A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II

by Michael Paterson

  Waiting inside was a congregation of more than 8,000 people that included the prime ministers of the Commonwealth countries. In the streets were two million spectators. The service – all seven hours of it – was watched on three million televisions in Britain by up to 27 million viewers, four-fifths of the population. Many people bought the first television their family had owned in order to see the ceremony. Others landed themselves on friends and relatives to sit clustered in front of the screen, just as a generation earlier they had sat around the wireless to hear George VI crowned. Celebrations were held throughout the Commonwealth and the Empire and beyond. Within the community of British nations, cities were decorated with bunting and filled with marching troops and parading dignitaries. There was, in those days, no question of seeing the service live on television overseas, but it could be heard on radio and – in the days afterward – viewed as a full-scale film. Narrated by the actress Anna Neagle, this was to be watched in cinemas all over the globe. In the Irish Republic, which had severed its links with the Crown some years earlier, it was withdrawn from picture-houses after bomb threats by extremists, but it was viewed surreptitiously in church halls by largely Protestant audiences. It was an event that raised morale throughout the world, and even countries without any British connection became involved. Brazil, neither a former colony nor a member of the Commonwealth, made the sovereign a present. It was a necklace and a pair of earrings of diamonds and aquamarines, and it was no mere official gesture. It was a gift from the Brazilian people, not their government, and it had taken them a year to assemble the stones. They were later to add a matching bracelet – a most generous offering from a generous nation. The Queen would wear these jewels on her state visit to the country 15 years later.

  For the hungry there had been good news. Rationing of eggs was ended and – to the delight of the youngest of Elizabeth’s subjects – so was that of sweets. Everyone was allocated an additional pound of sugar to allow the making of cakes. The Coronation really seemed as if some magic wand had been waved and the world transported back – for just a few hours – to pre-war days.

  The queen had arrived wearing an elaborately embroidered dress but she re-appeared, as custom dictated, in a ‘linen shift’ – effectively the plain, short-sleeved white shirt of a medieval peasant, in order to present an image of simplicity and humility. On top of this, as the ceremony went on, was placed her long, velvet-and-ermine robe (embroidered in gold, in frantic haste, by a team at the Royal School of Needlework) and then she was given the accoutrements of office: the orb, the sceptre and the amulets (a gift from the Commonwealth). The holy oil with which she was to be anointed was unavailable, having been lost in wartime bombing, and a similar concoction had had to be mixed at Savory and Moore, the perfumers in Bond Street. Last came the St Edward’s Crown itself, a replacement dating from the Coronation of Charles II for the original that had disappeared at the time of Cromwell.

  It weighed seven pounds – in addition to the 17 pounds of her robes. She was so heavily burdened that, after being crowned, she had to be lifted and steered gently to the dais by the Archbishop of Canterbury and others. It had been suggested that the crown be made lighter for her, but with her characteristic stoicism she had insisted that if her father had worn it so could she. To an extraordinary extent it symbolises the history of the nation and Empire. One of its stones – a sapphire – is reputed to have belonged to the Abbey’s first builder, Edward the Confessor. Another was owned by Mary, Queen of Scots. Another – the Black Prince’s Ruby – was actually worn by King Henry V at Agincourt and again by Richard III at Bosworth. A fourth was worn in exile by King James II. The crown even incorporates the pearl earrings of Elizabeth I. It was as if the sovereign were wearing on her head a summing-up of British history and national greatness, which of course she was.

  Her husband, also in ermine-lined velvet robes but dressed as an Admiral of the Fleet, was the first secular figure to pay her homage. Her mother and sister were both present, watching from a gallery nearby. Her son, not yet five, was there too although he had not been considered old enough to watch the whole of the lengthy proceedings, and had been spirited in only for the most important phase. Her daughter, less than three, was altogether too young and had been left at home, where a children’s party was going on.

  The ceremony included a beautiful prayer that asked: ‘The Lord give you faithful parliaments and quiet realms; sure defence against all enemies; fruitful lands and upright magistrates; leaders of integrity in learning and labour; a devout, learned and useful clergy; honest, peaceable and dutiful citizens.’ Curious as it may seem from a later perspective, there was a widespread feeling in Britain that the start of this reign marked the beginning of a New Elizabethan Age, that the nation was on the cusp of an era to rival the Tudors. The phrase – mere journalistic hyperbole – was seen and heard everywhere, and sent many people in search of similarities and coincidences. It was viewed as significant not only that the two queens shared a name but that they had both come to the throne at the age of 25. A very distinct echo of the Elizabethan age of discovery – and a bright augury for the future – was heard with the news, released on the morning of the Coronation, that Everest had been climbed by an expedition led by one of her subjects (a New Zealander) and that the Union Flag had been planted on the summit.

  For the banquet that followed the ceremony Prue Leith, the doyenne of English cooks, devised a dish that she called Coronation Chicken. The chicken was covered in a creamy mayonnaise sauce with mild curry powder and was a rich gold in colour. In later versions it also had sultanas and sliced almonds. It has been ever since a much-loved sandwich filling and is ubiquitous on supermarket shelves all over the United Kingdom. Despite the perishable nature of its ingredients it has proved the most enduring as well as the most popular Coronation souvenir.

