Coronation (8 page)

Clagg hardly saw the fellow. He was someone in a fawn mackintosh with a cloth cap pulled down over his face to keep out the rain. There was a pair of eyes and a bit of scrubbly moustache, and then he found that he had cupped his hands and the man had put a foot in and with the ease of a gymnast had swung himself up on to his shoulders, whence he leaned down and called, ‘Now then, boost up the girly! Give us your hand there, luv. That’s it! Up she goes. Just like a front seat at the Palladium!’

They were three high now, like acrobats in a circus, except that Gwenny was able to steady herself by gripping his head while the stranger held her legs firmly on his shoulders. Gwenny was now two heads higher than the wall and able to look over it at the bewildering kaleidoscope of colour and movement on the other side.

From beneath, applause and a cheer went up with cries of ‘Well done! Good work! That’s more like it! What about that, constable?’

The policeman merely stood there looking sheepish; he could recall nothing in the regulations about this and, besides, he didn’t wish to; he was relieved to be clear of the situation for the moment.

Over the vast sea of heads now frothed with waving handkerchiefs, flags and pennants, Gwenny stared and stared. Her little mouth was open and her pale cheeks flushed. Once she raised her hand tentatively and waved it.

Below, the others, and among them Granny Bonner, were shouting and cheering and waving just as though they were actually seeing the Queen go by and could be seen by her. Violet Clagg was weeping again, both with emotion and disappointment. Somehow even she had not been able to believe that the day could go so utterly and hopelessly wrong.

Clagg had made himself into a foundation of steel supporting the two on his shoulders, but his heart was soft with gratitude. A small piece of prayed-for miracle was happening. He had made a mess of things, he, Will Clagg, who too had dreamed of paying homage to the Queen. He had got himself imprisoned like a huge booby behind a wooden wall. But at least one promise had been kept. His daughter was no longer blind.

From her vantage-point Gwenny turned for a moment and looked down upon her mother, granny and brother. Her eyes were enormous and filled with wonder. The streaks of tears were still on her cheeks, but she no longer wept. Someone called up from below, ‘What’s she like?’

The child said, ‘I saw her.’

Another voice said, ‘That’s nice. Tell us about it.’ And someone else laughed.

‘She waved to me,’ Gwenny announced. She turned back once more to view the scene and suddenly began to wave her hand wildly, though at what or whom nobody could tell. The cheering was already beginning to spread northwards along the road leading through Hyde Park.

‘Hoy!’ the same voice which had enquired before shouted up from below. ‘What’s happening now?’

Gwenny’s eyes were now even larger with excitement. She called down, ‘There was another one who waved to me, but she was fat and all black like my Topsy.’ Somebody murmured the name of Queen Salote and there was more laughter.

In the excitement of the moment everyone had forgotten about Johnny Clagg, a small nondescript boy in a too long navy-blue mackintosh (Granny’s idea so that he could grow into it) stained dark with the day’s rain, his soggy school cap perched on the back of his head. There he stood, half-pint size, two eyes, two ears, a nose and mouth atop a soaked, coloured scarf, compelled to watch his younger sister favoured, hoisted to a vantage-point from whence she could see the Queen and everything else that was going on.

Yet he had hardly noticed Gwenny being lifted up to the top of the barrier, for with the burst of cheering and the rumbling of the golden coach that heralded the approach of the Queen, Johnny Clagg had departed astrally from his envelope and from the side of Granny and his mother. He had melted through the barrier, changed his costume and now, clad in cuirass and helmet with chin-strap, with shining sword at his shoulder, he rode a coal-black steed as Captain Clagg of Her Majesty’s Household Cavalry in command of the troops riding beside and protecting the golden coach.

Keen eyes alert, all of the senses including the sixth keyed up to the occasion and his responsibilities, Captain Clagg was prepared and ready for any eventuality.

Hah! What was that? A sudden stir! A movement in the front rank of the crowd at the kerbside! An arm and a hand pointing something that glittered in the sun that had just broken through the clouds, and above it a face with dishevelled hair, wild rolling eyes and a broken, snaggle-toothed grin!

