Linda went into the busy coffee shop and found a seat at a table by the window. It was the perfect spot, ideal to watch the comings and goings in the shop, but also to observe the people passing by outside. From this vantage point, she could enjoy a cup of tea, and watch the world go by. She could see the scruffs in their sports clothing, smoking in the street and drinking pop straight out of the can. 

Other people would call her a snob, but she would argue that she had class and a refinement that most people just didn’t have. When the waitress came over with her notepad, to take her order, Linda ordered a cup of tea, and a scone. The waitress was in her early twenties and wore ripped jeans. Linda was tempted to point out that had she found her trousers were ripped at the knee, she would have thrown them away. 

The waitress returned moments later carrying a mug of tea and a scone on a small plate. Linda tutted as she placed the mug down in front of her. 

‘Could I have a cup and saucer? I don’t drink out of mugs. I don’t work on a building site.’ Linda said.

‘My dad does.’ The waitress said, before taking the offending mug away.

That doesn’t surprise me, Linda thought. The waitress plonked the cup and saucer down and quickly headed back behind the counter.

It wasn’t the waitress’s fault, of course. She wasn’t to know who she was serving. Linda was actually descended from British royalty. Her family had spoken for generations of the special connection they had. Her great-great grandmother had been related to Queen Victoria. Back in the day, her ancestors had been regular visitors to Buckingham Palace and had been in attendance at all the major events of the period.

Oh to have lived in those days! Linda longed to be wandering palace corridors, and grand drawing rooms, to be mingling with the best of society, not the plebs she was surrounded by these days. People just didn’t have any class, nowadays. She looked around the coffee shop in distain. Thing had certainly gone downhill since the days of her great-great grandmother. When had it become acceptable to wear jogging trousers other than at the gym? Why would you go to the finest restaurants dressed like you were about to go for a run? 

Linda sipped her tea and peered out of the window. A woman in a hoodie walked by with a black Labrador. Linda couldn’t help noticing how scruffy the dog-walker looked. I bet she doesn’t even pick up after her dog, Linda thought. 

She distracted herself by studying her freshly manicured nails. She’d had them done that morning at a delightful boutique in Monton village. She had expected the waitress to notice and to comment on how nice they looked, but nothing had been said. The young woman was probably jealous. Linda always prided herself on being very well turned out. You had to take a price in your appearance, didn’t you? 

While her husband, Les, was the main earner in their household, Linda worked three mornings a week in an office in Urmston. Her husband was assistant manager at a car dealership in Chorlton. She was off work this week, as it was her birthday. There would be lunches with friends, a bit of shopping, trips to the garden centre, and a romantic meal with Les, his treat, of course.

On the evening of her birthday, Linda and Les arrived at the restaurant. The place was packed, even though it was a Tuesday evening. Les told the head waiter that they had a reservation and gave his name. Les straightened his tie as the waiter checked his book.

‘Of course, right this way.’ 

He picked up two menus and weaved his way through the busy restaurant, winding his way in and out of the tables. The air was thick with chatter, laughter and the clutter of cutlery. This place, Puccini’s, was just wonderful. It served the nicest pasta this side of Firenze. As they took their seats, Linda spotted a young man at a nearby table. He was wearing a baseball cap back-to-front. She tutted. It would be bad enough to wear a sports cap in an establishment like this, but to wear it the wrong way round was downright disrespectful. The manager really should say something.

The waiter handed them their menus and told them their server would be over shortly to take their order. Les smiled at his wife.

‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ 

‘Have you seen the state of that?’ Linda jerked a thumb at the guy in the cap. ‘He’s clearly in the wrong place. They don’t sell hot-dogs here.’ 

Les rolled his eyes in agreement.

The lasagne and the dough-balls were out of this world. It was almost like being on holiday in Italy. Les raised his wine glass and wished her happy birthday. Linda touched her heart and mouthed a dramatic, thank you. Les reached for the gift-bag under the table. This was it. They always gave their birthday presents at the restaurant. It was something they had done for years. Why would you exchange gifts at home, where nobody could see you?

