A carnival mood ... but with 28 hours to go, the fainting’s already started
AS the sky darkens and the rain sets in, the small crowd huddles against the concrete wall in anoraks, red woolly hats and Union Jack flags. They’re queuing on the south side of Lambeth Bridge to file past the Queen’s coffin, open for viewings from 5pm today and anticipated to attract 330,000 visitors at a rate of 3,000 an hour.
And this lot really don’t want to miss it. Which is why, when there was talk of crowd controls and quotas and warnings from the Department of Culture of queues snaking round half of London, some of them, including Vanessa Nanthakumaran, 56, Anne Daley and Grace Gothard (right at the front) raced down here.
They have been here since Monday and, by the time I arrived yesterday shortly after noon, their little gang had also been joined by a historian, a carer, a professor, a retired construction worker, a medium and a spattering of others – making a grand total of ten. Like most of them, retired gardener Martin J Shanahan, um’ed and ah’ed about when to join the queue.
‘As my mum always said... it’s better to arrive three hours early than five minutes late!’
Three hours?! As we chat in the drizzle, there’s a good 28 hours to go before the queue can even start moving. But this lot don’t care about the wait, or the wet. They’re warmed right through by their love for the late Queen.
‘She was such a brilliant, brilliant woman,’ says number five in the queue Sarah Langley, 55, eyes brimming. ‘We’ve all had jobs that we hated and we just jacked them in, she stuck with hers for 70 years and, my God, did she do it well’!
Delroy Morrison, 61 and number four in the queue, feels the same and, despite having had two heart attacks, is here for the duration. ‘As long as my heart keeps going, I’ll be here for her,’ he says. ‘It’s the last thing I can do after all she’s done for us. This is a piece of cake in comparison.’ Even so, it’s not comfortable. On top of having to deal with the rain, the dreary DCMS ‘banned list’ decrees that queuers are not allowed to bring tents, sleeping bags, chairs, hampers – not even a rogue Paddington Bear.
Which meant that Sarah came straight from the end of her shift as a railway station customer service ambassador at midnight on Monday and, so far, has grabbed a single hour’s sleep on the wet concrete with her head on her bag. ‘I am not a rule breaker, so I came with nothing,’ she says. ‘But I needed to come now as I’m back at work at 6.30am on Thursday, so I only had a small window to see her.’
Delroy – a retired building contractor who once insulated some of the windows in Buckingham Palace – arrived at 8.30am, with some boxes of diced apple and carrots and a warm woolly hat from his native Jamaica.
Meanwhile, David Carlson, a 75year- old ex- serviceman, came fuelled by a single sandwich and ‘plenty of cigarettes’ and added bullishly, ‘If I have to stand the whole time, I will.’
Impressive stuff. But perhaps a teeny bit annoying that a different set of rules seems to apply to the three ladies in positions one, two and three, who are festooned with flags, clutching royal memorabilia and have been holding court to the world’s press all day from matching green camping chairs, under a beige gazebo erected by the council to keep them dry. Even the Archbishop of York pops in to see them at one stage to join them in song.
As one queuer mutters, sotto voce: ‘It feels a bit like the royal enclosure. Them sitting in their throne room! The rest of us in the rain!’ Thankfully, as the afternoon wears on, the rain stops and the throng grows.
Mariean Kaewthong, originally from Thailand, arrives from Wrexham with dahlias and a new tent that she isn’t allowed to put up. Gary Keen, 55, and Lisa Simms, 54, join using mobility aids, undaunted at the prospect of a night on the streets. One chap declares it a doddle compared to the queueing he’s done to see U2 over the last 44 years.
And Stephen, a ponytailed medium from Wakefield, tells me that, while he often communicates with the dead, he can’t speak to the Queen right now. ‘She’s resting, bless her! She’s got a lot of people to catch up with.’
By 4.30pm the crowd has more than tripled, the ladies under the gazebo are singing Praise my Soul the King of Heaven and Sarah is reeling after learning that MPs and parliamentary workers automatically qualify with a plus one, without having to queue all night. ‘That’s totally pants!’ she cries.
Meanwhile, further down the line, poor David suffers a funny turn, buckles onto the pavement and is helped up by queuers. It turns out a single sandwich and a packet of ciggies isn’t the perfect preparation after all.
Straight home for him for a hot bath, you’d think. But no chance. He’s not going anywhere, unless it’s via Westminster Hall.
‘I’m not giving up now, if it’s the last thing I do I’ll be walking in there tomorrow!’ he says, puffing on a rallying fag.
As dusk approaches, there is talk of numbered wrist bands so people can dart off to the loo, get some food, or snatch a little lie- down without losing their place. According to a rather officious security guard, the first 2,000 will get them,
‘Is this really what she would have wanted?’
and, after that, it’ll be ‘ dog eat dog!’ Golly. So the next 328,000 will just have to cross their legs?
The whole set-up is rather odd. A bit like those mad Wimbledon camping queues of old – but without any tents, or beer, or music – or much camaraderie, from what I’ve seen today. And unlike Wimbledon, there’s no alternative way to guarantee seeing the Queen lying in state – no online tickets, no ballot, nothing – other than waiting in the rain.
Which, of course, rules out anyone who can’t bunk off work, or who has children to look after, or is fragile, elderly or infirm.
Or simply can’t face standing on a hard wet pavement with no chair for hour, upon hour, however much we love the Queen. I wonder, is this really what she would have wanted?