  The whole event was extensively reported in newspapers all over the world. The tone – with the predictable exception of the left-wing press and Communist countries – was indulgent, fulsome and awestruck. Nowhere outside the Arabian Nights was there such splendour. A feast of colour and pageantry, ancient ritual and popular celebration, all carried out with characteristic understatement and perfect timing. The fact that the new sovereign was a demure and beautiful young woman added immensely to the charm of the event, as it had when Victoria was crowned 115 years earlier. It was also a moment of national affirmation for, although Elizabeth’s country had survived the war, its Empire was fast unravelling. Britain was no longer rich enough to belong to the Great Powers Club. Before the conflict had even ended, the US dollar had ousted sterling as the world’s most important currency, and America and Russia had simply elbowed Britain aside and gone on to dominate the world between them. The British people needed the rhetoric of the New Elizabethan Age to bolster a confidence that was otherwise seeping away. With the Coronation the United Kingdom was able, for a few hours or days, to lead the world in something, to compel international attention and respect, to foster envy in others. It emphasised all the things that money could not buy nor sudden poverty negate – breeding, heritage, long-developed self-assurance that could so easily shade into a smug belief that ‘no one can do these things like we do’. It was what the Festival of Britain two years earlier was supposed to have been – a signal that Britain had recovered from the war and was once again a happy nation, its technology and culture leading it back to prosperity.

  It might have come as a pleasant surprise, to those who regretted Britain’s ousting from pre-eminence by America, to learn that at least 40,000 Americans came to London for the Coronation and that berths aboard the Atlantic liners were all-but-impossible to obtain. In addition to these, an estimated 55 million – almost a third of the population – watched the ceremony on television in the USA. It was not possible to show it live, but the Royal Air Force flew over the BBC tapes so that it could be screened within hours. Among transatlantic guests at the ceremony were George Marshall and Omar Bradley, towering fig
ures in the recent war, and Jacqueline Bouvier who, as Mrs John F. Kennedy (she married him that year), would go on to be seen as her own country’s equivalent of royalty. More unusually there was George Davis, a native of New Hampshire, who owed his invitation to a casual meeting with the Queen two years earlier, when he was standing outside Clarence House and Prince Charles ran over to show him a picture book; part of royalty’s fairy-tale appeal is the way in which ordinary people can be swept up in its doings through chance.

  Once the Coronation was over, the next event was a tour of the Commonwealth. This was to be a massive undertaking. It would last six months, from 25 November 1953 to 15 May 1954 – the Queen’s children would not see their parents for all that time – and would cover a total of 43,618 miles. Some countries, such as Australia and New Zealand, had not been visited since before the war. With smaller territories it could not be assumed, given her busy schedule, that the Queen would have time to go there again during her reign. This might be their only glimpse of her.

  The journey took in the West Indies, Australia, New Zealand, and parts of Asia and Africa. In the course of this it is estimated that she listened to 276 speeches and 508 renditions of ‘God Save the Queen’. Although she set off aboard the SS Gothic she would travel, at least some of the distance (the homeward stretch from Malta), in the Royal Yacht. This vessel had been planned and begun before King George’s death, but had been completed after Elizabeth’s accession, and was launched by her. She had decided to discontinue the name Victoria and Albert (there had been three of these), ignored suggestions that The Elizabeth would be appropriate, and chose Britannia. At 412 feet in length and weighing 5,862 tons, the yacht was the size of a small warship and as luxurious as a country house – on which, in fact, the interiors were modelled. The yacht had a State Dining Room that could seat 56 (and doubled as a cinema), as well as a drawing room, separate sitting rooms for the Queen and the Duke, accommodation for the Household, their staff and the crew, and a ‘barracks’ for the Marine band that accompanied them on official visits. This was a vessel worthy of the New Elizabethan Age, a leviathan that could cross the world’s oceans and bring the refinement – and the magic – of Buckingham Palace to distant continents. It provided a perfect setting for the monarch when overseas, and enabled her to return hospitality in suitable style.

  On her return, the Prime Minister came aboard Britannia off the Isle of Wight and accompanied the Queen to London. The sight of the Royal Yacht steaming up the Thames and beneath Tower Bridge, with the sovereign and the Premier on board, has become one of the most glorious images of her reign. Visible to the crowds on the banks as a tiny, waving figure, she gave no sign of fatigue despite having to remain in that position for over four hours.

  At home, there was a simmering problem. Princess Margaret had been for some time involved in a relationship that was considered unsuitable. Group Captain Peter Townsend had been an Equerry of her father’s. He was a Battle of Britain fighter pilot, and King George had wanted one of these men attached to his staff as a tribute to their courage. Townsend was a success with the family. He was charming, modest, efficient, and had a pleasant sense of humour. He fitted in so well that he rose from temporary Equerry to Deputy Master of the Household, a position for which, at 36, he was young. Margaret was 16 years his junior and had first met him when aged 13. Idolising her father, she perhaps found it natural to admire an older man, and her girlish affection matured into a serious regard. In the small world of the Court they could not have avoided each other, and he accompanied the family on its tour of South Africa. By the time of Elizabeth’s Coronation they were deeply attached. What is surprising is that her family remained unaware of this burgeoning romance until Margaret announced her wish to marry him. They had not seen it as unusual that she spent long periods of time with him, often alone.

