Queen Victoria
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tables are turned on a tabloid talk show hostess.
_____________________________________________________________________
Victoria Queen was a star. She had a big star on her dressing room door and an audience in the millions to prove it. If, she thought to herself, proof was needed. And well she understood her success. People were sinners, black sinners, and she was the priestess to hear their confession and grant them absolution through penance. Hers was a tough love, but a love nonetheless, perhaps the highest and most sublime imaginable? Though Victoria Queen would never have put it like that. She cared not for highfalutin philosophy. Hers was a modern realist gritty life view. A world of equals and responsibility to none but yourself. Winners and losers in the game of life. That was real democracy. And the Devil take the weak and the poor in spirit.
She looked at her watch. Still had half an hour before she had to be up on stage. She slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out a quarter bottle of whisky. She poured herself a small one. Today’s show was an easy one. A real sinner. One of the worst. But she would help him repent and return to his family and community a different man. That was all most of them needed, just a little moral guidance. Someone to look them in the eye and tell them the truth about themselves, about their lives. She remembered a couple from one of last week’s shows: he was possessed and she a martyr to his possession. He accused her of all kinds of infidelities: with the butcher, the postman, her boss, of even paying a gigolo. She could still see his face as she took the test on the lie detector, his eyes darting everywhere, the devil within knowing it was about to be unmasked. How she had wept when the lie detector showed all his words to be delusions. She was a strong woman, she deserved better. And she, Victoria Queen, had given her it. She could still hear herself saying, “And have you never considered leaving him?”
His eyes held her wildly; she turned to him, and through her tears said, “Kevin, it’s over.” And then she wiped her tears away and smiled. Victoria said nothing, smiled, and turned to the audience. The applause was deafening.
She drained her glass and got up. There was just time to make a quick call. Her lawyer was to have closed the deal on that estate in the North of Italy the day before and he still hadn’t called. She picked up her mobile phone and pressed the on button. Nothing happened. She pressed a few buttons but the machine didn’t respond.
“Damn it!” she said out loud.
She walked over to the phone in the corner. She would tell her producer, George, to phone him. She picked up the receiver. The line was dead.
Never mind, she thought, I’ll phone after the show. She put a mint into her mouth, slipped her mobile into her pocket and made for her public.
She could hear the warm up guy saying, “Ladies and Gentlemen please put your hands together and give a big welcome to Victoria Queen”. She walked out into the lights and took up her position in front of her audience, mike in hand. The applause subsided and Victoria could see the main camera giving her the count down. The last finger fell and she heard the controller say “we’re on” in her ear.
“Good afternoon and welcome, once again, to an audience with Victoria Queen,” she said into the camera. The audience broke into another round of enthusiastic applause and Victoria marched across the studio to take up her place at a forty-five degree angle to a small raised stage with chairs and a partition with a door in it. The camera panned in on her.
“Today we’ll be talking to Edward Boyle from Leeds, a young man with an age old problem.”
A camera showed a young man in his early thirties wearing a biker’s jacket. His blonde hair was smoothed down and his face was covered in spots. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Victoria turned to camera two and said in a more business like voice, “Okay, let’s have Edward on stage.”
The audience clapped and Edward was escorted through the door and onto the stage by a sexy high-heeled brunette. She turned and closed the door tight behind her.
“Good afternoon, Edward, I’m Victoria Queen,” she said, looking at him icily.
“Good afternoon,”
“Now, Edward, you have a problem, don’t you?”
“No,” said Edward, a little playfully.
“No?” said Victoria, inclining her head and staring at him, “don’t you like a drink then?”
“Yeah, I like a drink, don’t everybody?”
The audience laughed.
“But you like a drink a little too much,” insisted Victoria.
“Well, that’s what me mam and me wife says,” he said, rising up slightly in his seat.
“Well,” said Victoria, “your mum and your wife say that more than like a few drinks, you are in fact an alcoholic.”
There was silence. Victoria waited twenty seconds and then said, “Let’s hear what your mum and your wife have to say.”
