Before ten o’clock most of them were yawning with tiredness and so, by mutual agreement, they decided it was time to call it a day. They said goodnight to one another as they went upstairs, the girls on the first and second floors, and the boys, out of harm’s way, on the third floor.
‘That was good fun, wasn’t it?’ said Diane, flopping down on the bed.
‘Yes . . . I suppose so,’ replied Fiona.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked her friend, eyeing her curiously. ‘I enjoyed it. Like Dave said, it wasn’t exactly riotous living, but it was good. Yes, it was fun. Oh, come on, what’s up, Fee?’
Fiona, inexplicably, was suddenly feeling rather odd; a bit down in the dumps. She wondered if she might be homesick. It was the first time she had been parted from her parents. She had, actually, been looking forward to being away from them for a while, but she was finding the reality was rather different.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just tired I suppose,’ she replied. ‘I expect I’ll feel better after a night’s sleep. That’s what my mum always says.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Diane. ‘Cheer up now. You’re getting on well with Dave, aren’t you? I’ve noticed the way he looks at you. And I think I might be getting somewhere with Andy.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Fiona. ‘I think you are. I’m pleased about that. I shall have to watch it, though, with Dave. I really like him, Di, such a lot. But I know that we mustn’t . . . well, you know what I mean, don’t you?’
Diane nodded. ‘Yes, I expect I do. Why? Has he tried . . . ?’
‘No, of course not. But he’s been more – well – wanting more than just kissing, you know, lately. But I didn’t let him go any further . . . Oh, Diane, I feel so muddled up. That’s partly what’s wrong with me, I think. I decided I would tell Mum and Dad about him when we get back home. But then I feel that I daren’t; you know what they’re like.’
‘Yes, they’ve got quite involved with Mr Cruikshank and all that lot, haven’t they?’
Fiona nodded. ‘Your mum and dad haven’t, have they?’
‘No; they go to church, but not all the time. Just at special times like Christmas and Harvest and Easter. Mum always takes Communion at Easter, and they wanted me to be confirmed. I think they’re just as good as the folk who go to church all the time. They’re really kind, my mum and dad. Mum does the shopping for the old couple next door, and my dad does their garden. I call that being Christian, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ agreed Fiona readily. ‘But my mum and dad seem to think that they’re special somehow; that they know Jesus in a special sort of way. I feel so confused sometimes. And Mum isn’t any fun any more. I feel I can’t talk to her about anything. Actually, I asked Mr Wilkes – Colin – about all this being a Christian business,’ Fiona went on. ‘And he said that it’s God who judges us and knows what’s in our hearts, not other people, and that I hadn’t to worry. He said I just had to do what I knew was right. And that’s what I try to do.’
‘Yes, Colin’s a good sort,’ said Diane. ‘Come on, Fee. Don’t worry about it any more. Like you said, you’ll feel better after a night’s sleep.’
‘I hope so,’ said Fiona.
They undressed quickly, and after a quick visit along the corridor they got into bed without even bothering to wash. It had been an exhausting day.
‘Goodnight, God bless,’ they whispered to one another. And Fiona, despite the turmoil in her mind, fell asleep almost at once.
Seven
Fiona did, indeed, feel much better the next morning. As she opened her eyes the sun was shining through the curtains, which were not thick enough to keep out the light.
‘Are you awake, Diane?’ she called softly.
‘Yes,’ answered her friend. ‘I’ve been awake for quite a while. I’ve just been lying here and listening to you snoring!’
‘Oh, go on! I don’t!’ protested Fiona.
‘Well, maybe just a bit,’ said her friend. ‘At least I know you’ve had a good sleep in spite of all your worries. Are you feeling better now?’
‘Much better,’ Fiona answered. ‘Raring to go! Come on, let’s get moving. I don’t know about you but I feel rather grubby and in need of a bath. I’ll nip along and see if the bathroom’s free, or do you want to go first?’
‘No, you go,’ said Diane. ‘Take one of those towels they’ve provided. Nice big fluffy ones, aren’t they? All mod cons, eh?’
