by Paul Gallico
‘Go home?’ she repeated. ‘And disappoint the children? Nonsense! I came here to see the Coronation and that’s what I’m going to see. We’re as damp as we can be now. We can stand.’
They all stared at her in astonishment and none more startled than her son-in-law. Granny somehow looked a little less grim and forbidding. A small measure of the dignity of refusal to be defeated by adverse fates had come into her small grey figure.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Clagg. ‘Do you mean that, Granny?’
‘Mean it? Of course I do, and don’t stand there talking and wasting time, Will Clagg, when we ought to be going along to find some place where these poor children can see something.’
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Clagg repeated, and then his spirits suddenly lifted. ‘Good for you, old girl. Who would have thought it? What do you vote, Vi?’
‘If you don’t think the children will get too wet.’
‘They’re wet as they can get now, but dry enough inside, I’ll wager. What’s a little bit of rain, eh? Come on then, off we go.’ He took his daughter’s small hand in his huge thick paw and said, ‘You’re going to see the Queen just like I promised you.’
There was no problem as to which direction they should take. They were like punters pulled up at the side of a fast-moving stream; they had only to push themselves out into the current to be carried along. And on they went now, hopeful, cheered and united again, prepared to put the best face possible on the matter and save what was left of the day.
Suddenly, however, they found their progress slowing as those in front of them came almost to a halt; others continued pushing, threatening to compress them.
Then from ahead there arose a shout from the crowd, which turned into a great roar of protest, and, standing for a moment on tiptoes to enable him to look over their heads, Will Clagg saw to his horror what was happening and what had aroused the outcry.
Some fifty yards beyond where they were, police had linked arms to form a living wall behind which, for a moment, they contained the surging crowd, and into the space thus won at the back of them a solid wooden barrier, seven feet high, was being swung across the road from each side on hinges to meet in the centre, where it was locked and barred into place, as immovable as the wall that Hadrian had built against the Picts and Scots. These barriers had been erected across the streets and avenues at key points leading into the procession route around the entire perimeter of the area, enabling the police completely to seal off the Coronation district when, in their judgment, it was no longer safe to permit further crowding. They had been thrown wide early in the morning to permit buses and cars through, as well as to admit the spectators who had been streaming thither steadily since before dawn. Now the order had gone forth to bar further entrance. Only at the centre of each was a small door, guarded by two constables within and one on the outside, to permit the passage of those who had tickets or passes, or others authorised to enter or leave the Coronation area, such as messengers, vendors, photographers, pressmen, doctors, etc.
There was no mistaking what had taken place, and, if Clagg had not been aware, the change in mood and temper of the crowd would have told him. There were cries of anger and the police came in for some plain speaking. For the second time that day Clagg felt his heart sinking helplessly in his breast. ‘Oh Lord!’ he cried. ‘We’re too late!’
‘Go on,’ said Granny, ‘don’t stop. What are you waiting for?’ She was too small to see what had happened.
‘There’s no going on,’ Will said. ‘They’ve closed the gates. We’re shut out.’
Yet there was still some movement forward, though it had turned sluggish, and the Claggs were swept along with it as those behind pushed forward, intent upon arguing with the police. They soon met the counter-thrust of those returning from the barrier with disappointment written on their faces. They were saying, ‘It’s no use. They won’t let anybody through.’
‘You tell the police what happened to us and they’ll let us by,’ said Granny.
Clagg was not so sure, but knew that he must try.
Ten yards away from the barrier where the policeman was standing the struggling pack of humanity ground to a halt.
‘Wait here,’ Clagg said to them. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ And now, using his broad shoulders and powerful frame, he shoved through. The crowd, which had once seemed friendly, co-operative and hospitable, was no longer so. It took him minutes by sheer strength and drive to reach the constable at the small portal giving ingress to the barrier, and he was bathed in sweat when he arrived there.
