A glorious day, even for the prince of wails
Well, what a glorious day that turned out to be. The sudden thunder of a thousand guardsman standing to attention. Along The Mall, for as far as the eye could see, the Union flags so big, so beautiful, so many; how they lift your heart. The swelling sense that it was OK to feel proud to be British (they can’t arrest you for it; not yet anyway). Our soldiers; impeccable, glittering, not putting a foot wrong. The gravel under their boots washed and combed. Three adorable great-grandchildren smiling and practising their waving in an open carriage (a permanently astonished four-year-old Prince Louis instantly making a sailor suit the most desirable item of clothing on the planet). Even the weather, cold, sullen and spitty as a Corbynist republican, got the memo and pulled itself together just in time. The Queen’s Wedgwood blue coat matched the Wedgwood blue sky. Perfection.
How happy everyone was to see Her Majesty as she emerged from the Palace on to the balcony; the longestreigning monarch in British history. How happy and relieved. There had been anxious rumours that the Queen might not be present to celebrate the 70th anniversary of her accession to the throne; later in the day, indeed, came the sad and worrying news that she would not, after all, be attending the jubilee service at St Paul’s. (“Mobility issues” is Palace code for being 96 years old and increasingly frail, which she is reluctant to admit because our Queen is proud and does not think it seemly to show weakness.) But the balcony, for Queen Elizabeth in London as for Juliet in Verona, was non-negotiable. She was never not going to make it, was she? If we know one thing about the Queen, it’s that she shows up for her people. In a way that is complicated to explain, but easy to feel, her story is our history.
When she first appeared on that balcony, the stage for our great national tableaux, Elizabeth Alexandra Mary was one year and two months old. It was 1927 and the world was black and white. Her mother, then the Duchess of York, held the baby up for the inspection of the cheering crowds. The little princess was next to her grandparents, Queen Mary and George V (“Grandpa England”). She was never supposed to be Queen. Only a deluded uncle, who ran off with an American divorcee, opened the door to that possibility. How shocking it is today, after seven astoundingly successful decades have passed, to think that Princess Elizabeth was never Heir Apparent, only Heiress Presumptive, because she was only a girl. (They still hoped for a boy to come along.) What a girl!
Goodness gracious, how lucky we were. Seventy years ago, before her Coronation, a besotted Winston Churchill told Parliament: “A fair and youthful figure, princess, wife and mother, is the heir to all our traditions and glories never greater than in her father’s days, and to all our perplexities and dangers never greater in peacetime than now. She is also heir to all our united strength and loyalty.”
In an era of Kardashians and celebrity froth, it’s hard to understand that the Queen’s job for life was never about fame or power; it was a calling, a vocation. The sacred vow she took that June 2 was a holy trinity: continuity, duty, loyalty.
A promise she has never broken, and never will.
Her Majesty has seen hemlines and empires rise and fall. She has had 152 state visits, 14 prime ministers and 30 corgis. (She can probably identify the dogs sooner than the politicians, which is another reason why we love her.)
The Queen, though, remains the Queen. In 1977, when Philip Larkin was asked to produce a poem for the Silver Jubilee, he wrote, unimprovably:
“In times when nothing stood
But worsened, or grew strange,
There was one constant good:
She did not change.”
Yesterday, inevitably, amid the festivities there was a sense of an ending. This is our nation’s first Platinum Jubilee and almost certainly our last. The great, beaming throng surging down towards the palace, surfing a wave of joy, and the millions of us watching at home, were united in wanting to thank the Queen, to celebrate everything she means to us. While there is still time. Watching the Prince of Wales, pensive at Trooping the Colour, watching the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, stunning in white (cool as milkshake on a summer’s day). Seeing Prince George, Princess Charlotte (the Royal family’s most natural star since Diana) and then seeing the Queen dip down to gently point out the wartime planes flying overhead to little Prince Louis (Lancasters and Spitfires, which the young Princess Elizabeth knew when they carried real bullets and bombs) was to watch the baton being passed on. This is the way we replenish our national story. This is what we are.
There were so many highlights. Like Harry. No, not the Prince. Harry and Eddie were magnificent shire horses calmly carrying vast kettle drums on their backs in the parade. Second only in scene-stealing animal magic to Seamus, wolfhound, regimental mascot of the Irish Guards and “one of the lads”, according to his handler.
Kirsty Young anchored the BBC’S coverage with a lovely, warm, generous serenity. Mercifully, there would be no repeat of the inane drivel during the Diamond Jubilee and the dire Thames Pageant, which seemed solely designed to give the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh hypothermia. (We did miss Philip yesterday; there is a space at the Queen’s side where he belongs. He must surely share the credit for her remarkable reign.) Sir Michael Palin rightly singled out the Queen’s “benevolent neutrality, which is hard to achieve”.
Everyone, including Her Majesty, gasped with pleasure as 15 Typhoon fighters formed themselves into a giant 70 to mark the years of her reign. (No cancelled or delayed holidays if they put those RAF Johnnies in charge of our useless airlines!) Above all, perhaps, there was the simple pleasure of being allowed to express admiration for the Royal family and patriotism without fear of being ridiculed.
For one happy (and glorious) day, Britons were the good-natured, inclusive, Union Jack-tastic, one-tenth slightly bonkers people – that is our true national identity.
“We’re the best at this ceremonial stuff,” exclaimed Dame Kelly Holmes looking spiffy in her uniform of Honorary Colonel of the Armoured Corps.
Damn right we are, Kelly. The best pageantry, the best marching tunes (Men of Harlech!), the best soldiers playing tubas on horseback (admittedly, other countries may not attempt that), the best and the greenest trees, the best flag, the best Queen. The best queen any country ever had, actually.
God save her.
Our monarch is not an intellectual (very like her people in that regard, as in her love of animals), but she once said, “The Crown is an idea, not a person.” It is an idea, and she has embodied it brilliantly. In a documentary about the Royal jewels, Queen Elizabeth II looked at the thing they placed on her absurdly young head seven decades ago and she observed, as only one who has worn it could, “The Crown is so heavy you can’t look down … if you looked down, your neck would break.”
She never looked down, only ahead. One constant good. She did not change. Great Granny England.