Coronation (7 page)

Thus she wished for thunder, lightning and hail, Ossa piled upon Pelion, did Granny, for the sake of the delicious concessions she would wring from Will Clagg, now already reduced to a worm’s level by the catastrophe that she had had the good fortune to forecast.

True, the old lady also would have liked to have had a glimpse of the Queen for the very reason that her son-in-law had pointed out: she would then have seen two of the great queens of England, one deceased, the other crowned, and remained herself the living link between them. But over and against this disappointment was balanced the perverse delight she would take in telling the story of Will’s idiocy. She was aware that, had all the promises of the day been kept, and she had sat in her window-seat, or even managed to stand along the route of procession with the throng, she would only have seen what everybody else saw. And what was there to tell in that? The narration of this misadventure and of its undoubted consequence would take hours to unfold and would last her as a tea-time topic to her cronies at Morecambe and Little Pudney to her dying day.

In the meantime, with no objections from either Will Clagg or Violet, who was suffering from the collapse of her husband’s ego as well as everything else, Granny had elected herself captain of the children. She was bossing them unmercifully, yanking at their clothes, pulling them about one moment, commiserating with them the next, fondling and spoiling them with loud and pointed remarks about poor babes brought upon such an expedition, and doling out the small ration of chocolate she had brought along and which was all they had to quiet their hunger.

The wireless was still their link with the solemn ceremony continuing in the Abbey, and Lionel, succumbing to the will of the majority, was content to leave the instrument tuned to the B.B.C., and in fact was now basking in the attention of all those crowded around trying to hear and in the reflected glory of owning the set. From the expression on his face one might have thought that he had invented radio communication.

Thus they heard from that great church to which the voice of the commentator transported them momentarily, how the peers of the realm came and knelt at the feet of the woman who a few minutes before had undergone the mystical change that made her for ever a person apart from them all.

Not only did they kneel, but they performed a gesture symbolic of submission. They folded their hands in an attitude of prayer and placed them between hers, and by so doing bound themselves to her in loyalty everlasting.

Led by the Archbishop of Canterbury, followed then by her own husband and the father of her children, Prince Philip, great names remembered from centuries of history bent the knee before her, grey heads bowed and paid their homage. Empty and archaic the ceremony might have seemed in this day and age, but there was still an exquisite and throat-catching beauty connected with it.

But the procession of peers entitled thus to swear their fealty seemed endless as the lesser ones took their turn, and Lionel said, ‘Ah, it just goes on like that. Come on, let’s go.’ This time he found acquiescence among his friends. He turned the dial again. Debussy emerged from the box and to his dissonants the five of them all moved off, to the regret of those remaining, for with them went their one contact with the Coronation.

What chocolate the Claggs had with them had been consumed by the children. There was no sign of any change in the order of the day or of the gates being opened to admit them. Standing there had become a habit. No one had the initiative to leave for fear they might miss something, and when inevitably the children made known their need to go to the lavatory, the Claggs proceeded to do so in relays. Fortunately they were in reach of the underground public convenience at Hyde Park Corner. Violet went first with Granny and Gwenny. Then Will trailed thither with Johnny. When they returned, somewhat refreshed, they simply continued to stand. It was as though they were all under some kind of spell which fixed them into eternity to that spot.

Will Clagg, it is true, made a half-hearted attempt to break out of the cocoon of inertia that surrounded them, but he was too beaten morally to make a job of it. He mumbled something to the effect that maybe they had all best go home and get into something warm and dry. No one answered him. To Violet home was the end of the adventure, such as it was, and, as for Granny, the day of suffering was only half over. There were still four or five hours of discomfort and misery to be banked for the future. She was in no hurry to call it off.

There was no way of knowing whether Clagg would have pursued the subject in spite of being ignored, for at that moment – and it was then shortly after two o’clock – came the sound of the
thump-thump-thump
of distant drums and the wind-wafted
oompah
of the military brasses. The procession was on its way.

