Coronation (6 page)

‘Listen to what the man is saying,’ Violet Clagg admonished the two children. ‘He’s talking about the Queen.’

The subdued voice of the commentator from within the Abbey came through: ‘In a moment you will be hearing the fanfare which will be the signal for the presentation of the Queen to the peers of the realm by the Archbishop of Canterbury—’

*

High up in the eaves of the Abbey trumpeters with one unanimous movement set their silver bannereted instruments to their lips and blew a fanfare that went echoing through the great church, shattering the silences through vault and nave. It was the signal for the Ceremony of Recognition, that exquisitely beautiful anachronism in which the queen to be crowned was made known to the nobles of her realm gathered to acknowledge her.

The Queen, attired in gold-embroidered white, was a tiny figure in a pool of light, standing on the blue-carpeted floor in the centre of the Abbey. The colour of her raiment was symbolic, for that day too she would become the bride of England, wedded indissolubly to the State, the Church and British subjects throughout the world.

This was one of those astounding moments in the history of the taming and civilising of man in which he relinquished all his great temporal power in the face of the spiritual ideal.

There stood a lone woman, as gentle and helpless as a butterfly. She had no power beyond the history and the travail of the nation she represented. There were no armies at her back. At her side stood only a benign old man in a glittering green cope, holding a cross.

The might of man appeared to be personified by the black-clad figure of the Lord Chancellor in his great and terrifying wig, the Lord High Chamberlain, the Earl Marshal, and the Garter King of Arms in his multi-coloured tabard, seeming almost to be arrayed against her, and by the vast aggregation of men and women, peers and nobles, hemming her in on all four sides.

In the stillness that followed the drifting away of the last echoes of the fanfare to the vaulted stone of the Abbey eaves was heard the old, clear, portentous voice of the Archbishop of Canterbury, as for a moment he clasped the small, white hand of the Queen and, turning with her to all that conglomeration of shapes and faces looking towards the east, he said: ‘Sirs, I here present unto you Queen Elizabeth, the undoubted Queen of this Realm; wherefore all you who are come this day to do her homage and service, are you willing to do the same?’

The shout of their reply came at once, short and sharp: ‘God save Queen Elizabeth!’

Once more the fanfare from the silver trumpets pealed down from the roof, and the Queen curtsied in a most exquisite gesture to the peers assembled.

She was so very young and graceful, and the inclination of her head and body to the gentlemen was poignantly tender, yet at the same time yielding not one iota of dignity. There was contained in this movement both appeal as well as authority, and it was this appeal which was so infinitely touching, so that those who looked upon it could not keep their throats from constricting or tears from their eyes. She was asking for their recognition and acknowledgement, for without it she was no more than a frail and vulnerable human; and at the same time she demanded this acceptance by right of birth, lineage, inheritance and the concurrence of God.

For the instant, history and tradition were alive and quivering, and one expected almost a great voice like an organ peal thundering from on high: ‘Do you, the people of Great Britain, take this woman, Elizabeth, for your lawful wedded Queen as long as you both shall live?’

Four times did the trumpets blare, four times did the venerable Archbishop voice his query, four times did the brown head incline as the small, proud figure swept her curtsy to the north, the south, the east and the west, to be acclaimed and accepted by the four quarters of the globe.

*

The hushed commentary from the Abbey emerging from the little wireless set beneath the umbrella suddenly turned into music and the nasal rasp of a man singing in French. There had been a dull portion of the ceremony from within the Abbey while the Queen was being garbed and one of the boys had simply switched to a station in France.

It brought back Will Clagg with a wrench to the truth of their situation, and he fell prey to a sudden onslaught of unreasoning rage at the shabby trick fate had played upon them, and during a surge of temper that welled up from within him he came close to charging the gate with his burly shoulders in an attempt to crash through it so that he might fulfil the promise he had made to his daughter that she should see the Queen.

