The one rehearsal we attended with her took place in Buckingham Palace. The Queen, who took everything in her stride, asked a great many pertinent questions of the Duke of Norfolk, always keen for the answers. She wandered up and down the White Drawing Room with all of us following behind, wearing a curtain draped over her as a substitute train.
By now, we had had a rehearsal each day for ten days, always wearing our black suits, so it was terribly exciting when my dress arrived. All six Maids of Honor had the same design by Norman Hartnell, made from ivory silk with gold embroidery. The dresses weren’t lined, which meant the underside of the embroidery was uncomfortably scratchy. They had also been made extremely tight. But, despite this, they looked sublime and we were all delighted. The headdresses were also beautiful: gold and pearl, similar to those made for the Queen’s bridesmaids at her wedding five years before.
Although I had tried on the dress many times, the first time I wore it for any length of time was for the final rehearsal in Westminster Abbey. The Duke of Norfolk told us all to wear them but to cover them up so the design could stay a secret. Unfortunately, at the end of the rehearsal, I walked down the steps and the breeze blew my shawl, revealing my dress. I didn’t realize at the time that photographers were lurking on the steps until the next day when a photograph of me was splashed over the front pages of the newspapers, with headlines such as, “She Didn’t Know It Was a Secret.” I was horrified, instantly convinced the Duke of Norfolk would ring me up and sack me. To my relief, there was no such telephone call and the Duke never mentioned it.
A few days before the Coronation, my sisters came up to London to stay with Ga, who did her best not to let them feel left out. The flat wasn’t big enough for us all and, being preoccupied with the rehearsals, my mother left it too late to book a hotel room—every one in London was booked. Instead, we stayed with my Great-great-uncle Jack, in his flat conveniently located off Berkeley Square, not far from Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately, it only had one bedroom, which my mother took. I had to sleep on a mattress on the floor and poor Uncle Jack had to move out altogether. He was used to taking the rough with the smooth: as Lord in Waiting to Queen Mary, he had followed her around her country residences, reluctantly hacking down trees and ivy, as she instructed him with great enthusiasm.
While I was sleeping on the floor, at the eleventh hour Moyra Hamilton’s mother was frantically painting brown gardening sandals gold for her daughter, having been unable to find gold sandals that fit Moyra’s large feet.
The day before the Coronation, a page from Buckingham Palace delivered a diamond brooch in the shape of the letters ER, designed in the Queen’s own handwriting, with a little note from the Queen inviting me to wear it on the day. I felt another rush of excitement, fully aware of how lucky I was to be a part of history.
That night I hardly slept—I was far too excited and nervous, and my sleeping arrangements were no help. I watched the light of dawn peep into the flat and light up my dress, which was hanging in the corner of the room. After hours of lying alone, imagining what the next day would be like, going through all the instructions in my head, worrying about making a mistake, the morning was upon me and a surge of activity began.
By 5 a.m., the small flat was crammed with people, putting ridiculous amounts of makeup on me and my mother to make sure we looked normal under the bright television lights. In daylight, we both looked extraordinary with blusher as red as our lipstick and great dark eyebrows, rather like George Robey, whom we all knew for playing pantomime dames. When the hairdresser arrived, she insisted on curling my hair, which took ages, and when I looked in the mirror I was appalled, thinking, Oh, my heavens, I look like a sheep!
Outside the day was gray. Rain had been falling all night and the temperature was brisk—the weather report saying that, at 54 degrees Fahrenheit, it would be the coldest June day in a century. The wireless broadcast quickly turned attention back to the preparations, the commentator John Snagge stirring up excitement by telling us that thousands of people had spent the night on the streets and were already claiming their spots on the procession route.
As my mother and I changed into our dresses, John Snagge reminded all the listeners to stay tuned while also declaring the time that the live BBC television broadcast would start.
The thought of so many millions of people watching was simply terrifying. I was too nervous to eat anything. Meanwhile my mother left for Buckingham Palace to have breakfast there before joining the Countess of Euston in one of the carriages processing to the Abbey.
