The Queen’s Death and the Silent Couple
by J. S. O’Keefe
“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 (Retired) and his wife, a head nurse; and a middle-aged man with a youngish wife. The latter two always arrived late and left first. They were decidedly athletic, the gym-going hiker/biker/snowshoeing type. Polite and soft-spoken, they rarely added to the conversation and even then mostly by nodding or whispering. By the second 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 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 was there, too. We stood only three feet from them but didn’t hear a sound, although their lips were moving.
“Those two must have an extraordinary sense of hearing,” said my wife later. “Or could something be wrong with their vocal cords?”
I disagreed; they were civilized people, the type who never point and rarely raise their voices, and they talk only when they have something important to say.
“Maybe they are 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 poorer place without her. We’d be a better country with queens and lords instead of politicians.”
The Silent Guy lifted his hand as if asking for permission to speak. “Who cares about the Queen?” he said, almost shouting, “Britain has sixty million citizens, subjects as they call them. Every day over a thousand 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 equal.”
We stared at him then at each other. It was an unexpected harsh take on the Queen’s demise and 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 Wife. “The 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 with only a few hours to live. And mourn the adults who lived a full life: carpenters, electricians, teachers, doctors and nurses, first responders, useful members of society. They contributed while the old bat spent her entire hundred years in a medieval puppet theater. The Royal Family is just a tourist attraction, with occasional scandals.” Her voice was a warm soprano. She might also be an opera singer, I thought.
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 arrived, without his wife. “Sorry,” he said, “we couldn’t join you for dinner, we’re simply unable to eat.”
I leaned closer 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 and can’t sleep a wink. Such a tragedy, completely unexpected, the Queen dying an early death. It shook us real bad.”
We knew he was 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.
There was a sigh of relief; people with strong opinions voicing sweeping statements tend to cause uneasiness in normal people. That’s what we unambitiously like to call ourselves; we want the world to remain the same place tomorrow as today, or so slightly improved that it can’t possibly upset the applecart. 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 is an aspiration, not a cop-out. When we were born, the British Queen was already on the throne, and that continued until recently. What next?
On debarkation day, the breakfast bar opened early. 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. We stopped to say goodbye. “Great cruise,” said my wife.
“Yes, it was,” said the Silent Guy and, smirking again, added, “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?”
The Silent Wife cheerfully joined in: “Me, too.”
All in all, it was a pretty good cruise.
Copyright © 2025 by J. S. O’Keefe