  With his war record, his easy charm, integrity and familiarity with the ways of the Court, Townsend would have made a highly successful consort. Even in the 1950s there might have been no strenuous objection to the Queen’s sister marrying this presentable commoner, but for the fact that Townsend was divorced. He was the wronged party, and his marriage had been a hasty wartime one, but this made no difference. The Anglican Church, of which the Queen was Head, could not sanction such a high-profile union involving a divorcee. It was also considered, within the Royal Household, that as a Court official he should not have had the presumption to allow this friendship to begin and to develop. Prince Philip disliked Townsend and had the ear of the Queen, who had the power to veto the marriage, for under the Royal Marriages Act she must approve all spouses. With such powerful disapproval and opposition, the relationship was not likely to flourish. The matter was kept from press and public but by a quirk of fate a journalist, Audrey Whiting, spotted Margaret, who was outside the Abbey following the Coronation, make some adjustment to – probably flicking off a speck of dust – the uniform of an RAF officer, who was soon identified. It was a gesture of such obvious intimacy that the game was up.

  The press unearthed the whole story of their friendship. Margaret was a somewhat spoiled young woman who was used to wheedling until she got what she wanted. She had expected her mother and sister to side with her because they had both remained relatively passive when she had told them of the situation. She came to realise, however, that this was because both of them wished to avoid confrontation and were hoping that somehow the problem would solve itself. Townsend was transferred to Brussels as Air Attaché to get him out of the way. He remained there for two years, but this was not a distant exile and the press was able to speculate that the couple were still in contact. When he returned, public speculation was at fever pitch. Whatever the view of the Court, a good deal of public opinion supported Margaret’s right to marry the man she loved, yet if she did so she would have to give up all the privileges of her rank. She would find herself living with a husband whose salary could not possibly keep her. Both parties discussed the future and decided that it was not viable for them to remain together. The Archbishop of Canterbury, on whom Margaret called at Lambeth Palace, was brusquely told he could put away all the arguments he had been marshalling to persuade her to reconsider. She had already done so. She issued a simple statement that read, in part: ‘I have decided not to marry Group Captain Townsend. Subject to my renouncing my rights of succession, it might have been possible for me to contract a civil marriage, but . . . conscious of my duty to the Commonwealth, I have resolved to put these considerations before all others.’ All her life, Margaret was attached to the privileges that went with being royal. Without them she would have been miserable, and this influenced her choice. Nevertheless her decision to put duty before her own wishes was an uncanny echo of the abdication crisis of 1936, although with the opposite outcome.

  The Townsend affair was the beginning of the modern era in terms of Royalty and the media. The scandal surrounding Edward VIII had not been reported because the press had agreed to gag itself. George VI, Queen Elizabeth and Princess Elizabeth had given reporters nothing to feed upon. Now there was a story that enabled the public to look inside the private lives of the Windsors, to take sides, to criticise. Coming at a time when respect for all authority was declining, this showed that no institution could take for granted the goodwill of the public, or hope that its faults would not be analysed and commented upon. It represented a sea change in the attitude of a press that had deferred to the throne since the 1870s. Even though both parties in the relationship behaved honourably – their self-restraint and self-discipline in the face of a painful separation were deeply impressive – their private lives were seen as public property.

  The Coronation had awakened a sense of pageantry as well as patriotism, and the Royal Family was able once again to provide a focus for this. The Queen attended Trooping the Colour dressed not – as she had been in the 1940s – in a dark blue uniform with a peaked cap, but in a magnificent scarlet cutaway coat in the pattern of the 18th century and faced with the buttons o
f whichever regiment was parading its colour that day. She wore a dark blue long skirt and a low, black hat of unique design on which the regiment’s cap-badge and plume were displayed. She also wore the medals to which she was entitled through her wartime service, and it is easy to imagine how proud of these she would have been for, unlike the Order of the Garter that she also wore, she owed them not to her position but to having performed the same duties as thousands of other young women. She sat side-saddle, a thing she never did when riding for pleasure but which gave her an appropriate dignity. When going to and from this event along the Mall, she looked straight ahead and remained expressionless. Those among the watching crowds who came from more exuberant cultures often wondered why she did not smile or even acknowledge their presence, and may have interpreted her apparent aloofness as disdain. The answer was, of course, that she was a soldier on duty, attending a parade. Throughout the ceremony itself she sat stiffly to attention, unable to show the least sign of fatigue or – in the June heat – discomfort, and she saluted smartly. Everything about her had the customary sense of patient dedication to detail. One senior officer remarked gruffly that ‘she’s the only woman I know who can salute properly’, but of course she would have trained as hard as any man on the parade ground.