The Queen's Garden

Islands in the mist. That’s the rather banal thought that persisted in my brain as I rode the ferry to Vancouver last weekend. The water over which we sailed was a rippling grey sheet, the fog a grey shroud that turned the Gulf Islands into featureless grey-green humps. The sky and the distance had ceased to exist.

The Queen of Too Much awaited me when I emerged from the five-mile walkway ferry riders must traverse to get from boat to parking lot. We started talking as if our conversation had only ended a few minutes earlier. That’s one of the many nice things about knowing a person since they were 15.

Arriving at the Queen’s Palace is always exciting. Much like at Buckingham Palace, there are little dogs everywhere, running and leaping and yipping with joy. The furnishings and bibelots greet me like old friends: the Victoria sofa, the handmade cherub mirror, the Japanese lady in a glass box, the elegant tea cups nestled in their hutch, the Little Mermaid – the real one – statue and the welcome runner dispensing advice in neat Danish needlepoint. As well as the wholesome goodies within, the surface of the Queen’s fridge provides an endless visual feast, including photos of the Queen in a cancan costume.

Since the Queen had graciously given the kitchen staff an afternoon off, we proceeded to a Japanese restaurant for lunch – very late, just getting in before it closed – but I’m not a breakfast eater and the food on the ferry is an inedible disgrace, a slap in the face to the province our premier likes to call the “best place on earth.” He likes calling it that so much, in fact, that he ordered it emblazoned on our license plates, a source of grim humour to us peons who ride the ferries in our hungry thousands, dodge the bullets flying in Vancouver’s vicious gang war and sidestep the needles dropped everywhere by our homeless junkies. I will admit, though, that the carnage is set against a backdrop of incomparable beauty.

Then came preparations for the main purpose of my visit. The Queen’s youngest daughter, Lily, was appearing in her high school musical that night. Back at the Palace, nervous and distracted, she searched the cupboards for suitable sustenance, eventually found in the form of a bagel and cream cheese. Coupled with the take-out chicken the Queen brought home from the restaurant, there was an acceptable amount of food for her to be unable to eat.

We dropped her at the home of a fellow thespian. We picked up two dozen fuchsia roses. We retrieved Lily and her friend and took them to the stage door. We prepared dinner for the husband and the older daughter, Rose. We solved all of that day’s planetary problems. We donned evening gowns. I use “we” in the royal sense. The Queen did all these things while I followed obediently and understood, again, why her realm is called Too Much.

As always, time wore on and the big moment was upon us. We ensconced ourselves in the theatre – having successfully stampeded our way to good seats – while fellow attendees chattered in excitement and anticipation. A pleasant, muted cacophony rose from the orchestra pit. The lights dimmed. A hush descended, that almost holy hush that pervades the atmosphere just before the curtain rises on a live performance. It’s a moment of suspension between two worlds and the anticipation becomes momentarily unbearable as we wait for the journey to begin.

And the audience was indeed transported. I had expected Bye Bye Birdie to be good. I’ve worked with teenagers and know what they can do when inspired and trained. But this show was superb, absolutely professional, riveting. The three hours we spent in Conrad Birdie’s universe passed outside regular time so it had no regular meaning and wasn’t noticed as it passed.

Lily, too, became another person. Radiant. Assured. Full of her character. As if she’d come home at last to the place she really belongs and where she is most herself. Her seamless performance enhanced the others’, as theirs did hers. She has an amazing stage presence and a great talent.

Afterwards, the foyer was thronged with parents and flowers and – teenagers; as if the proverbial midnight pumpkin moment had arrived and turned them back into their everyday selves. Their youth and adolescent mien were shocking coming so soon after they’d populated the sophisticated world behind the footlights.

Lily stood with her fuchsia roses, tearful, giddy with overexcitement and post-performance high and the bittersweet feel of the show’s final evening. Surrounded by her proud family, her youth, energy and brilliance bubbled up, casting a sparkling net of emotions that joined those cast by the other young actors and made the whole foyer shimmer.

Back at the Palace, sleep was impossible. We gravitated to the kitchen where food and wine were flung about, the rudiments of a feast.

I sat with a goblet of red while Rose picked at some California rolls. Chronically ill since early childhood, Rose has a soul much older than her years and she glows with a kind of concentrated luminosity, fragile as the mother of pearl sheen on abalone shell, intense and wild as Van Gogh’s stars.

I asked about Twilight, a book I tried to read because of all the fuss, got most of the way through it and didn’t bother reading the last dozen or so pages as I didn’t really care what happened. I was curious to hear an intelligent opinion about why it’s so popular.

“It’s the love story,” said Rose. “The impossible love story that everyone wants to have but never quite does. Or hasn’t yet. And with Bella and Edward it’s more impossible than usual but somehow seems more real at the same time. And you’re right. The book isn’t very well-written but it’s a big book. Some people who’ve never really read a book outside of school before read Twilight and not only love the story but have a feeling of accomplishment at reading such a big book.”

I said I thought the impossible love story thing had already been done – and done better - in Buffy but the show ended many years ago and perhaps seems old to today’s teenagers.

And so we talked about vampires and Twilight and love and literature until the castle clock harrumphed and hooed, its insistent arms swinging towards 1:00 a.m. I had to reluctantly admit the evening’s revels were ended, the last sparkles winking wearily out as the net faded and dissipated.

My foot touched the cold floor and a little shiver ran over me. I looked down. Only one slipper on one foot. What a way to come back to earth! Had I brought only one? My eyes scanned the floor. I searched my bag. Nothing there and still only one slipper on my foot. Had encroaching age and the blasted kidney infection destroyed a quarter of my brain cells as I still struggled on, unaware? A conviction of helpless stupidity began slipping its mantle over me but, just before I could be covered in despair, I spied something green and familiar peeking out from the Sleeping Basket of the Palace Dogs. Yes!

And so to bed.