Panting, half-blinded by rain and perspiration running into his eyes, he said, of course, quite the wrong thing for a start: ‘Look here, officer, we’ve got to get through.’
The officer replied in a monotone like the tape recording of the time on the telephone, ‘No more permitted through. Sorry, you’ll have to go back. No more permitted through.’
‘But I had tickets,’ Clagg shouted at him.
‘Tickets,’ echoed the constable. ‘Very well, let’s have a look at them, then,’ and to those who were nearest and almost on top of him he said, ‘Would you mind giving way and letting this man by? He’s got tickets.’
But of course Clagg had no tickets, and he now inwardly cursed himself for ever having been so stupid as to turn them over. Detective or no detective, at least he might have held out one or two.
‘Well?’ said the constable.
Clagg became flustered. ‘I said I had tickets. I haven’t got them any more. One of your busies took them from me. They were counterfeit. Twenty-five guineas each. I brought the whole family down from Sheffield. There was nothing but a bombed-out house there,’ he finished lamely.
It all sounded very fishy to the constable, who not only was young but not a Londoner. He had been imported from the West as an auxiliary to assist in the enormous job of controlling the city during the Coronation. ‘What’s all this,’ he said, ‘pushing through here saying you had tickets and then you haven’t any? Acting like that won’t get you anywhere.’
Two couples threaded their way through, holding up pasteboards. ‘Step aside, please,’ the constable said, ‘and let these people by as has got tickets,’ and his tone was heavily pointed.
In that bitter moment Clagg recrossed the awful gulf between the privileged and non-privileged. His magic talisman had been taken from him. Now that he no longer had it he was just like all the rest, to be pushed and buffeted about. As the four ticket-holders passed through, Clagg had a glimpse through the gap at the vast sea of people on the other side, or rather the backs of their heads; he could look down Piccadilly and see the trees in Green Park; then the barrier closed again.
Helpless once more in the face of the situation, Clagg could do nothing but growl, mutter and mumble and avoid looking at his family, who had now managed to join him, and then tell the story of the fraudulent seats to those nearest him. Several of them only laughed, obviously disbelieving, but some of them knew that he was telling the truth; their sense of fair play was outraged and they even shouted at the constable that it was a shame and he ought to let the Claggs through, which of course made him all the more determined to stick to his guns and his duty.
Gwendoline said suddenly, ‘I’m tired, Daddy.’ Clagg picked her up in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder contentedly and trustingly, and immediately went to sleep.
They would have gone away then, and probably found their way back to St Pancras and home, or might even have managed somewhere to connect with a television set, had it not been for the inevitable rumours, one after the other, that went sweeping through the ranks of those barred from entrance, keeping hope alive.
When the first protests and attempts to pass the barrier had proved unavailing, the crowd had begun to thin and change as disappointed ones left and new ones arrived, but retained a kind of permanent core who stayed there because of bits of so-called inside information which seeped through to them: the gates would be thrown ope
n once more within an hour; within two hours; within three. As soon as the press of people on the other side had distributed itself, more were to be permitted to enter. No, the gen was that immediately after the Crowning those that had remained outside would be allowed in.
There was no truth in any of these rumours, but they continued to multiply or gain fresh impetus whenever newcomers would arrive or at the emergence of someone from within. Every time the small door opened there would be a buzz and stir in the crowd as they caught a glimpse of the packed throng on the other side. They also saw that a space had been cleared by the police just inside the door, which furnished fuel to the hopes that they were preparing to admit them. There was even one report that when the constable guarding the portal was changed, an ‘all right’ chap would be coming on who would know how to close an eye and see that deserving parties managed to get inside. These quickly circulated bits of hearsay kept this knot of people standing there in the rain waiting and hoping, hour after hour through the morning. And among them were the Claggs.
They had nowhere else to go except home, defeated. As long as there seemed a chance of getting in at this point, they had to remain. And unfamiliar as they were with the manner in which false stories could circulate through a crowd, Clagg believed that here was their best opportunity rather than to go wandering about the fringe of the Coronation area in the city that was unknown to them.