Edward’s mother entered. She was in her late fifties, her hair short and greying, her face one that had been pretty once; she wore a simple black suit and flat shoes. One would have thought she was going to a funeral. His wife followed. She had dressed for the occasion. She wore an ankle length red dress and white stilettos; her blonde hair was up in a bun and her make up was thick.
They sat down on either side of Edward.
He looked from one to the other.
Victoria waited for the applause to die down.
“Jennifer,” she began, addressing the wife, “he says he doesn’t have a problem?”
Jennifer snorted. Edward’s mum looked at her feet.
“He’s sat there in the front room drinking till he ain’t got a coin left,” she said.
“Where does he get his money?” said Victoria knowingly.
“He’s on dole,” replied Jennifer, “he goes on a right nasty binge every two weeks and then says he’ll not do it again, but he never keeps promise.”
Victoria kept asking questions, teasing out the whole sorry story. How Edward’s father had abandoned him when he was a baby; how he had never had a job; how he had been drinking since he was twelve; the time he smashed up his mother’s house; how Jennifer and him had three children, the eldest of which had already started on the bevvy. The whole time she was looking for the answer, the key to the moral conundrum of this man’s life. And then in a flash of genius she had it.
“Tell me Edward, have you ever slept rough because of your drinking?” she said
“A few times,” he admitted.
“And how did you feel the next day?” she went on.
“Dirty, a little sick.”
“And what did you do?”
“I went to me wife’s or me mam’s for a bath and a kip.”
Victoria waited a minute.
“I say to you, wife and mum, the next time this happens don’t let him in. And don’t let him in until he has sorted himself out. Okay? Do we have a deal?”
The women nodded.
Victoria turned to the audience. She felt flushed with righteousness.
“Every problem has its solution,” she said, “join me tomorrow for another audience with Victoria Queen, bye for now.”
She heard the music start up in her ear piece. Another good show in the bag; another soul saved. She handed her microphone to an aid and, ignoring the sinners on the stage, headed back to the dressing room. After all there was nothing else she could say, it was up to them now.
Back in her dressing room she poured herself a large whisky. She had some work to do for tomorrow’s show and so worked on in silence for a few hours.
It was now half past seven. She tried her mobile again. It still wouldn’t work. She’d have to charge it, she thought. The phone in the room was still out.
George stuck his head round the door.
“Everything alright, Vicky?” he said.
“Incommunicado,” she said laconically, holding out the receiver.
“Yeah, I tried to call you before, the line’s dead,” he said.
“Well it can wait until tomorrow,” she said, “I’m going home.”
“We’ve got some good material for next week,” said George, opening the door and walking down the passageway with her.
“This guy in his mid-thirties, his wife’s just left him for her childhood sweetheart. I thought we could do a sort of divorce too easy piece, rustle up some other cases. He had googled her on the Net, dangers of the Internet, blah, blah, blah.”
“Well, it’s a little light, but write out a more detailed résumé and I’ll look at it tomorrow,” she said, getting into the lift.
George said good night and turned into his office.
Victoria pressed the button to go to the underground car park. The doors remained open. She tried again. Nothing. She swore out loud and made for the stairs.
The car park was dark and silent. She put the key into the car door and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t move. She applied more pressure and the key snapped.
Victoria stood still for a minute holding the broken key in her hand.
“Okay, Vicky,” she said, “take it easy, get out of here and get a taxi.”
She climbed up the stairs and went out onto the street. She stood on the kerbside looking for a taxi. It was cold. She shivered and pulled her jacket tight around herself. There were no taxis. Then she saw one. She ran across the road and waved frantically. It drifted past. She thought she could get a bus and walked over to the bus stop. There was nobody at the stop. She waited for twenty minutes and no bus came. A man going past called over, “Didn’t you know, the buses are on strike today.”
“What?” cried Victoria.
“More money’s what they’re after,” said the man over his shoulder.
She decided to head back to the studio; George or one of the others could take her home. After all, what was she paying them for?
She started to walk, her high heeled shoes echoing in the streets. It was pitch dark. The street lights were out and people rushed past like phantoms. When she reached the studio she marched in and up to the desk. The security guard was talking to one of the cleaners, a pretty woman from somewhere in Latin America. He was cracking jokes and she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Victoria stood until her patience was stretched and then butted in.