A maniac! An assassin! The pistol aimed full at the royal pair as they drove by. Faster than lightning was the movement with which brave, vigilant Captain Clagg hurled himself from his horse. A mad howl from the crazed killer, a flash, a report! Slowly Captain Clagg sank to the pavement. The bullet intended for the Queen had lodged in his breast. The maniac was struggling in the hands of the police, but the danger was over. The Queen was saved!

But Captain Clagg knew that his wound was mortal. Already kind hands had raised him to a sitting position and a doctor, kneeling at his side with his little black bag, was shaking his head saying, ‘Alas, there is little we can do for him.’

The crowd about him suddenly stirred and broke, and Captain Clagg heard cries of ‘Make way! Make way for Her Majesty the Queen!’

And the next moment the Queen herself in her silver gown, the gold- and diamond-studded crown upon her head, and still clutching her golden sceptre, was kneeling at his side and pillowing his head upon her breast, unmindful of his life’s blood ebbing away through his wound.

He heard her low, sweet voice throbbing with suppressed emotion, querying, ‘What is the name and rank of this brave man who has yielded up his life for mine?’

The next moment there was the Duke of Edinburgh bending over him too, saying, ‘Gallant Captain, noble soldier! You have saved my wife; you have saved the Queen; you have saved the nation!’

Captain Clagg gazed upward into the exquisite eyes of his monarch, from whence a tear fell and splashed upon his cheek. A Queen’s tear! More priceless than any diamond in her crown. ‘I die happy, Your Majesty,’ breathed Captain Clagg.

A herald in stiff tabard resplendent with scarlet and gold made his way through the crowd and, drawing himself up, announced, ‘Your Majesty! In obedience to your command I have been able to ascertain the following: that brave man who lies dying there is none other than Captain John Clagg, formerly of the Primary School, Little Pudney, Sheffield. His proud parents are William and Violet Clagg. Mr Clagg is connected in an executive capacity with the No. 2 Furnace of the Pudney Steel Works. He also has a grandmother, a Mrs Bonner, who was always predicting that he would come to no good end. How she will rue her words when she hears of his noble sacrifice, for had it not been for his keen eye and quick wit Your Majesty would have been–’

The herald could proceed no further, for he was overcome with emotion at the contemplation of the terrible tragedy that had been averted.

The Queen now arose and from her breast she removed the blue riband and diamond star of the Order of the Garter and laid it on Captain Clagg’s form. Then with her golden sceptre she touched his shoulders while she spoke these ringing words, ‘No, by my troth! Plain Captain Clagg no longer. Die if you must, then, gallant soldier, for Elizabeth the Second and your country, but die
Captain Lord Clagg, First Baron Pudney
!’

Someone in the crowd now proposed three cheers for His Lordship and they were given with a will. The Queen bent over and tenderly kissed his brow, while her royal consort pressed his hand. Captain Clagg felt his senses swim with joy!

At this point Johnny became aware that his mother was tugging at his hand, breaking into the quandary in which he found himself as to whether he should go on and die decently, as apparently they all expected him to do, and have a tombstone with a fine inscription – ‘Saviour of the Queen’ – set up over his grave, or whether he should recover miraculously to continue life as Baron Pudney, favourite of the Queen.

‘Shout, Johnny!’ cried his mother. ‘The Queen is coming by! God bless and save our gracious Queen!’

The sweetness of the daydream faded. Grown-ups were always breaking into one’s reveries. Lord Clagg of Pudney was filed away for future adventures when he should be alone in his bed at night, and Johnny shouted dutifully, ‘God save the Queen! Hurrah for the Queen!’ He was back behind the barrier again, a wet, hungry, tired, trampled upon, disappointed Johnny Clagg who had come all the way from Sheffield for nothing. He remembered then that there would be no summer holiday either, no shrimping along the sand, no building of beach castles, no exploration of tidal pools in the rocks, no roundabouts, not anything. He turned his face away so that the others would not see and commenced quietly to cry.