The wave subsided. His workman’s eye told him that this barrier had been built to resist the pressure of thousands. Violence would accomplish nothing. Yet what were they to do and where were they to go? All of them hoped that something might yet happen to save the day. They could not escape the feeling that by their long and patient wait there they had earned something, had in some way piled up a credit or paid some kind of fee or bribe to fate which, should they leave to try their luck elsewhere, would then be forfeit. They and the other hopefuls who had stayed were veterans of that particular sector, companions in enterprise and misery. They had made a few friends there and everyone within range knew about their mishap with the tickets and sympathised with them. They didn’t feel thus like venturing into new territory. The façade of St. George’s Hospital was familiar to them, as was the Carriage Drive of Hyde Park. Every slat and board, frame and nail of the wooden barrier was known to them as well. Here they were at least a little at home.

The small door opened from the inside, causing them all to stir and rustle and move and crane their necks to look, for it was from that quarter they all hoped for their reprieve, but it was only a soaked souvenir-seller, his goods sold, his baskets all but empty, retreating to where warmth and sustenance might be found. He was a little man with bad teeth and a spiv’s cunning eyes. He wore baggy clothes and his peaked cap was pulled down over his ears. He looked with some surprise at the people gathered around the barrier and then said, without much hope or animation, ‘Souvenirs! Last of the lot. Who’ll have one cheap?’

There was not much choice in his basket – two small dolls with red, white and blue rosettes, a sodden Union Jack on a stick, several balloons and a periscope, one of those small elongated white boxes with mirrors at each end.

‘Here, wait a minute,’ said Clagg. ‘Let’s have a look at that.’

‘Just the thing, guv’ner,’ the vendor said, handing over the periscope. ‘Makes you eight feet tall. Look over anybody’s ’ead. Fun for the kiddies afterwards. Last one, guv’ner. Five bob to you.’

Will Clagg raised the instrument and applied his eye to the bottom. It might have worked inside to see over the heads of taller people, but here it just barely reached to the top of the barrier, giving a glimpse of the upper part of the archway and some foliage. It was hopeless, and of course when he held it higher he could no longer get his eye to it. The affair was beginning to assume the qualities of a nightmare, one of those dreams where one is always missing buses or trying to escape from danger in shoes made of lead.

Clagg handed the periscope back to the vendor, who grinned at him cheerfully, showing his broken teeth, and said, ‘Bit of short measure there, guv’ner. You should have growed some more. What about something for the kiddies?’

‘Shut your bloody trap! Here, let’s see what you’ve got.’ He bought a doll for Gwendoline and the wet flag for Johnny.

Violet said, ‘Say thank you to Daddy,’ and Gwendoline did, but her mind was elsewhere, on the Queen. She was wondering how ever she could manage to put all of her love into one smile and one wave when the moment came that she would see the Queen drive by in her golden carriage. She thought perhaps she would wave both hands at once.

As for Johnny he was old enough, and by now sufficiently wise to know that his Union Jack was not for waving, that it would never join the sea of fluttering pennons which would be set in motion on the other side of the barrier. Instead, therefore, he planted it upon the escarpment topping Hill No. 5 and with the survivors of his regiment prepared to defend it to the death. Below he could see the enemy troops massing for the assault. With no thought for his own safety, he marched back and forth along the line, pistol in hand, encouraging his force. ‘Stand firm, men! We’ll never surrender! Let them come, we’re more than a match for them!’

Shortly after noon, a squabble broke out among the young people who owned the radio, or rather between the actual owner, who appeared to be named Lionel, and the others. Lionel was a stringy boy with sideburns who was enjoying the dance music from France and was snapping his fingers and wriggling his hips to it. The girls wanted to come back to the Coronation.

‘Oh, come on, Lionel,’ they kept saying, ‘turn it back. We want to hear when the Queen is crowned.’

‘Ah, da-da, de-di, da-da,’ sang Lionel, clicked his fingers and bumped his hips.

The Claggs united in hating Lionel and rooting for the girls. They too wanted to hear the Coronation. Granny muttered, ‘Humph, the young people of today!’