‘They’re making sure we don’t pinch them though!’ laughed Fiona. Printed on the towels in bold writing were the words Regency Hotel. She took a towel from the rail, picked up her toilet bag and donned her dressing gown. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, ‘but we’re quite early. It’s only quarter past seven, and breakfast’s at eight o’clock.’
They were ready in good time, both of them wearing their full-skirted summer dresses in bold floral designs. Fiona’s had a dazzlingly white collar, and Diane’s a sweetheart neckline. They had bought them together at their favourite C and A store, especially for the occasion.
They all tucked into a full English breakfast. It seemed that post-war restrictions were no longer rigidly adhered to, although ration books were still required. Bacon, sausage, fried egg, tomato and fried bread, with fragrant smelling coffee as a change from the tea they were all used to at home.
Then they all waited outside the hotel for Mike to bring the coach from his night time parking spot. At nine thirty the sun was shining brightly and warmly in a cloudless sky; there appeared to be no sign of rain. They had already noticed that the temperature was a degree or two higher here than in the somewhat chilly hills and vales of Yorkshire. Most of the girls carried a cardigan ‘just in case’, and several of the boys, dressed in grey flannel trousers and casual shirts, had decided to discard their sports jackets.
Their sightseeing tour took them across Westminster Bridge for a further look at the Houses of Parliament and Parliament Square. Mike, the driver, was very well informed – or, more likely, had been reading up about it – and he stopped the coach to pass on his words of wisdom. Big Ben he informed them, was not really the name of the clock as most people supposed, but the name of the bell, weighing fourteen tons that had been named after Sir Benjamin Hall, the chief commissioner of works when the bell was installed in 1858.
‘We knew that already, didn’t we?’ said Fiona. Mrs Wilkes had given them an interesting talk at a Youth Club meeting about all the sights they would be seeing. ‘But it’s exciting, isn’t it, seeing it all for ourselves?’
Then they were off along Whitehall with just a peek along Downing Street where the Prime Minister – Winston Churchill at the moment – resided at No 10. They saw the Cenotaph, the Banqueting Hall (from the window of which the ill-fated Charles the First had stepped out to his scaffold); Horse Guard’s Parade where a soldier in a red tunic, high polished boots and a bearskin stood on guard, not moving a muscle. Along the Mall with Buckingham Palace, a mile away, coming gradually nearer, and then back to Parliament Square along Birdcage Walk, because the main visit of the morning was to be to Westminster Abbey. The Reverend Cruikshank had insisted on this, in spite of his adverse comment that the form of worship and all the pomp and ceremony practised there would not be to his liking. Nevertheless it was a must on the agenda.
Fiona, and indeed all the young people in the group, experienced a sense of awe and wonderment as they toured the abbey with the well-informed guide. The site of the original abbey dated from the time of Edward the Confessor who died in 1066. His tomb was there in St Edward’s chapel which had become the focal point of the abbey. There were a myriad of other tombs of the great and the good. Queen Elizabeth the First; her sister Mary; Mary Queen of Scots; and other kings and queens from way back in the times when England was a Catholic country.
They were allowed a little time to wander around on their own. They remarked on how shabby and worn was the Coronation chair, the ancient throne of the Scottish kings with the stone of Scone beneath it, a
ll a part of the age old tradition of the abbey. Of particular interest to most of them was Poet’s Corner. They marvelled at the tombs, in some cases simple stone slabs let into the floor, commemorating poets such as Geoffrey Chaucer, Edward Spenser, Alfred Lord Tennyson, John Masefield, Robert Browning . . . Composers, writers and actors too; George Frederick Handel, Charles Dickens, Rudyard Kipling, Thomas Hardy, Henry Irving and Lawrence Olivier.
‘What a wealth of talent,’ observed Fiona.
‘And how their memory lives on,’ remarked Diane. Some of the names were very familiar as many of them had studied the various books and poems for their School Certificate Exam.
Most moving of all, though, was the tomb of the Unknown Warrior, surrounded by red poppies, commemorating the many thousands of soldiers who were killed in World War One and buried without being identified. They had all heard of the carnage of that dreadful war, but more poignant and meaningful to them were the memories of the more recent war. There were a few of the young people who had lost loved ones, an uncle or elder brother, and one of the lads had lost his father.