The hoof-clatter of the great percherons and the rumble of the royal coach were no longer to be heard. They had given way to the clippety-clop and a dry rolling of lighter carriages. The wave of cheering in the vicinity had likewise receded; it had raced ahead along the tree-lined avenue of East Carriage Drive and could be heard thundering in the distance.

Gwendoline turned around and said, ‘I want to get down.’ Hands reached up to help. She slid down the frame of the stranger and that of her father until her feet touched the ground. Then she ran to her mother and threw her arms about her and buried her face in her skirt.

The man still perched on Clagg’s shoulders didn’t yet himself attempt to descend. Instead he called down to Johnny Clagg, ‘Hoy, young feller, what about a look-see for you?’

Johnny shook his head and kept his face turned away from them. It was not dignified to go crawling up a stranger to sit on his shoulders. It was all right for Gwenny, who was a little girl, but not for him, and particularly as he was aware of a small lingering residue of his beautiful day-dream, not the thing for Lord Clagg, First Baron Pudney. And besides, it was too late. All the soldiers would have gone by. Johnny, keeping his face averted, shook his head again. The man placed his hands on Will Clagg’s shoulders and leaped lightly to the ground.

‘Thanks,’ said Will Clagg and stuck out his hand. His legs were weary to the point of exhaustion from the weight, but he was filled with such a turmoil of emotion and gratitude that he could find no more to say. He was aware of an unthinkable impulse to embrace the nondescript-looking stranger with the pulled down cap and scrubbly moustache and call him brother. Instead he could only repeat, ‘Thanks,’ and then said, ‘If you ever find yourself Little Pudney way, outside Sheffield—’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ the stranger replied. ‘I didn’t want to see you get into trouble. I could tell you were from the North.’ He nodded with his head in the direction of the constable. ‘That clot isn’t a London copper. Glad to oblige.’

There was an instant’s commotion from inside the barrier, and all those who still remained outside stirred once more as though perhaps there was to be a reprieve in the last moment for them to see at least the tail end of what was going by. From within, a whole section of the barrier gate was swung open, sufficiently to let a horseman through.

He was the most magnificent, awesome and inspiring figure that Johnny Clagg had ever seen. He was dressed in a navy-blue uniform frogged and piped with black, as were the stripes upon his sleeve. Rows of medals and coloured ribbons gleamed upon his breast and on his shoulders were golden epaulets. His face, stern, rugged, aquiline, reminded Johnny of pictures he had seen of the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. His hair was silver grey and on his head was perched a black cocked hat from which tumbled a cascade of gallant white rooster feathers. He was mounted on an exquisite white mare. She had a pink nose and anxious eyes. The dark skirts of the coat of his uniform fell on either side of her flanks. His black boots were gold-spurred.

Johnny Clagg saw him first as a vision through his tears and then, as he hastily wiped them away, more clearly as a gorgeous apparition in a uniform he didn’t recognise, and he prided himself that he could identify on sight every regiment in the United Kingdom. But he was not a Lancer nor a Hussar, not a Dragoon nor a member of the Household Cavalry. Yet in his person and his bearing he embodied all that Johnny had come to see that day. The uniform which Johnny failed to recognise marked him as an Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Will Clagg stepped forward and placed his hand upon the horse’s bridle and heard himself shouting, ‘What’s it to be? Are you letting us in or aren’t you?’ He had been roused beyond control by the age-old antagonism between the man on foot looking up and the man on horseback looking down. If to the son the figure epitomised all the glamour and splendour and power and command, to the father he stood for the arrogance of privilege, the lord against the peasant. The outburst was pure atavism.

Appalled, the constable on guard at the small door leaped for Will with a ‘Here, here!’ but the Assistant Commissioner held up his hand to stop him from seizing the man at his bridle. From the vantage of his perch on his white horse he could look down into the cluster of anxious, angry, tear-stained human faces, and guess at once that at hand was what might be called a situation.

‘What is the trouble here, constable?’ he asked. The calm courtesy of his voice brought Clagg to his senses and he let go the bridle and stepped back.

‘They’ve been badgering me all day to let them through, sir,’ the constable said. ‘Orders were to let no one in without proper credentials. I’ve only tried to do my duty, sir.’