Coronation by Paul Gallico

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?’
    There was not much choice in his basket – two small dolls with red, white and blue rosettes, a sodden Union Jack on a stick, several balloons and a periscope, one of those small elongated white boxes with mirrors at each end.
    ‘Here, wait a minute,’ said Clagg. ‘Let’s have a look at that.’
    ‘Just the thing, guv’ner,’ the vendor said, handing over the periscope. ‘Makes you eight feet tall. Look over anybody’s ’ead. Fun for the kiddies afterwards. Last one, guv’ner. Five bob to you.’
    Will Clagg raised the instrument and applied his eye to the bottom. It might have worked inside to see over the heads of taller people, but here it just barely reached to the top of the barrier, giving a glimpse of the upper part of the archway and some foliage. It was hopeless, and of course when he held it higher he could no longer get his eye to it. The affair was beginning to assume the qualities of a nightmare, one of those dreams where one is always missing buses or trying to escape from danger in shoes made of lead.
    Clagg handed the periscope back to the vendor, who grinned at him cheerfully, showing his broken teeth, and said, ‘Bit of short measure there, guv’ner. You should have growed some more. What about something for the kiddies?’
    ‘Shut your bloody trap! Here, let’s see what you’ve got.’ He bought a doll for Gwendoline and the wet flag for Johnny.
    Violet said, ‘Say thank you to Daddy,’ and Gwendoline did, but her mind was elsewhere, on the Queen. She was wondering how ever she could manage to put all of her love into one smile and one wave when the moment came that she would see the Queen drive by in her golden carriage. She thought perhaps she would wave both hands at once.
    As for Johnny he was old enough, and by now sufficiently wise to know that his Union Jack was not for waving, that it would never join the sea of fluttering pennons which would be set in motion on the other side of the barrier. Instead, therefore, he planted it upon the escarpment topping Hill No. 5 and with the survivors of his regiment prepared to defend it to the death. Below he could see the enemy troops massing for the assault. With no thought for his own safety, he marched back and forth along the line, pistol in hand, encouraging his force. ‘Stand firm, men! We’ll never surrender! Let them come, we’re more than a match for them!’
    Shortly after noon, a squabble broke out among the young people who owned the radio, or rather between the actual owner, who appeared to be named Lionel, and the others. Lionel was a stringy boy with sideburns who was enjoying the dance music from France and was snapping his fingers and wriggling his hips to it. The girls wanted to come back to the Coronation.
    ‘Oh, come on, Lionel,’ they kept saying, ‘turn it back. We want to hear when the Queen is crowned.’
    ‘Ah, da-da, de-di, da-da,’ sang Lionel, clicked his fingers and bumped his hips.
    The Claggs united in hating Lionel and rooting for the girls. They too wanted to hear the Coronation. Granny muttered, ‘Humph, the young people of today!’
    Clagg said, ‘Young squirt! If he was mine I’d teach him something.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Lionel. Do turn it back. It’s time.’
    The impasse was broken by the other boy, who simply pushed Lionel out of the way and twirled the knob of the little