The effect was immediate, electric and revivifying upon all those caught behind the barrier. The martial music stiffened their backs and brought new life into eyes dulled with fatigue and weariness. They began to chivvy the constable. ‘Come on now. Are you going to let us through or not?’

The young policeman, himself moved by the distant sounds, grinned uncomfortably. It felt as though something ought to be happening, yet the situation had not changed. ‘I got no orders to do so,’ he reiterated. ‘I can’t see no more myself than you can.’

‘You’re pyed to stand there. What abaht those kiddies come all the way from Sheffield to see the Queen?’

The constable turned his back. Nearer and nearer approached the first of the bands, thumping, shrilling and blaring forth a blood-stirring military air. The music waxed in brazen volume as the marchers emerged from the canyon of Piccadilly and burst into the square, turning the corner with the squealing of fifes, braying of brasses and the solid beating of wet drum-skins. ‘Boom, boom, boompety-boom’ went the rhythms and in one’s mind’s eye one could picture the proud drummers in their leopard aprons twirling their sticks over their heads before they brought them down to crash once more into the sides of their instruments. ‘Tee-boom, tee-boom, tee-boom!’ Cymbals crashed, shivered and shimmered, shaking the air with their vibrations.

To the thrilling swing of the music was now added the endless
throp-throp-throp-throp
of marching feet and the mournful, high-pitched, long-drawn-out cries of command from the officers to right wheel as they turned around the triangle past Hyde Park Corner, divided and passed through the arches leading to the East Carriage Drive.

From then on, none of those remaining behind the barrier thought any more of leaving. The sound filled their ears, heated the blood in their veins and shook their bones. It was tantalising to the point of madness, but there was no escape from it. Without realising it, they were settling for half the loaf. If they could not see, at least they could hear. Several of those near the Claggs close to the little door were jigging up and down in time to the music. It warmed them and pleased them. In a way it was like listening to the radio as band followed band, and if there were not the tread of marchers then there would be the rhythmic clopping of the hooves of cavalry horses on asphalt streets, accompanied by the merry, metallic jingling of harness and accoutrement.

They heard the heavy trundling roll of artillery pieces hauled by half tracks and motor lorries, and later the characteristic clanking rumble and thunder of the tanks. Music never ceased now. Fife and drum calls interspersed with the brass of the military bands, to be replaced by the drone and squeal of the pipers, or the bugles and kettle-drums of Lancer or Hussar.

Sometimes there would be a pause and to the listeners penetrated the
whap-whap-WHAP
of arms being grounded as the parade came to a temporary halt. Then the cries of the officers would come floating across, fading into the distance, each command igniting the one behind it. Again there would be the slap and rattle of rifles being shouldered, another mournful call and the threshing rhythm of trained feet stepping in unison.

In this manner, regiment by regiment, the sounds made by the armed might of Great Britain and the Commonwealth on parade crested the wall, while overhead the bombers and fighters of the Air Force added their blasting, crackling roar of the fly-past to the grand military symphony.

And through it all a small boy, hidden and unnoticed by those packed closely about him, endured torment unspeakable.

For this was what Johnny Clagg had come for, a glimpse of those uniformed and glittering marchers on the other side of the barrier. For this he had willingly surrendered his cherished holiday. Never again during his childhood would all of the soldiers, sailors and airmen of what had once been the greatest empire the world had known be gathered to march together.

They were passing by now, steel-helmeted, pith-helmeted, bearskin-topped, capped or cuirassed, in uniforms of white, blue, green, khaki or scarlet with skins of every shade from northern white to golden tan to tropic black.

Besides the smashing British regiments where Johnny’s heart lay, there would be Fiji and Solomon Islanders, brown men from Borneo, Jamaica, Ceylon, Malay and Somaliland, regiments from Sarawak, the Bahamas, Kenya and Pakistan and the West, East and South of Africa. He should be looking upon contingents from Hong-Kong, Papua New Guinea, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and Rhodesia. When ever again would a boy be able to gaze upon the famous green-uniformed Gurkhas with their
kukris
, or the red coats and stetsons of the equally famous North-West Mounted Police?

