Kids' Book Club

It’s the middle of the 16^th century, and King Henry the Eighth has already got through three wives and is still looking for The Real Thing, romance-wise. His children from previous marriages, Mary, Lizzie, and Ed, are hoping for a Dream Stepmother but their dad’s marriage record isn’t brilliant. When Princess Lizzie should be doing her homework (translating the football results into Latin) she grabs a quill and parchment and dashes off the latest entry in her secret diary: Ye Secrette Diary of Princess Elizabeth aged XIV

Thursday, ten o’clock of the morn.

Disaster! Dad (I don’t like to boast, but he’s King Henry VIII) threw a whole roast swan through a stained glass window last night so we are all cowering in our towers, terrified that somebody’s going to get the chop. “This swan’s tough!’ he roared. His beard was quivering with rage and his eyes had gone all piggy.

Dad’s in a rage because his mail-order bride has arrived, and he doesn’t fancy her. Her name’s Anne of Cleves and she’s from Germany. He says she looks nothing like the portrait they sent and she’s a little on the plump side. Coming from Dad, this is way out of order as he’s morbidly obese – he hasn’t seen his feet for VIII years.

He has these massive binges – three pounds of marzipan and a whole roast goose just for breakfast. He used to be really good-looking when he was young. I’ve seen the portraits.  But lately he’s really let himself go. Don’t tell anybody I said so, though. In fact, I might have to tear out this page and eat it.

It’s a shame Dad doesn’t like Anne because she’s really nice. She brought presents for all of us. My sister Mary had a pearl necklace, my bro Ed had a tennis racket and I had a box of ginger biscuits. Mary spends all her time praying. Ed spends his time writing poems. They’re not what you’d call party animals.

Oh no! I can hear some horrid sounds downstairs in the Great Hall. Splintering furniture and a strange howling. Dad throwing another wobbly. I’ve got to do something. I’m going to see Ed.

*     *     *     *

Thursday eleven of the clock of the morn.

‘Ed!’ I cried. ‘We’ve got to do something or Dad will trash the palace! Somebody’s got to calm him down!’ Evidently Dad still hadn’t ‘seen the light’ about his lovely new German wife.

‘What rhymes with pomegranate?’ asked Ed. Like most boys, he’s hopeless when it comes to emotional stuff.

‘Never mind pomegranates!’ I yelled. ‘We’ve got to calm Dad down or he’ll cut Anne’s head off and she’s really nice and gave us presents and stuff! Look at that lovely tennis racket she gave you!’

‘I hate tennis,’ said Ed rudely. ‘It makes me cough.’

Ed was useless. I shall have to go and see Mary now.

Thursday twelve o’clock

On the way to Mary’s tower I bumped into Anne of Cleves, strolling along enjoying the sunshine, apparently totally unaware of the danger. She smiled, kissed me on both cheeks, and gave me a cute puppy.

‘Come this way!’ I hissed, and led her up to our old nursery. ‘Hide in this trunk!’ I told her, ‘and hold on to your head! I’ll be back in a min!’

Then I sprinted off to Mary’s tower. Mary was praying, of course.

‘Mary!’ I said sternly. ‘We’ve got to do something to calm Dad down! I’m scared Anne’s headed for the chop!’

‘I’m praying as hard as I can!’ grumbled Mary. ‘I’ve been on my knees for ten hours!’

‘You need a break, sis,’ I insisted, hauling her up and plonking her down in her bedchamber thronette. I gave her a couple of ginger biscuits, and she soon cheered up.

‘Who’s your favourite saint?’ she asked. ‘I’m torn between St Stephen and St Solange.’

‘Never mind saints for a minute!’ I replied. ‘How are we going to save Anne?’ Mary shrugged. She’s hopeless. ‘Oh, all right, then!’ I sighed. ‘I’ll sort it out! Look after this puppy!’ Mary gave me her pearl necklace. She’s a sweetheart really.

As I sprinted back down the stairs, I realised how lucky I was to have a sister. And then – BINGO! I knew what I had to do. People always loved sisters.

I headed for the sound of splintering furniture. Dad was in the middle of gnawing the leg off a table when I approached him.

‘Your Maj Dad!’ I cried. ‘I’ve had an idea! Put that table down for a minute!’ To be honest I think he was a bit relieved to put it down as it was big enough for thirty and made of solid oak.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t have to marry Anne!’ I told him. ‘Make her into a kind of pretend sister instead. Then you won’t have to marry her – she’d be our auntie, not our stepmother. You can just give her a bijou palace to live in and invite her over for lunch on Sundays, and I’m sure she’d be well satisfied. You could give her a title, something like “The King’s Beloved Sister”. All of England – and Germany – would be happy with that!’

A huge weight seemed to drop off Dad’s shoulders (though not, alas, off his gut). He relaxed. He smiled. And he mussed up my hair (drat! It took me XXX mins to get it looking that good!)

‘Lizzie, old bean,’ he said, ‘you’ve inherited my genius. Well done. This gets me off the hook. If I’d had to send her back, Germany would’ve been furious.’

I’m glad I solved Dad’s problem and helped to avoid a possible war with Germany.  Not bad for a Thursday morning.

Now I’m back in my room. Mary’s here and we’re playing with the puppy. She’s trying to teach it to pray. I’ll just finish my diary entry and then we’re going to go for a walk on the battlements.

Ooops! Crumbs! I’m so forgetful! Must remember to let Anne out of the trunk…