And perversely enough, things did happen which made it appear as though they were about to win through. Such as the time when the door opened and two police sergeants, stiffly saluted by the P.C. on guard, came out. They stood for a moment regarding the knot of people and conversing in low tones. Hearts began to beat in anticipation, eyes again came alight with expectancy; there were shouts of ‘What about it Sergeant?’ It seemed so obvious that they were looking the situation over preparatory to giving orders to have them admitted. But they only turned their backs and without even speaking to the constable returned inside again. Yet even while immediate hopes were dashed, how could one know that, having looked the situation over, they would not make their report within, after which action in favour of those waiting would be taken? At least so the grape-vine had it, and the Claggs stayed on.
Gwendoline awakened, lifted her head from her father’s shoulder and asked sleepily, ‘Is the Queen coming?’
He put her down with aching arms. Her mother pushed some damp locks away from her forehead and said, ‘Not yet, luvvy. Have another little nap.’
Granny said, ‘Why don’t you tell her? She isn’t ever going to see her.’
‘I can’t,’ replied Will Clagg in agony.
For the first time Johnny Clagg became aware of the true nature of the situation. ‘Aren’t we going to see anything?’ he yammered.
Clagg had to lie to him. ‘Not yet. Maybe later.’ He wondered whether with the little money he had on him he might bribe the policeman to let them through, and simultaneously knew that never in a million years would he be able to approach the constable with such a proposition, nor in as many aeons would the man ever accept it. In the meantime the rain continued to fall and in the distance there was a pealing of bells.
And just when all euphoria occasioned by the incident of the police sergeants had been drained away, there occurred another diversion: a party of young people arrived, well bundled up against the weather, three girls and two boys just out of their teens. They had with them an umbrella, a small portable radio and a packet of sandwiches. With that extreme and happy disregard of youth for what goes on about them, they had apparently never heard of or read the long complicated rules laid down by the authorities governing pedestrian and vehicular movement on Coronation Day, and blithely demanded admission of the harassed constable. Denied it, they made no protest but, sheltering the wireless beneath the umbrella, switched it on and formed themselves into a circle to listen.
The voice of the commentator inside Westminster Abbey came through. Those standing nearby, including the Claggs, moved closer to hear and soon there was a ring of listeners gathered about the young people. They and their portable set were a centre of attraction, and this made them happy.
The contact furnished by the voice emerging from the little speaker brought the Claggs back to life again. They were filled with gratitude for it and it seemed as though things had suddenly taken a turn for the better and they listened eagerly. It didn’t strike them that they might have been hearkening to the same commentary in the warmth and comfort of their own home.
‘Listen to what the man is saying,’ Violet Clagg admonished the two children. ‘He’s talking about the Queen.’
The subdued voice of the commentator from within the Abbey came through: ‘In a moment you will be hearing the fanfare which will be the signal for the presentation of the Queen to the peers of the realm by the Archbishop of Canterbury—’
*
High up in the eaves of the Abbey trumpeters with one unanimous movement set their silver bannereted instruments to their lips and blew a fanfare that went echoing through the great church, shattering the silences through vault and nave. It was the signal for the Ceremony of Recognition, that exquisitely beautiful anachronism in which the queen to be crowned was made known to the nobles of her realm gathered to acknowledge her.
The Queen, attired in gold-embroidered white, was a tiny figure in a pool of light, standing on the blue-carpeted floor in the centre of the Abbey. The colour of her raiment was symbolic, for that day too she would become the bride of England, wedded indissolubly to the State, the Church and British subjects throughout the world.
This was one of those astounding moments in the history of the taming and civilising of man in which he relinquished all his great temporal power in the face of the spiritual ideal.
There stood a lone woman, as gentle and helpless as a butterfly. She had no power beyond the history and the travail of the nation she represented. There were no armies at her back. At her side stood only a benign old man in a glittering green cope, holding a cross.