It was quite a sombre group who went out of the abbey into the glorious sunshine. Sad thoughts did not linger for long, though, as they boarded the coach again for Mike to take them to the place he had decided they would stop for lunch. This was St James’s Park, which they had passed earlier on their way to Buckingham Palace.
‘You can have an hour here,’ Mike told them as he stopped the coach on Birdcage Walk. ‘Make sure you’re all back here at two o’clock. Try not to be late because I can’t park for long. Off you go and enjoy yourselves.’
It was noticed that Rita stopped on the coach with Mike as he drove off to find a parking place. The two of them appeared to be getting on very well. Colin and Sheila, too, strode away quickly on their own, no doubt pleased to have some time to themselves.
St James’s Park was a lovely place to spend an hour, one of the quiet oases of green to be found near to the centre of London, away from the noise and bustle of the city traffic and the crowds of people. It was not all that quiet, though, at lunchtime, as it was a popular place for the office workers to take their ease and eat their packed lunches.Most of the park benches were full with the business men and women and the families who, like the Youth Club group, were holidaying in the capital. Fiona and Diane, with Dave and Andy, who had joined them on leaving the coach, found a shady spot on the grass beneath a spreading sycamore tree, near to the lake.
The hotel had provided them with a packed lunch; there were two substantial sandwiches, one of ham and one of cheese; an apple; a chocolate Penguin biscuit; a packet of crisps; and an orange drink in a carton. They were all hungry despite the large breakfast they had consumed. The provisions were soon eaten and the waste deposited in a nearby bin.
‘Come on, let’s go and explore,’ said Dave, reaching out a hand to Fiona and pulling her to her feet. ‘You don’t mind do you, you two?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Diane. She winked imperceptibly at Fiona. Things were going just the way she wanted them.
As they wandered along the path that skirted the lake Dave took hold of Fiona’s hand, and when she turned to look at him he smiled. ‘I though we’d sneak a little time on our own,’ he said; and Fiona felt a stab of pure happiness. Her odd mood of the previous night – which she had put down to homesickness and the strangeness of being in an unfamiliar place – had completely vanished.
The park lake was the habitat of a great number of water birds. Some of them were easily recognized – the Canada geese, Mallard ducks and swans – and the more unusual ones could be identified by the recognition pictures fastened to the low iron railings that edged the lake. There was a notice saying that the birds could be fed, and Fiona threw them the morsels of bread she had saved in readiness. The swans were there first, amazingly large birds when you were close to them; probably fierce ones too, judging by the savage gleam in their eyes as they fought for their share of the bounty. Of course the cheeky London pigeons were there as well, and the little brown sparrows hoping for a crumb or two.
‘Let’s go and see the pelicans,’ said Dave, ‘that is if they’ll condescend to show themselves.’ They had been told that those elusive birds lived in an island at the end of the lake, near to the Horse Guard’s Parade, the first brace having been a diplomatic gift from the Russian ambassador to King Charles 11. This particular king had loved to walk in the park and to swim in the lake, a sport that was now strictly forbidden.
They stood by the railings, peering towards the island, and in a few moments their patience was rewarded. There, emerging from the bushes was one of the peculiar and exotic birds, then, almost at once it disappeared again. There was a notice stating that visitors were requested not to feed the pelicans, but it was doubtful that you could get near enough anyway.
They walked back along the path, then turned on to the elegant suspension bridge that spanned the lake. They stopped halfway across, leaning on the railings and looking south to the view of the Whitehall skyline. Seen from a distance, the white cupolas of the War Office and the spires and turreted roofs of the Whitehall buildings seemed like an enchanted vista of fairy-tale palaces. It was a magical view, right there in the very heart of the busy commercial city.
And it seemed like a magic moment to Fiona, one she believed she would never forget, as Dave put his arm round her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. He leaned towards her and kissed her cheek, then, as she turned towards him, he kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I’m really glad I decided to come this week,’ he said. ‘Of course, it was because I knew you were coming that I made up my mind.’
‘Yes . . . me too,’ replied Fiona, suddenly feeling a little shy.
‘D’you think, when we get back home, that we could start going out together properly?’ he asked. ‘You know, to the pictures or something, not just at Youth Club and meeting after school?’