A few minutes after she had left, a car arrived to take me to Westminster Abbey. The journey was one of the most surreal fifteen minutes of my life. London was an extraordinary sight, the streets full of tremendously cheerful people sitting or standing in the pouring rain. After the doom and gloom of the post-war years, it was an especially incredible sight to behold. The news of Edmund Hillary reaching the summit of Mount Everest earlier that morning made the day all the more remarkable and added to the excitement. “Hillary’s got to the top of Everest!” proclaimed the waiting crowds. When the car pulled up to the Abbey, the crowd cheered and, nervously, I got out and was quickly ushered through the door of the specially built annex.
The Abbey was relatively empty when I arrived, the blue carpets being brushed, the Duke of Norfolk engrossed in the final preparations, while the thousands of seats all the way up to the ceiling lay empty of occupants for another hour or so.
Richard Dimbleby, the BBC commentator, had been there since dawn, surveying the Abbey from his seat in the triforium, as had the choir boys, who were fidgeting in theirs. I could feel their nervous energy, aware of how close yet how distant the reality of the day ahead seemed.
Rosie Spencer-Churchill and Jane Vane-Tempest-Stewart, who had been deemed the grandest pair of Maids of Honor, had been chosen to go to Buckingham Palace to be part of the Queen’s procession. The rather less grand four of us stood together watching as the Abbey filled. Although we were offered seats there were so many very old men all dressed up—some of them more or less in full armor—we felt we had to give our chairs to them.
There were five processions to the Abbey, converging into one after the ceremony, consisting of Commonwealth Prime Ministers, members of the Royal Family, and the Regalia peers, all wearing their uniforms and colorful robes. The Abbey had been beautifully lit, the television lights creating a feeling of sunlight despite the dreary weather outside, so the stained-glass windows shone, and the light danced on all the embroidery and jewelry.
People spoke in hushed tones, and we watched as more and more arrived, the Abbey filling—thousands of people filing through the doors. It was like a scene from a medieval tapestry. There were so many different things going on: people were adjusting their robes or fussing with other people’s; coronets were being used as an alternative to a handbag, with everything from sandwiches to small sewing kits appearing and disappearing into them; they were not to be put on until the moment when the Queen was crowned.
Cecil Beaton sat up in the rafters, drawing sketches and taking photographs, while the choir sang the Litany just before 10 a.m. With an hour to go, the atmosphere mounted, the buzz of anticipation tangible.
Then the Dean of Westminster, with his sepulchral face, the canons, and other clergy processed from the altar to the Great West Door, delivering the Regalia to the annex. Each piece was placed on a special table, one after another: the Chalice, the Scepter, the Orb, King Edward’s Crown, all under the care of the Lord Great Chamberlain with his handsome profile, and his nine-year-old page, Viscount Ullswater, who stared unblinking as the Regalia spread across the table.
By now the State Procession was fully underway. The Queen, in the Gold State Coach, pulled by eight grays, was scheduled to arrive at exactly 11 a.m. having left Buckingham Palace with the Duke of Edinburgh at precisely 10:26 a.m., surrounded by a thousand guardsmen, including the mounted Household Cavalry troops, among them Johnnie Althorp, who was on hor
seback as Equerry to the Queen.
My mother arrived, as did the Mistress of the Robes, “Moucher,” Dowager Duchess of Devonshire. Her daughter-in-law, “Debo,” Duchess of Devonshire, was wearing an eighteenth-century scarlet velvet robe over an ivory silk dress with a low scoop neckline, which my mother had told me the Duchess had found in a trunk at Chatsworth and had belonged to Georgiana Cavendish, the 5th Duchess, who had been known in her time as the “Empress of Fashion.” Despite it being two hundred years out of date, it didn’t look at all out of place in a setting and on an occasion that felt timeless.
Outside, the crowds in the specially built stands cheered louder and louder every time guests arrived; the higher their profile, the more enthralled the crowds became. When Winston Churchill, dressed as a Knight of the Garter, arrived at the Abbey, the crowd erupted, and a great roar went up when the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret got out of the Irish State Coach. The Queen Mother glided in with Princess Margaret, who wore an embroidered light gold dress, and they both looked as if they’d come straight out of a fairy tale. A guard of honor from the Grenadier Guards took up their position in the Vestibule and the Duke of Gloucester strode past with his family, looking as serious as he was rotund.