“Excuse me,” she said in a loud voice.
They ignored her.
Victoria walked round them. She prodded the man in the arm.
“Are you deaf?” she screamed.
They continued their conversation.
The lift opened and George and some other employees walked out towards the door.
Victoria ran up to them.
“George, thank God, that man is ignoring me,” she said.
The group walked past her engrossed in a conversation about Manchester United and the stock market. They went out the door. Victoria watched them leave. She looked around.
“Excuse me, Madam, I’ll have to ask you to leave, we’re going to lock the doors for the night.” The security guard was standing next to her. He had hold of her arm.
“Get your hands off me,” shouted Victoria, “don’t you know who I am?”
The security guard laughed.
“Another one who doesn’t who she is,” he shouted over to the cleaner.
And then, almost tenderly, “you’ll have to leave, Madam.”
He escorted her out of the building and locked the doors behind him.
Victoria stood on the steps.
She looked back in. The security guard and the cleaner were deep in flirtation, their heads thrown back in laughter. Victoria Queen looked out into the dark night. She was completely alone. Completely helpless. She reached into her bag and took out her bottle of whisky. She took a long draft.
Well, she thought to herself, I’ll have to walk home.
She set off in the dark. It was really cold now. She saw what she took to be people rushing past her on every side. In a way time had stood still for her. What she saw were fleeting shadows with an indistinct shape that was almost human. She saw lights pass her by and heard voices rising and falling. She sucked on her bottle. She saw brightly lit buildings that would flare and dim into nothingness as she approached. After a time she began to feel tired.
It was completely dark now. In the distance she saw a light. It had warmth about it which drew her towards it. As she approached she saw that it was an all night cash point. The door was ajar. Victoria had to sleep. She entered and saw a shape lying next to the hot air vent. It was a vagabond and he had the best spot. She was cold and tired now beyond endurance.
“Hello,” she said, “I’ll give you twenty pounds for that space next to the air vent.”
The tramp remained silent. Maybe he was asleep. She went forward and prodded him with her toe.
“Forty pounds,” she said, looking in her bag, “forty and a cheque for a hundred more.”
“There are things you can’t buy,” said the tramp.
Victoria thought she recognised the voice.
He turned and looked at her. It was Edward Boyle.
“And besides,” he said in his playful way, “it isn’t working.”
He was right Victoria realised, it was freezing cold.
Edward Boyle pulled back the blanket and motioned that she should come in.
She hesitated for a moment and then lay down gently at his side and wrapped herself as best she could in the blanket.
“Sometimes I guess,” said Edward Boyle, “we’re all in the same bed.”
Victoria closed her eyes; slowly she sank into sleep…
The next morning Edward Boyle was awakened by a bank customer.
“Couldn’t you go to a hostel or something like that?” he said, glaring down at him.
“They’re for down and outs, pal, I’m only down.”
The man left muttering to himself.
Edward Boyle leant up on his elbow. He looked down at Victoria Queen.
She was quiet. The night had been dreamless. She was frozen stiff.
He stood up and pulled the blanket over her face. As he opened the door to go her mobile phone rang.
He reached down and took it out of her bag.
“Hello, Victoria Queen Productions, how can I help you?” he said.
There was a pause and then a voice said, “Hi, this is Trisha calling from Dr. Ingram’s Consultancy. It was to remind Miss Queen that she has her first alcohol counselling session tomorrow morning at ten, oh, and that we’ve received payment in full via her bank draft.”
Edward Boyle thought for a minute.
“You know,” he said, “we have a little secret: the counselling session is really for me. I’m her cousin.”
“Ah,” said Trisha, “nobody said anything before; I’ll just change the name on the file.”
“Boyle’s the name, Edward Boyle. And do you have the address?”
Trisha gave him the address.
“Okay, Mr Boyle,” she said, “we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Fine, and oh, don’t forget to watch ‘An Audience with Victoria Queen’ today. Today’s show will be the best yet.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Trisha, “I’m a big fan.”
“Aren’t we all, Trisha, aren’t we all,” said Edward Boyle.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The tables are turned on a tabloid talk show hostess.
_____________________________________________________________________
Victoria Queen was a star. She had a big star on her dressing room door and an audience in the millions to prove it. If, she thought to herself, proof was needed. And well she understood her success. People were sinners, black sinners, and she was the priestess to hear their confession and grant them absolution through penance. Hers was a tough love, but a love nonetheless, perhaps the highest and most sublime imaginable? Though Victoria Queen would never have put it like that. She cared not for highfalutin philosophy. Hers was a modern realist gritty life view. A world of equals and responsibility to none but yourself. Winners and losers in the game of life. That was real democracy. And the Devil take the weak and the poor in spirit.
She looked at her watch. Still had half an hour before she had to be up on stage. She slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out a quarter bottle of whisky. She poured herself a small one. Today’s show was an easy one. A real sinner. One of the worst. But she would help him repent and return to his family and community a different man. That was all most of them needed, just a little moral guidance. Someone to look them in the eye and tell them the truth about themselves, about their lives. She remembered a couple from one of last week’s shows: he was possessed and she a martyr to his possession. He accused her of all kinds of infidelities: with the butcher, the postman, her boss, of even paying a gigolo. She could still see his face as she took the test on the lie detector, his eyes darting everywhere, the devil within knowing it was about to be unmasked. How she had wept when the lie detector showed all his words to be delusions. She was a strong woman, she deserved better. And she, Victoria Queen, had given her it. She could still hear herself saying, “And have you never considered leaving him?”
His eyes held her wildly; she turned to him, and through her tears said, “Kevin, it’s over.” And then she wiped her tears away and smiled. Victoria said nothing, smiled, and turned to the audience. The applause was deafening.
She drained her glass and got up. There was just time to make a quick call. Her lawyer was to have closed the deal on that estate in the North of Italy the day before and he still hadn’t called. She picked up her mobile phone and pressed the on button. Nothing happened. She pressed a few buttons but the machine didn’t respond.
“Damn it!” she said out loud.
She walked over to the phone in the corner. She would tell her producer, George, to phone him. She picked up the receiver. The line was dead.
Never mind, she thought, I’ll phone after the show. She put a mint into her mouth, slipped her mobile into her pocket and made for her public.
She could hear the warm up guy saying, “Ladies and Gentlemen please put your hands together and give a big welcome to Victoria Queen”. She walked out into the lights and took up her position in front of her audience, mike in hand. The applause subsided and Victoria could see the main camera giving her the count down. The last finger fell and she heard the controller say “we’re on” in her ear.
“Good afternoon and welcome, once again, to an audience with Victoria Queen,” she said into the camera. The audience broke into another round of enthusiastic applause and Victoria marched across the studio to take up her place at a forty-five degree angle to a small raised stage with chairs and a partition with a door in it. The camera panned in on her.
“Today we’ll be talking to Edward Boyle from Leeds, a young man with an age old problem.”
A camera showed a young man in his early thirties wearing a biker’s jacket. His blonde hair was smoothed down and his face was covered in spots. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Victoria turned to camera two and said in a more business like voice, “Okay, let’s have Edward on stage.”
The audience clapped and Edward was escorted through the door and onto the stage by a sexy high-heeled brunette. She turned and closed the door tight behind her.
“Good afternoon, Edward, I’m Victoria Queen,” she said, looking at him icily.
“Good afternoon,”
“Now, Edward, you have a problem, don’t you?”
“No,” said Edward, a little playfully.
“No?” said Victoria, inclining her head and staring at him, “don’t you like a drink then?”
“Yeah, I like a drink, don’t everybody?”
The audience laughed.
“But you like a drink a little too much,” insisted Victoria.
“Well, that’s what me mam and me wife says,” he said, rising up slightly in his seat.
“Well,” said Victoria, “your mum and your wife say that more than like a few drinks, you are in fact an alcoholic.”
There was silence. Victoria waited twenty seconds and then said, “Let’s hear what your mum and your wife have to say.”
