She said that she wasn’t amused but I believe that Queen Victoria rather enjoyed the camel ride. ‘It gets cold at night’, I called up to her, ‘out here in the desert. But the stars come out and it looks splendid’.

I was merely making conversation, of course. Her little legs were astride the beast. It must have been very hot for her, wearing all that mourning attire, that dress and all of those petticoats, but she was stoic.

‘We shall halt for tea at four thirty’, she said. ‘Have you remembered the sandwiches?’

The camel slouched its way to the top of a dune. I held onto its guide rope. Its long, spindly legs operated in an unhurried manner. It didn’t care who was on its back.

‘I have remembered the sandwiches’, I replied. ‘They are in my satchel. They are egg sandwiches’.

‘A man with a satchel is a man prepared’, she replied.

I would have to choose the moment in which I would declare my love carefully. The sun was relentless, and Queen Victoria wore a sturdy black bonnet which protected her face from the glare. I’d opted for a wide-brimmed hat similar to those favoured by American cattle ranchers. My dear old dad would have scoffed at my choice of headgear, proclaiming it unpatriotic, yet practical. How sadly I missed him. I wondered what advice he would have had for me at this very moment, leading a camel up a sand dune in the Sahara, with Queen Victoria on its back.

‘Is it a dromedary?’, she asked.

‘One hump or two?’

‘The matter must be decided by royal decree’, she replied. ‘Whichever I decide will be the prevailing definition’.

She was quiet for a few seconds,

‘It has one hump’, she said, ‘I shall call it a camel’.

‘It looks like a camel’, I said.

‘And it smells like a camel’, she replied.

We were now near the top of the sand dune. One last stride from the reluctant beast. The sun felt hot on my shoulders, pushing me down. I could feel the sweat rolling down between my shoulder blades.

‘It’s the silence’, I said, ‘which gets me every time’.

We came to a stop. We looked out at the dunes. They rolled like yellow waves captured by a photographic camera, frozen in time. It was a fine view, of yellow sand and blue sky, and the fierce sun immediately above. We threw no shadows. It was a stirring sight and I felt the emotion of the moment, it caught at the back of my throat. Don’t be such a weakling, my father would have said. We were a long way from Noualdibou, and a long way from teatime.

‘Your majesty…’.

‘I know’, she said, ‘what you are going to say, and my answer would no doubt disappoint’.

I was silent.

She continued, ‘I’m far too old to be so grown-up. And I do find adult concerns so very tiresome’.

‘How does the landscape find you?’, I asked, as though this had been my intended subject.

‘It is adequate’.

‘Does it not stir your soul?’

The camel gave out a throaty cry, a deep protest from the heart of the beast. Her Majesty was silent.

‘Does it not overwhelm you?’, I asked.

‘When we return to our encampment’, she replied, ‘and dinner has been consumed, and we retire to our bivouacs, you will be permitted three hours in my company’.

I said nothing. The desert was silent. The dunes rolled on to the dusty horizon.

‘I shall leave the entrance to my tent unfastened, and my butler has been informed to disregard his duties for the evening’.

I offered a subtle bow.

‘You may fetch your satchel now’, she added, ‘and begin distributing the egg sandwiches’.

————

Robert Garnham’s short stories have been published widely in magazines such as Stand, Defenestration, Flash Fiction Magazine, Ink Sweat and Tears, and others, and his poetry in Acumen, Tribe, and the Broadsheet. In 2021 and 2022 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He writes a humorous newspaper column in the Herald Express. He performs comedy poetry all over the UK at fringes, festivals and TV, and had one of the funniest one-liners of the 2018 Edinburgh Fringe. He was recently featured very briefly on Britain’s Got Talent. In 2024 he won the Wergle Flomp poetry competition. Robert is based in Devon, in the UK.