The Queen's Death and the Silent Couple

By J.S. O’Keefe

Artwork by Toni Verkruysse

"Flags are at half-staff in Halifax," said the Colonel. "The Queen has died."

We were eating dinner in the main dining room of a New England to Canada cruise. The Queen died on the fifth day of the trip. In addition to us, two more couples were assigned to table #122: the Colonel (Ret.) and his wife, a head nurse, and a middle-aged man with his youngish better half.

The latter two always arrived late and left early. Lean and decidedly athletic, the gym-going, hiker-biker-snowshoer type, they were polite and soft-spoken, rarely adding more than a nod or a whisper to the conversation. By the third night we no longer remembered their names and began privately referring to them as the Silent Couple.

On sea days I saw them working out or jogging on the upper deck. On port days they always walked to the town even when it was two miles away.

A couple of days earlier, in a pastry shop in Boston's North End, we saw them, lips moving but producing no sound whatsoever.

"They must have extraordinary hearing," my wife said later. "Or maybe something's wrong with their vocal cords."

I disagreed. They struck me as deeply civilised people, the kind who never point, rarely raise their voices, and speak only when it’s necessary or appropriate.

"Maybe they're practicing lip reading in public," she suggested. "Seeing how people react."

I disagreed again. "If we can't hear them, how would we react?"

She paused, then delivered a third theory. "That's just it. They can't hear each other either. They're practicing."

I said the damaged vocal cord idea made more sense.

"She was good people, the Queen," said the Colonel's wife that evening. "The world’s gonna be a poorer place without her. We'd be a better country if we had queens and lords instead of politicians. Anybody know who's gonna be the next Queen?"

The Silent Guy raised his hand like a schoolboy requesting permission to speak.

"Who cares about the Queen," he said, loudly. His voice rolled out in a strong baritone. "Britain has sixty million citizens. Subjects, as they put it. Every day a thousand, maybe two thousand of them die. Each is a tragedy, same as the Queen's. No difference. Humanity has a hundred percent mortality rate. Everybody checks out eventually. In life we're hierarchical. In death we're all equal."

We stared at him, then at each other. The harsh take alone was surprising. Hearing it from someone we assumed physically incapable of doing the decibels was even more so. And that voice, it was almost opera.

"That's right," said the Silent Girl, matching him in a warm soprano. "The one or two thousand Britons who died today shared one thing: they were all younger than the Queen. If we're going to mourn anyone, let's mourn the babies. Some only hours old. And the adults who lived full lives were carpenters, electricians, teachers, nurses, first responders. They contributed something. Meanwhile the old bat Queen spent a hundred years on a medieval puppet stage. The Royal Family's just a tourist attraction with frequent scandals."

Then, as abruptly as they spoke, the Silent Couple reverted to silence, finished their meal, and left.

The following night they didn't show up. "Probably in the bar celebrating the poor Queen's death," the Colonel's wife muttered.

Halfway through our entrées the Silent Guy appeared. "Sorry," he whispered. "We couldn't join you. We simply can’t eat."

“Why? What's wrong?" I asked.

A mischievous look crossed his face. "It's the Queen," he said. "Ever since she died we've had no appetite, no sleep. Such a tragedy, so unexpected, the Queen dying so young. It has shaken us to the core."

We recognised the joke, a cruel attempt at dark humor, and said nothing.

"We hope you two feel better soon," said the Colonel at last.

The Silent Guy smirked, nodded to us, and left.

What a relief. People with sweeping opinions tend to unsettle normal folks like us. It's normal to wish tomorrow stays roughly the same as today, or improves so slightly it can't possibly upset the apple cart. Even the adventurous ought to admit dramatic change tends to sour, promise or no promise. Living a simple life without regret becomes an aspiration, not a cop-out. When we were born, the English Queen was already on the throne, and remained there for the rest of our lives. What next?

On disembarkation day the gym was closed and the breakfast bar opened early.

At six o'clock, trying to beat the crowd, we queued for omelets. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the Silent Couple eating smoked salmon bagels.

We stopped to say goodbye.

"Nice cruise," said the Silent Guy. Then: “It started great, but then the Queen died. Since then I haven't been the same. When we get home I'm locking myself in my room. How could I go on? I just can't!"

"Me too," said the Silent Girl cheerfully.

All in all, a pretty good cruise.

About the Author

J. S. O’Keefe is a scientist, trilingual translator and writer.

His short stories and poems have been published in Roi Faineant, Scribes*MICRO, Every Day Fiction, AntipodeanSF, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50WS, Friday Flash Fiction, Medium, Paragraph Planet, 6S, WENSUM, Spillwords, Satire, etc.

You can find out more at his website: <https://www.szjohnny.net/>

About the Artist

Toni Verkruysse has authored three fantasy novels: Marking Time, Iron and Intaglio, and Pale as Hope.

She is also an artist whose works are displayed in the Olympic archives and Palm Beach galleries.