With them would be rolling the mechanical monsters to enchant the heart of a boy, all the enthralling hardware of war: howitzers with black, gaping mouths, anti-aircraft cannon pointing admonishing fingers to the sky, Long Tom rifles capable of hurling an atom charge, machine-gun and mortar batteries, Bren-carriers, half tracks, field and mountain artillery, flame- and rocket-throwers, and the great land battleships, the monster tanks. All these were passing by now while Johnny stood silent and shivering in the cold and rain.

Will Clagg dared not look at his son. Another day, he promised himself, he would take him to the pictures, where he would see in colour, to be sure, what he was missing now. Yet the father knew that it wouldn’t be the same, could never be the same for the child as seeing it accompanied by all the noise and thundering of reality.

And if his son was suffering, what must yet be endured by the child who touched his heart the most, for whom he had the softest feeling because she was his daughter? What could he do when the time came for which he knew she waited – the passing of the Queen? What would he say to her? For over a month, ever since the trip had been planned, her whole life and being had been bound up with the excitement of this moment. Now he felt his own anguish to be almost unbearable.

He was holding his daughter in his arms at this point, her head resting on his shoulders, and he risked a glance at her. Her eyes were open, but her thoughts, he could see, were turned inwards as they so often did when she would retire from the external world. It was as though she knew that none of this crashing and bashing and zinging and tootling had anything immediate to do with her desire. The Queen –
her
Queen – was still far off. She was waiting.

It was shortly before four o’clock in the afternoon when the miserable rain which had been pelting down all the day stopped. Rents appeared in the heretofore solid, gloomy, grey canopy of cloud, and the sun showed itself intermittently. The skies lightened and so did the spirits of all. The momentary appearance of the sun, the instant of pallid warmth upon the cheek, was accepted almost as an omen. Surely this was a harbinger of better things and times to come? Yet the barrier remained firmly closed.

A new sound intruded; made itself felt as well as heard. It began like that distant compact roaring that one hears when one puts one’s ear to a sea-shell, but rising in pitch and intensity, swelling in volume and coming ever nearer. The Queen was approaching at last. It was the time her schedule called for her golden carriage to pass Hyde Park Corner. And the greater the crescendo of the nearing torrent of cheers the more quiet fell upon those still remaining behind the wooden barrier, as every ear strained to hear what could not be seen.

The great tidal wave of sound poured up Piccadilly, its crest leaped Wellington Place and echoed from the buildings of Hyde Park Corner and Knightsbridge. And against the background of this awesome flood another sound could now be distinguished, the steel-shod tread of heavy horses and the rumble of a great lumbering springless coach.

At that point Gwenny began to scream, ‘Daddy, Daddy, she’s coming! I can’t see! I can’t see anything!’

Flesh, blood and a human soul could bear no more. Will Clagg shouldered his way to the foot of the barrier and the young constable standing there. ‘God’s truth, man, ain’t you got no ’eart? This baby’s travelled nearly two hundred miles sitting up all night to see the Queen. Stand aside before I knock you there!’

Roaring cataracts of sound overwhelmed the clatter of the approaching golden coach, engulfing them all. Pierced by the anguished crying of the child, confused and worried, the constable braced himself for trouble. Now under duress and threat of violence it was impossible for him to give in and let them through. The wave of cheering that was shaking the earth unnerved and rattled him further; he stood erect, throwing his arms across the door, barring it.

Will Clagg made a fist like a knotted club and drew it back, when he felt his elbow caught and a voice at his ear said, ‘ ’Ere now, mate, take it easy. Knocking P.C.s about will get you nothing. We’ll fix up the kiddy. Give us a leg up on to your shoulder.’