The might of man appeared to be personified by the black-clad figure of the Lord Chancellor in his great and terrifying wig, the Lord High Chamberlain, the Earl Marshal, and the Garter King of Arms in his multi-coloured tabard, seeming almost to be arrayed against her, and by the vast aggregation of men and women, peers and nobles, hemming her in on all four sides.
In the stillness that followed the drifting away of the last echoes of the fanfare to the vaulted stone of the Abbey eaves was heard the old, clear, portentous voice of the Archbishop of Canterbury, as for a moment he clasped the small, white hand of the Queen and, turning with her to all that conglomeration of shapes and faces looking towards the east, he said: ‘Sirs, I here present unto you Queen Elizabeth, the undoubted Queen of this Realm; wherefore all you who are come this day to do her homage and service, are you willing to do the same?’
The shout of their reply came at once, short and sharp: ‘God save Queen Elizabeth!’
Once more the fanfare from the silver trumpets pealed down from the roof, and the Queen curtsied in a most exquisite gesture to the peers assembled.
She was so very young and graceful, and the inclination of her head and body to the gentlemen was poignantly tender, yet at the same time yielding not one iota of dignity. There was contained in this movement both appeal as well as authority, and it was this appeal which was so infinitely touching, so that those who looked upon it could not keep their throats from constricting or tears from their eyes. She was asking for their recognition and acknowledgement, for without it she was no more than a frail and vulnerable human; and at the same time she demanded this acceptance by right of birth, lineage, inheritance and the concurrence of God.
For the instant, history and tradition were alive and quivering, and one expected almost a great voice like an organ peal thundering from on high: ‘Do you, the people of Great Britain, take this woman, Elizabeth, for your lawful wedded Queen as long as you both shall live?’
Four times
did the trumpets blare, four times did the venerable Archbishop voice his query, four times did the brown head incline as the small, proud figure swept her curtsy to the north, the south, the east and the west, to be acclaimed and accepted by the four quarters of the globe.
*
The hushed commentary from the Abbey emerging from the little wireless set beneath the umbrella suddenly turned into music and the nasal rasp of a man singing in French. There had been a dull portion of the ceremony from within the Abbey while the Queen was being garbed and one of the boys had simply switched to a station in France.
It brought back Will Clagg with a wrench to the truth of their situation, and he fell prey to a sudden onslaught of unreasoning rage at the shabby trick fate had played upon them, and during a surge of temper that welled up from within him he came close to charging the gate with his burly shoulders in an attempt to crash through it so that he might fulfil the promise he had made to his daughter that she should see the Queen.
The wave subsided. His workman’s eye told him that this barrier had been built to resist the pressure of thousands. Violence would accomplish nothing. Yet what were they to do and where were they to go? All of them hoped that something might yet happen to save the day. They could not escape the feeling that by their long and patient wait there they had earned something, had in some way piled up a credit or paid some kind of fee or bribe to fate which, should they leave to try their luck elsewhere, would then be forfeit. They and the other hopefuls who had stayed were veterans of that particular sector, companions in enterprise and misery. They had made a few friends there and everyone within range knew about their mishap with the tickets and sympathised with them. They didn’t feel thus like venturing into new territory. The façade of St. George’s Hospital was familiar to them, as was the Carriage Drive of Hyde Park. Every slat and board, frame and nail of the wooden barrier was known to them as well. Here they were at least a little at home.
The small door opened from the inside, causing them all to stir and rustle and move and crane their necks to look, for it was from that quarter they all hoped for their reprieve, but it was only a soaked souvenir-seller, his goods sold, his baskets all but empty, retreating to where warmth and sustenance might be found. He was a little man with bad teeth and a spiv’s cunning eyes. He wore baggy clothes and his peaked cap was pulled down over his ears. He looked with some surprise at the people gathered around the barrier and then said, without much hope or animation, ‘Souvenirs! Last of the lot. Who’ll have one cheap?’