A family wedding 200 million shared

THE Primate of England said the exact, true thing. He spoke in the most famous shrine in the land, in Westminster Abbey, the place of kings and Prime Ministers and poets.

He said: ‘ This service is in all essentials the same as it would be for any cottager who might be married this afternoon in some small country church in a remote village in the Dales. The same vows are taken, the same prayers are offered, and the same blessings given.’

Then the Archbishop talked to the young girl who will one day be Queen of England and to the young man who will be her Prince Consort.

He spoke in quiet tones and simple terms as a kindly father would. It made no difference to the intimate homily that the crowded congregation of 2,000 people shared it. We should rejoice that, by the marvel of radio and television, perhaps 200,000,000 others outside the Abbey heard and shared it, too.

In the Abbey, the congregation listened so intently it nearly breathed with the preacher as he paused and dropped his eyes towards his notes.

The King and Queen and Queen Mary were there. The sovereign heads of other famous and ancient states of Europe were there, too.

So were the Premiers, the Ambassadors and the Great Men, and all the rest of those who make a part of the living history of our times.

The Church, as well as the State, was on parade. But the mood of this historic service was still more in accordance with, say, Sandringham Parish Church than with the Abbey of fabulous legend.

Not the arrogant trumpets or the bobbing plumes of the Gentlemenin-Arms, nor even the vast surging roar of the crowds outside could somehow make this a Royal Wedding. It was a family wedding. And all the wonderful, sprawling, mixed-up village called London was there to take a hand in this family affair.

There, bustling by, goes a jovial, red-faced brigadier with three decks of campaign ribbons. Today he is an usher and is doing a most considerate and popular job organising all these bodies in and out of the right seats.

I can imagine when, as Colonel of the County Regiment, he filled the enlisted ploughmen with dismay saying with equal joviality: ‘Well chaps, the jolly old Hun is dug-in on that hill, and we are jolly well going to dig him out! What! Fix bayonets!’

We are in our seats a good hour before the service is due to begin. This part of the proceedings is rather like a first night before the curtain goes up.

Everybody knows everybody, and all seem to be friends of the family — or, anyway, friends of friends of the family.

In front of me sits Noel Coward. Elsewhere I see Lord and Lady Brabourne, who is Earl Mountbatten’s eldest daughter. There is not very much decoration in our church on this great occasion, and certainly no ostentation.

The family has put on a very fair show, but these are hard times. I think Sir Stafford Cripps, Chancellor of the Exchequer, would approve of the arrangements.

No banners hang from those grey, lofty pillars which go stretching away up into a dim Gothic stratosphere.

Most of the colour is in the body of the church and comes from the gay hats of the ladies in the congregation.

All eyes, however, are upon the central stage, which is the carpeted Sacrarium, five steps high.

Here, the Archbishop will perform his sacred offices. The background of his scene is the white and gold High Altar. The candles flicker against a dazzling pattern of light.

As the hour of eleven booms from Big Ben there is the first real stir, caused by the arrival of Earl and Countess Mountbatten.

They ascend the steps of the Sacrarium and take their seats on the left. Soon there is a new movement and the Royal personages arrive.

The Queen, the Queen Mother, the Duke of Gloucester and the Duchess, and the Duchess of Kent take their seats upon the right. The visiting monarchs sit opposite, beside the Mountbattens.

The Queen is superbly dressed, and looks lovely. But she glances often and a little anxiously towards the West Door, where the Princess will appear with the King.

She talks to the Queen Mother, clasps and unclasps her hands as

every mother would do on her daughter’s wedding day. Queen Mary, who has seen all this happen before, both to her own daughter and to her sons, surveys the scene with the calm, confident look that I think the Duke of Wellington bestowed upon the plain of Waterloo before the battle.

Now it is close upon the halfhour after eleven o’clock. At the south side the congregation is rising.

Prince Philip is coming in, followed by his best man, the Marquess of Milford Haven. Both wear naval uniform with sword.

They take their stand just short of the Sacrarium. If Philip has any attack of nerves he doesn’t show it. He talks casually to Milford Haven, strokes his chin, looks around with deliberate appraisal.

By now, all eyes are turned down the central aisle, upon the West Door. When will she come? The procession of the clergy with raised cross and lighted candles, is soon past. They bow to the Queen and take their stations near the altar. When will she come? The trumpets sound, and we can hear the gathering roar of the cheers outside.

Exactly on time — Here Comes The Bride.

On the arm of the King she approaches. Her train, trailing like a silver mist upon a river, is borne by two little kilted pages, and she is followed by her bridesmaids.

Philip is smiling as she draws nearer, and the Princess moves like a queen herself. Gravely, he bows.

Then he takes his place by her side, and there the four of them stand — the King, Elizabeth, Philip and his best man.

So they were married. They said ‘I will’ exactly as every bride and bridegroom have ever said it. When he had put the ring upon her hand and the Archbishop had joined them both together and blessed them, it was time to move forward to the altar.

Alas! The Princess’s train was somehow caught, and the little page could not free it.

It stretched out tautly behind her. It was the King who bent down and freed it. He took his place then by the Queen, who thanked him with a look.

The rest of the ceremony did not take long. When the King and Queen and the bridal pair returned from signing the register, the huge congregation rose and sang God Save The King.

The trumpets blared again, and then began the Wedding March. Elizabeth and Philip went down the aisle and for the first time many of us saw the face of the Princess. She was radiant. The Queen looked supremely happy too, and very proud, while the King was delighted.

Queen Mary wore the same serene expression as before.

Of course, these things go off properly — if they are properly arranged by sensible people!

But I thought I saw a fleeting smile of triumph, too. The smile that perhaps played upon the face of the victor of Waterloo after that tremendous thing had been so happily and gloriously concluded.