So far it had stayed as quiet as the park itself.
His turn soon came to step up to the grave, several of those already in the queue giving up their places out of respect. Among them he saw one of the few nats present: Constance, alongside Bobbin. They stood together, almost like an old married couple, but not quite. Green Man favoured them with a slight nod as he passed.
Despite the sombre nature of the day, it felt good to be outside. Too much of his life was spent cooped up inside the back of vehicles or below ground. He relished the feel of the wind on his body: he was virtually immune to the cold these days, and was delighted when rain fell on him.
When he reached the grave he stood for a while, head bowed, to give the impression of deep thoughts and feelings. The truth was he hadn’t really known Glory at all. Their lives had followed very different paths. She’d always seemed too much of a hippie for his liking. He much preferred tidy, practical people. And she would likely have found him dull.
Still, regardless of any personal feelings, it was important that Green Man be seen to care and, in a vague way, he did care. Jokers like Glory were rare and important to the cause. The world would always see him as a monster, but she’d been able to touch people, joker, ace and nat alike. She was the other side of the coin. The Twisted Fists could fight the worst of humanity, but they would never win over the best of it.
He stooped down, and left his bouquet of violets.
When he made his way out, he saw some of the old jokers laughing together as they shared stories of their time with Glory. He saw them hold each other, their misshapen bodies leaning together for support.
And he envied them.
Alan Turing stood outside the door to the Queen’s bedchamber, collecting himself. She had summoned him, and he had come at her command, as always.
Margaret had been so beautiful as a girl. Beautiful and wild. An eighteen-inch waist, the papers had reported, and the rest of the figure to match, plus a face lovely enough to paint. Both before and after his card had turned, Alan had felt no flicker of desire for the stunning princess, but he had appreciated her beauty, like a work of art. And though time had worked its ravages, buried in the wrinkles of ninety lay the lovely bones of the girl who had flirted her way across Europe. Pregnant Elizabeth had surely been relieved when Townsend had actually proposed to Margaret; marrying a divorcé was still scandalous back then, but better than a babe born out of wedlock. She’d thrown her considerable weight behind the match, and the marriage, a mere seven months after Elizabeth’s own, had featured the most splendid of cakes.
A flowering of British beauty, British glory, such a relief after the ravages of the war followed by Wild Cards Day. And then, things fell apart, as the poem said. Had Yeats known, somehow? The centre did not hold: Elizabeth’s baby was born dead, followed a few years later by Elizabeth’s own passing, her health broken by the birth. She had fought so long, so hard, their princess, and the country had been heart-stricken. When George VI died a year later, Margaret had been so distraught that she’d needed sleeping pills for months. They’d tried to keep that out of the papers, but to no avail.
Still, in the end, she’d rallied. Young Henry to live for, and then Richard following a few years later. Twenty centuries of stony sleep put back to rest by a rocking cradle? Margaret I, ruling over a realm that had been, for the most part, peaceful. And if she had her lovers on the side, as some whispered, Townsend never said a word, and so neither could anyone else. He’d loved her to his grave, his wild girl, and now, finally, she would follow. Alan turned the doorknob, pushed open the heavy door, and entered.
The Queen’s crimson bedchamber, crowded with relatives and quiet murmurs of conversation, was lit by candles. Electric lights hurt her eyes. The flickering light caught the gilt of framed paintings on the walls, a long pageantry of prior kings and queens, with Elizabeth prominent in the room. Had Margaret spent her entire reign under her sister’s stern gaze? Never quite good enough, proper enough, to satisfy? Yet Margaret had held England together, through the advent of the wild card, where other countries had faltered – surely Elizabeth would give her points for that? The candles lit shadows in the forest-green curtains that draped the bed, edged in royal purple and gold. On the flower-embroidered coverlet, the Queen’s hand lay, the thickness of middle age dissolved through her long years, until it was thin again, the skin gone papery.
Alan Turing had served George through the war, and Elizabeth after, served as well as he knew how, but it was Margaret he had loved. Something in her wild heart called to his own, though so few could see it, cloaked as it was in his skin gone metallic, and his mind that had always worked more like a computer’s than most. Yet Alan was human after all, and when the Queen called to him in a thin voice, his heart squeezed in his chest. Ah, this hurt.
‘Alan?’
He spoke over the tightness in his throat. ‘I’m here, Your Majesty.’
‘Ah, look at you.’ The Queen’s eyes filled with the easy tears of age. ‘You’re two decades older than I am, Alan, but you look in the prime of life. What I could do for England with those extra years! Henry – Henry, take them all away … need to speak to Alan.’ Margaret had to pause between breaths, but decades of command held, and the family dutifully filed out. Henry, soon to be king, with his young fiancée. Richard and Diana and their children as well. Richard’s young grandchildren had been spared this death-watch. Finally they all left Alan alone with Margaret.
‘Come here.’ She raised a hand, and Alan hurried across the room to take it in his, careful not to press too hard.
He listened as Margaret spoke, her words slipping out of coherence, rambling at times. But he’d known her a long time; even if she dropped words here and there, it was easy enough for him to fill in the gaps. ‘Henry is too rigid … blinkered. He clings … to pride and privilege … might have pulled a kingdom … on the battlefield, but … not what England needs now.’
Turing couldn’t disagree with her assessment of Henry. Yeats had said it best: The best lack all conviction, while the worst / are full of passionate intensity. But Henry would be king; somehow, England would survive.
Margaret’s soft voice rambled on. ‘And my Dickie’s … an attractive man – you know that, Alan …’
Intimation in her voice – she couldn’t possibly know, could she? His metallic skin could not flush, but Turing felt the heat rise in his face. But the Queen was already moving on.
‘But I don’t know … the strength to hold the throne … the figure that England needs … symbol of our past, our future. When the throne falters, England falters!’ She sighed, a pale hand fluttering on the richly worked bedspread. ‘I didn’t understand that … a girl … Elizabeth worked so hard to show me … almost too late by the time I learned. Alan – you must find the other.’
There was a gap Turing didn’t know how to fill. ‘The other, Majesty?’
‘The other heir. Lizzie’s little boy. He wasn’t right, you know. But still. Maybe better than my boys.’ Margaret was pushing herself up in the pillows, her eyes blazing now, almost feverish. Her words came fast and sharp, despite the tears trembling in her eyes. ‘You can assess, Alan, better than anyone else. You have seen decades of history, fought in our wars, served multiple rulers. You will likely see many more – you can judge better than any other living man. How would he be, for England?’ Margaret sank bank on the pillows again. ‘… such hopes for my sons, I tried to raise them right, but the demands of the throne …’
And then she was crying, his Margaret, tears slipping down soft cheeks. Alan’s heart turned over in his chest, listening to her speak on, babbling about this other, lost, child. Was this some figment of her old age, a dream fancy? Margaret had been so strong, so young and beautiful.