Fiona nodded slowly, but a little uncertainly. ‘Yes . . . I’d like that. I really would like to, Dave, but it’ll mean that I’ll have to tell my parents and . . .’
‘And is that such a great problem?’ he asked.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure. They’re so odd sometimes. Well, most of the time really now, not like they used to be.’
‘They’re part of Mr Cruikshank’s inner circle, aren’t they?’ said Dave. ‘The “holier than thou” brigade. I’m sorry, Fee, but that’s how I think of them. It’s as though the rest of us don’t match up to them.’
‘That’s just how I feel,’ she agreed. ‘But they’re my mum and dad, and I’m their only child, so I suppose they are rather too protective of me. They don’t preach at me – well, not very much – but somehow I sense their disapproval. You know – about wearing too much make-up and staying out late. Not that I ever do,’ she added ‘stay out late, I mean.’ Fiona knew that, deep down, she loved both of her parents and would never want to do anything to hurt or disappoint them.
‘You’re seventeen now, Fiona,’ said Dave. ‘You must learn to stick up for yourself.’ He kissed her again. ‘And I do want you to be my girlfriend. You must tell them – if you feel they have to know. And if you want to go out with me, that is?’
‘Of course I do, Dave,’ she said. ‘And I promise I’ll tell them. Anyway, we’ve got the rest of our time here, haven’t we?’ She didn’t want to think yet about going home. And she knew it was going to be a fantastic time.
‘Yes, sure,’ he replied. ‘And it seems as though we’re being allowed more freedom than we expected. It’s a good job that the Reverend Amos isn’t here!’
‘You’re not kidding,’ laughed Fiona. ‘Come on; we’d better be heading back.’
They retraced their steps, walking quickly towards where the coach would be waiting.
‘What wonderful sights have they in store for us this afternoon?’ asked Dave.
‘St Paul’s Cathedral, isn’t?’ replied Fiona. ‘Another church, you
might know. But I must admit I was very impressed by Westminster Abbey.’
‘Same here,’ agreed Dave. ‘Here we are, and we’re not the last, thank goodness.’
In a few moments they were all assembled, chattering excitedly as the coach drew up with Mike at the wheel and Rita sitting on the seat next to him.
‘All aboard,’ he called and after a quick head count they were off again.
Christopher Wren’s achievements had reached their peak in his plans for the rebuilding of St Paul’s Cathedral. Following the Great Fire of London in 1666 the medieval cathedral had been left in ruins.
Standing near to the statue of Queen Anne they gazed in wonder at the great dome, one of the largest in the world, second only to St Peter’s in Rome, and at the west front towers, one on each side that perfectly complemented the dome.
Once inside they could see that the dome was just as spectacular viewed from the nave of the church. Gilded arches led up to the dome with its carvings of apostles and painted scenes depicting the life of St Paul. Some of them climbed up to the Whispering Gallery with its strange acoustics that enabled you to hear a whisper from the other side of the dome, just as though the speaker were standing next to you. The young people were too intimidated, though, to whisper any more than, ‘Hello, how are you?’ or other such trite comments. After all they were inside a church!
There were monuments a-plenty; not so many, though, as in the smaller abbey. A bust of Lawrence of Arabia; the tomb of John Dunne, poet and a former dean of St Paul’s; and memorials to the Duke of Wellington, Lord Nelson and Lord Kitchener. The most moving tribute was the tomb to Wren himself; a simple marble slab inscribed with the words, ‘Reader, if you seek a memorial look all around you.’
They all agreed that St Paul’s Cathedral was impressive, far more grand than Westminster Abbey, but it failed to move them in the way that the more intimate feel of the abbey had done.
Not far away was the stone column called the Monument. That, also, had been designed by Sir Christopher Wren to commemorate the Great Fire. It was 2005 feet high, said to be the tallest stone column in the world. They climbed, a few at a time, up the 311 steps that led to the viewing platform at the top. The views all around were splendid. The dome of St Paul’s; the Tower of London and Tower Bridge; the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace; in the distance the hills of Hampstead and Highgate; and winding through the city the silver ribbon of the River Thames.
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