When Rosie and Jane arrived, all six of us waited together just outside the annex steps, ready to receive the Queen. We had been given vials of smelling salts, which we each stored in our long white gloves. Unfortunately, when the Archbishop of Canterbury came up to us all, Rosie had shaken his hand rather too hard and somehow broken her vial. Out came this appalling smell.
“Good heavens!” the Archbishop exclaimed. “What on earth have you done?” at which we were all overcome by a fit of giggles. He didn’t think it at all funny, wiped his hands with a hanky, and disappeared off.
When the crowd started cheering nonstop, a wall of sound coming from the direction of Victoria Embankment, we realized the Queen was approaching. Although I had known the Royal Family from an early age, seeing the Queen’s golden coach appearing from around the corner, I felt as if I was dreaming. The crowd really accentuated this feeling and the cheers reached a crescendo as the coach stopped. In that moment it felt as though the whole nation was bursting with excitement.
The pages came forward to open the coach’s doors while the Duke of Edinburgh got out of the other side, rushing around all of us, checking that everything was in order and generally being very fussy. I think he wanted it to be the most perfect day for the Queen and thought he was helping, but we knew exactly what to do and his frantic behavior only added to the tension.
The Queen looked absolutely ravishing. She had the most wonderful complexion and her eyes were glistening, and finally we, and the nation, set eyes on her Coronation dress under her Parliamentary train of crimson velvet, which, by now, we were very familiar with. The dress was exquisite: designed by Norman Hartnell, of ivory silk, covered with embroidery of the rose, the thistle, and all the different emblems of the British Isles and Commonwealth.
I have often been asked whether the Queen seemed nervous. She didn’t: she was as calm as she always is. She knew exactly what to do. She had seen her father being crowned, and although she had been quite young, I am sure she would have remembered everything.
Once the Queen had got out of the carriage, we gathered up her crimson train, using the silk handles as the velvet rippled over our hands. The Duke of Norfolk stood on the steps of the Abbey in his ducal robes, just as he had done in May 1937 at the late King’s Coronation. He had greeted the young Princess Elizabeth that day, and now, sixteen years later, he was receiving her as Queen Elizabeth II. After greeting the Queen, the Duke stepped back and the six of us waited behind her while the Duke of Edinburgh went inside and put on the robes of a Royal Duke, and the peers carrying the Regalia got ready. The Duke of Norfolk had worked out it would take the Queen fifty-five seconds to walk from her spot, marked by a single red thread stitched into the blue carpet, to the Gothic Arch, at which point the trumpet fanfares would start.
It was fifteen minutes from when the Queen arrived to when she walked into the Abbey, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. As I stood behind her, I felt so unbelievably lucky. There I was, just happening to be the right person, in the right place, at the right time, quite literally attached to the Queen. Before she set off, a hush fell around the Queen, who stood in front of us, ten yards away from the Great West Door. Then she turned to us and said, “Ready, girls?”
We nodded and off we went after her, disappearing into the Abbey. This was a very nervous moment because as the Queen set off we realized that she walked slightly slower than the Duchess of Norfolk, whom we had practiced with for so many weeks. All of a sudden we were having to adjust our pace, but as we were all so in tune with each other, having walked together through so many rehearsals, we adjusted as one.
Fifty-five seconds later, when the Queen reached the Gothic Arch, the State trumpeters sounded, and the congregation stood up in unison. As we followed the Queen up the aisle, the choir sang Hubert Parry’s almost seven-minute-long anthem, “I Was Glad,” the choir boys now focused and resonant, their voices ringing out the glory of the occasion.
Over the years, I have relived this historic day by watching the film footage and I often find myself noticing new things. Inevitably, I find myself holding my breath, hoping that I, or someone else, won’t make a mistake. Even though I know there won’t be any catastrophic errors, there is still a sense of relief when it comes to an end and I can breathe again, much as I did on the day itself.
