A Feast for Crowns

There wasn’t a single, stereotypical thing about this household’s holiday feast other than some of the food. Even the pie had been converted to cheesecake. Olive wiped her hands on her flour-caked apron and blew a sweaty strand of ginger hair out of her face. Painfully aware of how red her face was, she used her wrists to push more hair back and turned to her husband, who was leaning against the doorframe watching her.

“Get the turkey carved, please,” she said in a clipped tone.

“Sure, since ye asked so kindly,” Alex replied cheerfully.

“Don’t.”

The Geordie Englishman half turned toward his wife and lifted an eyebrow. “Then dinnae snap at me. I’m nah the one who decided to de all this oursel’. Ye had offers of help, ye chose nah te take ‘em.”

Olive spun and stepped into his space. “You know damn well why I turned them down. I don’t need your mother complaining at me that this isn’t an English holiday. I don’t need your sister telling me how her husband would have cooked everything vegan or keto or whatever. And I don’t need my mother offering to help just to complain that she should be back in the States because this is England and Thanksgiving doesn’t exist here and why couldn’t we go there instead of them coming here.”

“Oi man.” Alex brandished a carving knife in the air and lifted his eyebrows. “All of those are legi’imate complaints, like. Why in’t the turkey vegan? Was he happy? How do ye know he died at the perfect moment, painlessly and at the end of a proud and successful life? Or was he even a he, like? Was he a she that found herself when she was a teen turkey and became a he? Hoo can we be sure?”

Olive stared at her husband for a moment in fury then felt a ridiculous laugh bubble up in her throat and she burbled.

“You’re an ass,” she managed and turned back to the roll dough she was kneading.

“A sexy one,” Alex said as he butt-bounced her while resuming carving slices of meat off the bird.

An hour later, the table was groaning beneath an autumnal feast while Olive and Alex bid their family to sit. There were five Brits besides Alex, and Olive’s two American parents arranged around the table, proclaiming how near death they were for lack of food. Olive smiled at her spouse, her face still a bit red but less sweaty as she’d changed into a flattering forest-green pencil dress and put her wildly curly bright hair into a braid.

Alex smiled back, his lips perking up into his wicked-boy crooked grin. Olive’s mother said a prayer while the rest of them sat awkwardly, glancing at each other and sniggering silently while the only Christian present blithely carried on. Finally it was time to eat, and the family dug into dinner with enthusiasm.

“Are these organic yams, Olive?” Alex’s sister Miriam asked, leaning forward to stare at her sister-in-law.

“Nope. They’re sweet potatoes,” Olive replied obliquely.

“D’you know, my cousin has an organic pumpkin farm down near Ogle,” Miriam’s husband Brian interjected. “They use only grass-fed cow dung as fertilizer, and I swear to you, those pumpkins are the size of taxis.”

“Hoo many cans would a taxi-sized pumpkin make, like?” Alex wondered aloud, eyeing the pumpkin pie cheesecake.

“Cans? Why on earth would you can pumpkin?” Brian asked, aghast.

“Well we won’t be inviting you to our apocalypse survival group when it happens,” Olive muttered and Alex burst into laughter.

The two sets of parents stared at their children in silence while one pair laughed and the other sat in insult. They were nearly finished with dinner when the doorbell rang, followed by frantic and loud knocking. Alex and Olive shared a confused look, then Alex stood and went to answer.

He and Olive lived in a stone cottage on a bit of land near the border of Scotland, at the north end of Northumberland, county of Alnwick. It was rare they got visitors outside of family, and therefore to have someone knocking at this hour on a Thursday in November was highly unusual. Alex saw headlights shining through the rippled glass window that flanked the front door, and cautiously opened the door.

“Oh thank goodness, I wasn’t sure you’d heard. Please, my wife and children and I are a bit stranded. We lost our escort somewhere back in the snowstorm and our car isn’t handling the roads well. Might we come in?”

Alex stared, then managed a thick, Geordie-accented, “Wot?”

“So sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m James, Duke of Cambridge.”

“Yee, I knah who ye are,” Alex gasped. “Sorry. Uh…yeah coome in.”

The future King of England nodded graciously and waved to the high beams, then turned to go back through the fog and white billows.

“Do ye need help, like?” Alex called.

The royal hesitated then nodded. “That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.”

Alex quickly slipped on a pair of boots and hurried out to where the dark green Land Rover sat idling, keeping the family inside warm. A pretty woman with long dark tresses peered through the windscreen looking worried and a bit alarmed. James opened the door for her and then opened the back seat door.

“It’s okay love, we can stay here until the storm passes.”

“James, we don’t know this person!” the Duchess of Cambridge hissed quietly, trying not to let Alex hear.

“I’m Alex Clarke, me family an’ I are having a bit of a holiday bite, ye’re most welcoome te join us. There’s plenny fer everyone.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Clarke,” Duchess Elena said softly as she slid gracefully out of the seat.

Prince James was pulling two sleepy and anxious children from the back, and was attempting to get a luggage case from the very back of the vehicle. Alex navigated around the SUV and opened the back, grabbing the case at an appreciative nod from the prince. Elena had one of the children hoisted onto her hip when Alex came back around and was patting the other soothingly on the back. Both children were clinging to her, eyes wide and thumbs firmly in mouths.

“Gan in,” Alex urged, gesturing to the front door.

 They trooped through the new snowfall into the small foyer and then huddled together as Alex shut the door against the unexpected storm.

“This way,” he said, setting the luggage down by the stairs and pointing to the dining room entry, from which could be heard the sounds of dining and chatter.

“About time Alex, we thought you’d jogged off,” Alex’s mother said briskly as Prince James entered the room.

“Er…” the royal cleared his throat, which made everyone look up.

There was a moment of silence and then Brian swore loudly. Alex came through the doorway behind Elena and awkwardly held his hands out.

“Their Royal Highnesses, Prince James and Duchess Elena, an’ of course Prince Philip an’ Princess Louise. There’s a canny bad storm ganin’ on. Snow an’ everything.”

“Snow?” Miriam gasped, still staring at the royals.

“The roads are terrible, our escort disappeared several miles back and I could barely keep the car on the road. I was very relieved to see your lights from the motorway, and I am quite grateful that you’ve allowed us inside your home, though I see we are interrupting a fine meal. Is it someone’s birthday?”

Olive stood and smiled. “No, it’s Thanksgiving. I’m from America, as are my parents. Please, you all look like ghosts. Come in and relax if you can, I’ll take your jackets.”

“American! How wonderful,” the prince said with a smile as he shrugged out of his fine coat, then took his family’s and handed them to Olive.

Alex followed his wife out of the dining room as the rest of the family found more chairs and made room at the table. Olive carefully hung the coats in the downstairs guest bedroom closet then turned to her husband.

“I can’t believe it.”

“I knah. I nearly pissed mesel’ when I opened the door. Snow!”

Olive chuckled and smacked her husband’s arm. “What could they possibly be doing out here?”

Alex shrugged. “Coomin’ down from Balmoral, I’d guess.”

“I thought they flew?”

“Ah well they been gettin’ some flak fer the jet fuel, like, ha’n’t they? Prolly thought they’d do well by fawks like Brian thinkin’ they’d drive. Dinnae expect nah snowstorm coomin’ though.”

Olive made a concessional face. “I suppose. Well, let’s go entertain our royal guests, then.”

Alex followed his wife out of the room and back to the dinner table, where Prince James was listening attentively to Olive’s mother Anne explain Thanksgiving.

“…and if we were home in Washington then we’d have watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and then the game.”

“Game?”

“Football. American football,” Anne’s husband Martin said, a bit snidely. “Thanksgiving has three traditional games each year.”

“So you cook all morning, watch a parade and three games, and have dinner?” Elena summarized in her soft, schooled speech.

“That sounds about right,” Olive said as she reclaimed her seat, cutting off her parents before they could be rude again. “Mostly it’s just about spending a day with friends and family, being grateful for what you have and celebrating the time together. This is the first time we’ve been here in England for it, so Alex agreed to let me carry on the tradition. I think it’s a nice excuse to have family together and to make some excellent food.”

“Oh, yes it’s delicious,” James said, indicating the mashed potatoes on his spoon. “I never would have expected such a feast at random chance. Again, we are very grateful.”

“It’s no problem. I’m glad you’re safely off the road, nice and warm. Never good to have little kiddos in bad weather in a car,” Olive replied. “Good thing is the house is about as clean as it gets since we were prepped for company, though not necessarily royal company.”

