. The only way you get that is from a lifetime of travel and exploration.’
Sir Hugh snorted. ‘Surely you don’t mean to go yourself, old man. That really would be too much!’
‘Old man? Old man?’ shouted Sutton Pufrock, rising rashly from his stretcher. ‘There’s a few things an old man can still teach you, Hughie Lough!’
Sutton Pufrock hit the ground with his walking-stick and tottered past Sir Hugh, not pausing for breath until he was only a few steps from the throne.
‘Your Highness,’ said Sutton Pufrock, swaying on his feet, ‘I don’t know if a melidrop can be brought back here. I can’t think of how to do it, and I’ve had to think of how to do most things in my time. But if you want it done, there’s only one man who’s got any hope.’
‘And who is that?’ demanded Sir Hugh scornfully.
‘Bartlett.’
‘Bartlett?’ asked the Queen.
‘Bartlett!’ repeated Sutton Pufrock. He raised his walking-stick above his head in his excitement, forgetting that he wasn’t on his stretcher anymore. ‘Bartlett! Bartlett!’ he shouted enthusiastically, and waved the stick wildly in the air.
People ducked and jumped as the walking-stick circled faster and faster above the old man’s head. He began to sway. The stick circled, Pufrock swayed more and more. Then he was gone, falling backwards into the arms of a pair of footmen who had rushed forward to catch him.
‘Bartlett’s the man,’ he said weakly, as the footmen propped him up. ‘I taught him everything he knows.’
‘And where is this Bartlett?’ asked the Queen.
Sutton Pufrock shrugged. ‘Exploring, of course. Where else would he be?’