Edward’s mother entered. She was in her late fifties, her hair short and greying, her face one that had been pretty once; she wore a simple black suit and flat shoes. One would have thought she was going to a funeral. His wife followed. She had dressed for the occasion. She wore an ankle length red dress and white stilettos; her blonde hair was up in a bun and her make up was thick.
They sat down on either side of Edward.
He looked from one to the other.
Victoria waited for the applause to die down.
“Jennifer,” she began, addressing the wife, “he says he doesn’t have a problem?”
Jennifer snorted. Edward’s mum looked at her feet.
“He’s sat there in the front room drinking till he ain’t got a coin left,” she said.
“Where does he get his money?” said Victoria knowingly.
“He’s on dole,” replied Jennifer, “he goes on a right nasty binge every two weeks and then says he’ll not do it again, but he never keeps promise.”
Victoria kept asking questions, teasing out the whole sorry story. How Edward’s father had abandoned him when he was a baby; how he had never had a job; how he had been drinking since he was twelve; the time he smashed up his mother’s house; how Jennifer and him had three children, the eldest of which had already started on the bevvy. The whole time she was looking for the answer, the key to the moral conundrum of this man’s life. And then in a flash of genius she had it.
“Tell me Edward, have you ever slept rough because of your drinking?” she said
“A few times,” he admitted.
“And how did you feel the next day?” she went on.
“Dirty, a little sick.”
“And what did you do?”
“I went to me wife’s or me mam’s for a bath and a kip.”
Victoria waited a minute.
“I say to you, wife and mum, the next time this happens don’t let him in. And don’t let him in until he has sorted himself out. Okay? Do we have a deal?”
The women nodded.
Victoria turned to the audience. She felt flushed with righteousness.
“Every problem has its solution,” she said, “join me tomorrow for another audience with Victoria Queen, bye for now.”
She heard the music start up in her ear piece. Another good show in the bag; another soul saved. She handed her microphone to an aid and, ignoring the sinners on the stage, headed back to the dressing room. After all there was nothing else she could say, it was up to them now.
Back in her dressing room she poured herself a large whisky. She had some work to do for tomorrow’s show and so worked on in silence for a few hours.
It was now half past seven. She tried her mobile again. It still wouldn’t work. She’d have to charge it, she thought. The phone in the room was still out.
George stuck his head round the door.
“Everything alright, Vicky?” he said.
“Incommunicado,” she said laconically, holding out the receiver.
“Yeah, I tried to call you before, the line’s dead,” he said.
“Well it can wait until tomorrow,” she said, “I’m going home.”
“We’ve got some good material for next week,” said George, opening the door and walking down the passageway with her.
“This guy in his mid-thirties, his wife’s just left him for her childhood sweetheart. I thought we could do a sort of divorce too easy piece, rustle up some other cases. He had googled her on the Net, dangers of the Internet, blah, blah, blah.”
“Well, it’s a little light, but write out a more detailed résumé and I’ll look at it tomorrow,” she said, getting into the lift.
George said good night and turned into his office.
Victoria pressed the button to go to the underground car park. The doors remained open. She tried again. Nothing. She swore out loud and made for the stairs.
The car park was dark and silent. She put the key into the car door and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t move. She applied more pressure and the key snapped.
Victoria stood still for a minute holding the broken key in her hand.
“Okay, Vicky,” she said, “take it easy, get out of here and get a taxi.”
She climbed up the stairs and went out onto the street. She stood on the kerbside looking for a taxi. It was cold. She shivered and pulled her jacket tight around herself. There were no taxis. Then she saw one. She ran across the road and waved frantically. It drifted past. She thought she could get a bus and walked over to the bus stop. There was nobody at the stop. She waited for twenty minutes and no bus came. A man going past called over, “Didn’t you know, the buses are on strike today.”
“What?” cried Victoria.
“More money’s what they’re after,” said the man over his shoulder.
She decided to head back to the studio; George or one of the others could take her home. After all, what was she paying them for?
She started to walk, her high heeled shoes echoing in the streets. It was pitch dark. The street lights were out and people rushed past like phantoms. When she reached the studio she marched in and up to the desk. The security guard was talking to one of the cleaners, a pretty woman from somewhere in Latin America. He was cracking jokes and she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Victoria stood until her patience was stretched and then butted in.