The Cambridges laughed and eventually dinner came to an end. The royal children were falling asleep in their chairs and the adults were all quiet and sated. James and Alex carried the children to the guest bedroom and laid them down where they continued to sleep, then walked to the front sitting room.

“It’s nah stoppin’,” Alex said, pulling back the curtain to check the weather. “There’s at least a ha’foot oot there now.”

“I hate to impose on your family further, and I’m sure you’re full to bursting as it is...” James began, his face reddening at the need to ask for help.

Alex put up a hand then dropped it quickly, not sure what was proper. “Look mate, I’m nah aboot te send kiddlies oot into tha’ mess, areet? Ye stay here the nigh’. Me an’ the wifie can kip on the settee, an’ ye an’ the Duchess take our bed.”

“No, no, Elena and I can share with our two children, there’s no need to displace you further.”

Alex shook his head. “We’ll be areet. I’m not aboot te have the future king an’ queen sleepin’ on me settee, like. I insist.”

After more back and forth, James finally relented and went to tell his wife that they wouldn’t be going back out into the storm. The relief on her face was palpable, and Olive smiled knowingly.

“Rest easy and we can either call for services in the morning if we need a plow or the roads might clear a bit. Do you need to call anyone to let them know you’re safe?”

James shook his head. “I already called the office and let them know we were pulling off and our general location. Everything is settled as far as that goes.”

“Good.” Olive said with a smile. “We don’t want anyone worrying.”

“Or the entire ruddy coun’ry, fer tha’ ma’er,” Alex’s father grunted.

 “Yes, that,” James said with a laugh.

They spent the remainder of the evening telling stories of their extremely varied lives as the snow fell outside, the fog thickened, and night rolled over the north of England.

Olive and Alex jerked awake in the early morning so fast Olive fell off the couch. They heard shouting and then a hard pounding on their front door. Before the couple could gather their thoughts, the door burst open, flinging wood splinters everywhere as the lock was shattered. Gun-bearing men in black tactical gear flooded into the foyer, shouting.

“Armed police! Come out where we can see you!”

Olive scrambled to her feet as Alex whipped his hands up into the air at gunpoint. From the nearest bedroom they could hear the children wake up and start crying, and footsteps were pounding upstairs as the four couples were rudely wakened.

“What is going on?” Olive shouted, her hands up.

“Where are they?” a man demanded, his gun level with her head.

“Who?”

“The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, and their children!”

“Well the kids you just scared half-to-death are in the bedroom down here, and I imagine their royal highnesses have been just as unceremoniously woken up by your people upstairs!” Olive shouted.

“Guns down, gentleman! Please, these people helped us!” Prince James bellowed as he descended the stairs wearing navy blue pajamas. “They are good people!”

The police from Newcastle-upon-Tyne lowered their weapons and after some explanation from the prince, they vacated the home with apologies, leaving behind just the sergeant in charge.

“Sorry for tha’,” he said. “We’d just received word from Buckingham that the royal family had been stopped at some point during the storm and we were to find them. We weren’t expecting to find their vehicle at a house, so we were worried. Their security is currently being dug out of a ditch several miles back. They’re fine…just a bit chilly.”

“I’m glad they’re okay,” Olive said shakily.

“All good, Miss. Thank you for your service to the Crown.”

After the Cambridges showered, dressed, and had a quick breakfast of pancakes and bacon cooked American style, Alex shook James’ hand and invited them back next year to laughs all around.

“We might consider it. It was a lovely evening and we are very grateful for your aid. Truly, we owe you a debt.”

“Never,” Alex replied.

 After bundling up the children, who were still upset, and seeing the Land Rover equipped with traction chains, the family waved goodbye to the royals.

364 Days later.

Olive was peeling the last potato for mash, a tiny baby strapped to her back, when she looked up through the kitchen window and saw a dark green Land Rover trundling down the dirt lane to the house. Behind it was black SUV with the UK flag fluttering above the front windows.

“Alex! Alex…I think…but who’s that in the front?”

Alex put a hand on the baby boy’s head and leaned forward, squinting. Barely visible in the front passenger seat was an old woman with white hair, wearing a bright teal hat.

“Good lor’. They dinnae…they have, like. They’ve brough’ the bloody queen.”