Les slid a rectangular box across the table. Linda giggled, what’s this? She opened the boxy and took out the contents. The silver bracelet glinted in the candle-glow. Linda declared that she loved it.

‘I knew you would.’ Les replied. 

She leaned across and kissed him.

‘I’ve got you something else. It’s a little bit different but I think you’ll appreciate it.’

He handed her an envelope and leaned back in his chair, to watch her reaction. She opened the envelope and carefully read the printed card. Les was treating her to an afternoon with one of Manchester University’s ancestry experts. 

‘They will be able to provide documentary evidence of your heritage, your link to the Royal family.’

‘Oh my goodness.’ she gasped.

It would be so special to be able to show off the hard proof of her royal blood. Wait until she showed her friends. She would put the evidence on display in the lounge, where everyone could see it.

‘Thank you so much.’

Two weeks later, one Thursday afternoon, Linda stepped out of the Manchester drizzle, and into the hallowed hush of the Central Library. As she walked along the grand sweeping corridors, Linda looked around in wonder. The place looked more like a museum than a library. She could imagine a film about a wizard being filmed in this location. Maybe she would get her very own piece of magic here. The wonderful location could become a part of the story she would tell. The library felt like a palace and then, she would say, I was told that the stories were true, I was actually descended from royalty. 

She found the expert, Alison Weller, in a reading room on the second floor. The tall shelves were stacked with classic volumes and texts. The table in the middle of the room was crammed with Alison’s papers, notes and documents. Alison removed her reading glasses and smiled as Linda entered. Linda introduced herself and wondered if she had ever tried contact lenses. Underneath the drab academia, Alison could have been rather pretty, no stunner, but better than the geeky book-worm look she was currently sporting.

She invited Linda to take a seat, speaking with the tone of a teacher or university professor. This was it, Linda thought, the moment of truth. She was about to have everything confirmed, to be told that she was in fact royalty. She had always sensed that she was better than everyone else. 

The historian went through her recent family tree, pointing to the graph on the table, explaining details and dates. A lot of it went over Linda’s head. Something about a shipping clerk, a building surveyor and a library assistant. Then the Second World War, Linda nodded and feigned interest. She was only here for one specific detail. 

Finally, unable to wait any longer, Linda blurted out the question she was dying to ask. She must have an answer. 

‘And is there a connection to Queen Victoria?’

‘Yes, there is. It is actually rather interesting.’ Alison replied.

‘I knew it. I knew the stories were true. Nobody believed me, but I knew it was all true.’

Alison rifled through the stack of papers and pulled out a large black and white photograph.  

‘And here we have evidence of your great-great grandmother at Buckingham Palace.’ Alison said.

She showed her the grainy photo. Queen Victoria was front and centre, with presumably other family members gathered around her. There were a lot of people in the picture, reminding Linda of those old school photos where the entire school gathered in rows. 

‘Which one is my relative? Is she a cousin or aunt to the Queen?’ Linda asked.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘To the Queen, what relation was she to Queen Victoria?’

‘That is your relative on the very far left. She was a house-maid to the Queen, not actually a relative.’

‘There must be some mistake. My family has spoken of the connection, the bloodline to Queen Victoria.’ Linda said. 

‘There is a connection, but in a subservient way. And these family stories can be exaggerated over the years.’

The following evening, Linda showed her friends into the lounge. The birthday dinner party was something of a tradition. Brenda and Anthony hugged Linda and wished her happy birthday. Les pointed to the newly framed photograph on the wall above the fireplace. 

‘Are you going to tell them, love? Linda is actually related to Queen Victoria. Here’s the proof.’

Her friends coo’d and said they always believed her, she had such class, so of course she was connected to the royals. Linda nodded and smiled. Brenda and Anthony studied the black and white photo with interest.

‘Which one is your relative?’ Brenda asked.

‘They are not sure exactly which lady on the photo is my relative, due to the picture quality back then, but my great-great grandmother, is definitely in the picture with the Queen. That’s the important thing.’ Linda said. 

‘I am so impressed.’ Brenda said.

Anthon peered in closely, inspecting the picture.

‘It’s not the maid, is it?’ He laughed.

‘Would you like a drink, Anthony?’ Linda asked, turning away.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom