The Queen’s Death and the Silent Couple
“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/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 headnurse; and a middle-aged man with his youngish better half. The latter two always arrived late for dinner and left first. They were lean and decidedly athletic, the gym-going hiker/biker/snowshoeing type. Polite and soft spoken, they rarely added to the conversation and even then it was mostly nodding or whispering in agreement. By the third night we didn’t remember their names, and began referring to them as the Silent Couple.
On sea days I saw them working out in the gym or jogging on the upper deck. On port days they never took the bus even if the walk to the town was over two miles. A couple of days earlier we went to an Italian pastry shop in Boston’s North End to pick up cannolis; the Silent Couple were there too, seemingly discussing what to buy. We were standing only three feet from them but didn’t hear a sound, although their lips were moving. “Those two must have extraordinary sense of hearing,” said my wife later. “Or could be something wrong with their vocal cords.” I disagreed; they are civilized people, the type who never point and rarely raise their voices, and only talk when they have something important to say. “Maybe they’re practicing lip reading in public to see how people react.” I disagreed again; if we can’t hear them why would we react? After thinking for a few seconds she said: “That’s just it. They can’t hear each other either, and therein lies the challenge. They’re practicing lip reading to become very good at it.” I told her the damaged vocal-cord idea sounded better.
“She was good people, the Queen,” said the Colonel’s wife, “The world’s gonna be a more poorer place without her. We’d be a better country if we’d have queens and lords instead of politicians. Anybody know who’s gonna be the next Queen?” The Silent Guy lifted his hand as if in school asking for permission to speak. “Who cares about the Queen”, he said almost shouting, “Britain has at least sixty million citizens, or subjects as they call them over there. I am sure every day well over a thousand of them die, possibly two thousand. Each is a tragedy, so is the Queen’s death. No difference, though. Mankind faces hundred percent mortality, everybody checks out sooner or later, and we cannot do a thing about it. In the living world societies are mostly hierarchical; in death we are completely equal.”
We stared at him then at each other. For one thing, it was an unexpected harsh take on the Queen’s demise; another, it came from a person we believed didn’t have the ability to do the decibels. What surprised me most, though, was his voice, a strong baritone. He must be an opera singer, I thought. Interestingly, he showed no sign of anger or resentment. His face was as calm as before when none of us could figure out what the hell he was muttering.
“That’s right,” said the Silent Girl. “The one or two thousand British people who died today had one thing in common: they were all younger than the Queen. If we want to mourn anybody we should mourn the babies, some of them only had a few hours to live. And mourn the adults who lived a full life; they were carpenters, electricians, teachers, doctors and nurses, first responders, useful members of society. They contributed a lot while the old bat spent her entire hundred years in a medieval puppet theater. The Royal Family are just a tourist attraction, with occasional scandals.” Her voice was a warm soprano. She might also be an opera singer, I thought. The Silent Couple in the meantime reverted to their taciturn demeanor, ate their meal and left.
The following night they did not show up for dinner. “They’re probably in the bar celebratin’ the poor Queen’s death”, said the Colonel’s wife. We were well into our entrees when the Silent Guy did arrive, alone. “Sorry”, he said, “we couldn’t join you for dinner, we’re simply unable to eat.” I had to lean closer to him because he was barely audible. “Why what’s wrong?” A naughty expression appeared on the Silent Guy’s face. “It’s the Queen”, he whispered. “Ever since she died we’ve lost our appetite, can’t sleep a wink. Such a tragedy, completely unexpected, the Queen dying an early death. It shook us up real bad.” We knew he was kidding, cracking a cruel joke, a clumsy attempt at dark humor, and none of us said a word. “We hope you two feel better soon”, said the Colonel finally. The Silent Guy, with a smirk in his eyes, thanked him and left.
What a relief! People with strong opinions voicing sweeping statements tend to cause uneasiness in us, normal people. It is normal to wish that the world remain the same tomorrow as it is today, or just so slightly improved that it can’t possibly upset the apple cart. Even the adventurous among us should admit that dramatic change is generally a change for the worse even if it initially carried a great promise. Living a simple life with no regret becomes an aspiration, not a copout. When we were born the English Queen was already on the throne, and that continued until recently. What next?
On disembarkation day the gym was closed and the breakfast bar opened an hour early. At six o’clock, trying to beat the crowd, we were among the first in line at the omelette counter. From the corner of my eye I noticed the Silent Couple; they were eating their breakfast, smoked salmon on bagel, no cream cheese, with a huge plate of berries in front of them. We stopped at their table to say goodbye. “Great cruise”, said my wife. “Yes it was”, said the Silent Guy and, smirking again, added, “It was great, but then the Queen died. Since then I am not the same person I once was. When we get home, I’ll lock myself in my room and never come out again. How could I go on? I just can’t!” The Silent Girl cheerfully joined in, “Me, too.”
All in all, it was a pretty good cruise.
First published in Bewildering Stories on July 14, 2025.