Clagg said, ‘Young squirt! If he was mine I’d teach him something.’

‘Oh, come on, Lionel. Do turn it back. It’s time.’

The impasse was broken by the other boy, who simply pushed Lionel out of the way and twirled the knob of the little box, and once more the soft voice of the commentator came through, and all those close to the little circle bent closer to hear him say that the moment of crowning was at hand.

*

And far off in the Abbey the Archbishop crowned the Queen and, with the placing of the heavily jewelled, awkwardly balanced and weighty crown on to the light brown hair of the head bent slightly forward to receive it, set off such a peal of bells and thudding of cannon-fire as to reach to the farthest ends of the earth.

This was the moment of the priest, the intermediary between God and man, the Archbishop of Canterbury, charged with the transfer of spiritual power to the temporal hand and anointing her as God’s representative in her realm.

Yet, too, it was the gesture and movement of a good, kindly human, an old man of experience and understanding of the frailties of the body as well as the spirit. St. Edward’s crown of gold was heavy, ungainly and cumbersome. It could hurt, pressing upon the skull and forehead.

It seemed impossible almost that so many ends could be embodied in one smooth, simple gesture compounded of fatherly solicitude and the awful symbolism of majesty. There was his care and forethought for her dignity: the crown was too large for the small head beneath it, top-heavy and precarious in its seat; it must be balanced just so that it would not slip or slide or alter its position, once placed, during the long and arduous ceremony that was to follow until it was removed.

And as he lowered the shining object on to her head, he held to it for a moment yet, as though to make sure that it was comfortable and had settled firmly and securely. One felt the sigh in the heart of the old man that such a burden of responsibility should be put upon one so young, such a fearful inheritance handed on to one so gentle and frail. He was endowing her with grandeur and simultaneously bestowing upon her endless cares.

Then with a fine and paternal flourish of both hands he released it and stepped back. The great act of the Crowning was completed.

*

The sharp crack of saluting charges fired from mobile artillery stationed in nearby Hyde Park startled them all. The shots were echoed by the distant thudding of guns from the Tower of London. Bells pealed and jangled wildly from all quarters.

Will Clagg looked at his watch. It was 12.32. The cannon and the bell-ringing and the full-throated cheers from the throngs massed on the other side of the wall drowned out the little radio. He took off his hat and let the rain fall on to his head. ‘The Queen has been crowned,’ he said. And for a moment it didn’t matter that he was standing bareheaded behind the barrier. He felt a pride and a thrust of gladness through his heart that he was there.

Violet Clagg murmured, ‘God bless her,’ and dabbed at her eyes with a sopping handkerchief with which she had been wiping the moisture from her neck.

Granny Bonner sniffed and said, ‘Good luck to her.’

Those gathered around the wireless set cheered too, and Johnny waved his flag. But Gwendoline cried, ‘Daddy, is she coming now? Daddy, I can’t see anything!’

‘No, no,’ Clagg soothed, ‘not yet, Gwenny. There’s lots of time still. We’ll be there when she does.’ But he didn’t know how.

*

Granny Bonner’s feet were beginning to hurt her in her wet shoes. Her thighs ached from standing. She was hungry. Her hair was soaked. But of all things she was wishing that it would rain even harder and that somehow before the day was done even more dreadful things would happen to them than had already occurred.

For the truth was that she was having the time of her life and expected to collect from exposure to the weather such a catalogue of ills, aches and pains as would keep the Clagg family in total subjugation to her for the next six months.

Indulging Granny’s miseries was a part of the ritual of living at the Claggs. To hear her tell it, she suffered from rheumatism, arthritis, sciatica, hardening of the arteries, stiffening of the joints, inflammation of the tendons, and anything else she happened to read about in the newspaper advertisements for patent medicines. One had to ask her in the morning whether she felt better, and before going to bed at night whether she thought she was going to be able to sleep. The Claggs never questioned her right to these ills, since she was an aged person and so entitled to them.