“Excuse me,” she said in a loud voice.
They ignored her.
Victoria walked round them. She prodded the man in the arm.
“Are you deaf?” she screamed.
They continued their conversation.
The lift opened and George and some other employees walked out towards the door.
Victoria ran up to them.
“George, thank God, that man is ignoring me,” she said.
The group walked past her engrossed in a conversation about Manchester United and the stock market. They went out the door. Victoria watched them leave. She looked around.
“Excuse me, Madam, I’ll have to ask you to leave, we’re going to lock the doors for the night.” The security guard was standing next to her. He had hold of her arm.
“Get your hands off me,” shouted Victoria, “don’t you know who I am?”
The security guard laughed.
“Another one who doesn’t who she is,” he shouted over to the cleaner.
And then, almost tenderly, “you’ll have to leave, Madam.”
He escorted her out of the building and locked the doors behind him.
Victoria stood on the steps.
She looked back in. The security guard and the cleaner were deep in flirtation, their heads thrown back in laughter. Victoria Queen looked out into the dark night. She was completely alone. Completely helpless. She reached into her bag and took out her bottle of whisky. She took a long draft.
Well, she thought to herself, I’ll have to walk home.
She set off in the dark. It was really cold now. She saw what she took to be people rushing past her on every side. In a way time had stood still for her. What she saw were fleeting shadows with an indistinct shape that was almost human. She saw lights pass her by and heard voices rising and falling. She sucked on her bottle. She saw brightly lit buildings that would flare and dim into nothingness as she approached. After a time she began to feel tired.
It was completely dark now. In the distance she saw a light. It had warmth about it which drew her towards it. As she approached she saw that it was an all night cash point. The door was ajar. Victoria had to sleep. She entered and saw a shape lying next to the hot air vent. It was a vagabond and he had the best spot. She was cold and tired now beyond endurance.
“Hello,” she said, “I’ll give you twenty pounds for that space next to the air vent.”
The tramp remained silent. Maybe he was asleep. She went forward and prodded him with her toe.
“Forty pounds,” she said, looking in her bag, “forty and a cheque for a hundred more.”
“There are things you can’t buy,” said the tramp.
Victoria thought she recognised the voice.
He turned and looked at her. It was Edward Boyle.
“And besides,” he said in his playful way, “it isn’t working.”
He was right Victoria realised, it was freezing cold.
Edward Boyle pulled back the blanket and motioned that she should come in.
She hesitated for a moment and then lay down gently at his side and wrapped herself as best she could in the blanket.
“Sometimes I guess,” said Edward Boyle, “we’re all in the same bed.”
Victoria closed her eyes; slowly she sank into sleep…
The next morning Edward Boyle was awakened by a bank customer.
“Couldn’t you go to a hostel or something like that?” he said, glaring down at him.
“They’re for down and outs, pal, I’m only down.”
The man left muttering to himself.
Edward Boyle leant up on his elbow. He looked down at Victoria Queen.
She was quiet. The night had been dreamless. She was frozen stiff.
He stood up and pulled the blanket over her face. As he opened the door to go her mobile phone rang.
He reached down and took it out of her bag.
“Hello, Victoria Queen Productions, how can I help you?” he said.
There was a pause and then a voice said, “Hi, this is Trisha calling from Dr. Ingram’s Consultancy. It was to remind Miss Queen that she has her first alcohol counselling session tomorrow morning at ten, oh, and that we’ve received payment in full via her bank draft.”
Edward Boyle thought for a minute.
“You know,” he said, “we have a little secret: the counselling session is really for me. I’m her cousin.”
“Ah,” said Trisha, “nobody said anything before; I’ll just change the name on the file.”
“Boyle’s the name, Edward Boyle. And do you have the address?”
Trisha gave him the address.
“Okay, Mr Boyle,” she said, “we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Fine, and oh, don’t forget to watch ‘An Audience with Victoria Queen’ today. Today’s show will be the best yet.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Trisha, “I’m a big fan.”
“Aren’t we all, Trisha, aren’t we all,” said Edward Boyle.