There was actually one moment during the ceremony that could have led to disaster. The service had started perfectly, with the Archbishop presenting the Queen to the congregation in the Recognition—during which the Queen curtsied to all four sides of the Abbey, a beautiful gesture and a rare one (though she does bow twice to the peers at the State Opening of Parliament). From there, the Queen took the oath, and was presented with the Holy Bible before the most solemn part of the service began: the anointing. The anointing is considered the most vital part of any coronation, because, without this sacred moment, the new King or Queen cannot be crowned. So significant and so holy is it that, despite the traditional canopy set up around her, held by four Knights of the Garter, the cameras were diverted so she was hidden from view, with only a handful of people, including me, able to witness it.
Afterwards, the television cameras were allowed back and the canopy removed. As the choir sang “Zadok the Priest,” the Queen was de-robed by the Lord Great Chamberlain, with help from the Mistress of the Robes, and a simple white dress put on over the Coronation dress. As I and the other Maids of Honor stood back in two rows near one of the Abbey pillars, watching the Queen as she walked towards the altar and the throne, I began to feel dizzy.
Fortunately, I was in the second row, so I was slightly hidden. Next to me stood the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, who was dressed from head to foot in black velvet and held a rod that looked like a billiard cue. He and the other Maids of Honor were looking intently at the Queen as I tried very hard to ignore the dizzy feeling that was rapidly clouding my vision.
Just as the sacred consecration was about to start, I began to sway. Conscious that I risked ruining the ceremony, I broke my vial of smelling salts. To my despair it didn’t seem to have much effect. Neither did wiggling my toes, which I was doing frantically. I just had one thought, I must not faint, I must not faint, because I knew there were millions—billions—of people watching. I held on to the thought, I can’t faint in front of the entire British Empire.
As I was swaying, Jane Vane-Tempest-Stewart noticed and so, luckily, did Black Rod, who calmly and discreetly put a firm arm around me, encouraging me to use the pillar next to us to steady myself. Goodness knows what was going through the poor man’s head. Black Rod was Lieutenant-General Sir Brian Horrocks, a war hero several times over, described by Eisenhower as the most “outstanding British general under Montgomery,” and there he was, hoping against hell h
e could stop me from fainting and causing a scene. Whatever battles he had helped win in the desert in the Second World War, he certainly saved my day. He held me there until I recovered, much to our mutual relief.
Adrenaline must have kicked in because the rest of the ceremony wasn’t marred by my wondering whether I would collapse. Time ran away with itself as the Queen was robed in a cloth of gold, then presented with spurs that, as a female Sovereign, she would never wear. We stood in the same place while the different blessings and presentations took place, ending with the Lord Great Chamberlain fastening the snaps on the Queen’s robes, then standing bolt upright, showing off his handsome profile once more.
After the Queen had received the Regalia, it was time for the Archbishop to crown her. In one movement, the 8,006 people in the congregation rose to their feet. This was the moment the world had been waiting for. I am certain that every hair stood on end, every person held their breath, as the Archbishop held King Edward’s Crown high above the Queen’s head, his arms outstretched. As soon as the Archbishop placed the crown on the new Queen’s head, the distinct silence that had fallen broke, replaced by “God Save the Queen!” ringing out in a wave of jubilant cries. There was a flurry of movement as all the peers and peeresses put on their coronets in a sweeping gesture.
Fanfares of trumpets added to the continuous cheers. Outside, the crowds shouted too, and the salutes could be heard, fired by artillery, the low boom of gunfire in the distance.
The rest of the service was a blur. After the enthroning and the homage, a full communion service commenced, and I remember singing “All People That on Earth Do Dwell” with particular enthusiasm before the recess when we made our way to St. Edward’s Chapel. Inside the Chapel, the Queen took off St. Edward’s Crown, which weighed over four and a half pounds. That must have been a relief. There, she changed from the Robe Royal into her train of purple velvet, and the lighter Imperial State Crown—the one she wears at the State Opening of Parliament.
Lady in Waiting Page 6