box, and once more the soft voice of the commentator came through, and all those close to the little circle bent closer to hear him say that the moment of crowning was at hand.
*
And far off in the Abbey the Archbishop crowned the Queen and, with the placing of the heavily jewelled, awkwardly balanced and weighty crown on to the light brown hair of the head bent slightly forward to receive it, set off such a peal of bells and thudding of cannon-fire as to reach to the farthest ends of the earth.
This was the moment of the priest, the intermediary between God and man, the Archbishop of Canterbury, charged with the transfer of spiritual power to the temporal hand and anointing her as God’s representative in her realm.
Yet, too, it was the gesture and movement of a good, kindly human, an old man of experience and understanding of the frailties of the body as well as the spirit. St. Edward’s crown of gold was heavy, ungainly and cumbersome. It could hurt, pressing upon the skull and forehead.
It seemed impossible almost that so many ends could be embodied in one smooth, simple gesture compounded of fatherly solicitude and the awful symbolism of majesty. There was his care and forethought for her dignity: the crown was too large for the small head beneath it, top-heavy and precarious in its seat; it must be balanced just so that it would not slip or slide or alter its position, once placed, during the long and arduous ceremony that was to follow until it was removed.
And as he lowered the shining object on to her head, he held to it for a moment yet, as though to make sure that it was comfortable and had settled firmly and securely. One felt the sigh in the heart of the old man that such a burden of responsibility should be put upon one so young, such a fearful inheritance handed on to one so gentle and frail. He was endowing her with grandeur and simultaneously bestowing upon her endless cares.
Then with a fine and paternal flourish of both hands he released it and stepped back. The great act of the Crowning was completed.
*
The sharp crack of saluting charges fired from mobile artillery stationed in nearby Hyde Park startled them all. The shots were echoed by the distant thudding of guns from the Tower of London. Bells pealed and jangled wildly from all quarters.
Will Clagg looked at his watch. It was 12.32. The cannon and the bell-ringing and the full-throated cheers from the throngs massed on the other side of the wall drowned out the little radio. He took off his hat and let the rain fall on to his head. ‘The Queen has been crowned,’ he said. And for a moment it didn’t matter that he was standing bareheaded behind the barrier. He felt a pride and a thrust of gladness through his heart that he was there.
Violet Clagg murmured, ‘God bless her,’ and dabbed at her eyes with a sopping handkerchief with which she had been wiping the moisture from her neck.
Granny Bonner sniffed and said, ‘Good luck to her.’
Those gathered around the wireless set cheered too, and Johnny waved his flag. But Gwendoline cried, ‘Daddy, is she coming now? Daddy, I can’t see anything!’
‘No, no,’ Clagg soothed, ‘not yet, Gwenny. There’s lots of time still. We’ll be there when she does.’ But he didn’t know how.
*
Granny Bonner’s feet were beginning to hurt her in her wet shoes. Her thighs ached from standing. She was hungry. Her hair was soaked. But of all things she was wishing that it would rain even harder and that somehow before the day was done even more dreadful things would happen to them than had already occurred.
For the truth was that she was having the time of her life and expected to collect from exposure to the weather such a catalogue of ills, aches and pains as would keep the Clagg family in total subjugation to her for the next six months.
Indulging Granny’s miseries was a part of the ritual of living at the Claggs. To hear her tell it, she suffered from rheumatism, arthritis,
*
And far off in the Abbey the Archbishop crowned the Queen and, with the placing of the heavily jewelled, awkwardly balanced and weighty crown on to the light brown hair of the head bent slightly forward to receive it, set off such a peal of bells and thudding of cannon-fire as to reach to the farthest ends of the earth.
This was the moment of the priest, the intermediary between God and man, the Archbishop of Canterbury, charged with the transfer of spiritual power to the temporal hand and anointing her as God’s representative in her realm.
Yet, too, it was the gesture and movement of a good, kindly human, an old man of experience and understanding of the frailties of the body as well as the spirit. St. Edward’s crown of gold was heavy, ungainly and cumbersome. It could hurt, pressing upon the skull and forehead.
It seemed impossible almost that so many ends could be embodied in one smooth, simple gesture compounded of fatherly solicitude and the awful symbolism of majesty. There was his care and forethought for her dignity: the crown was too large for the small head beneath it, top-heavy and precarious in its seat; it must be balanced just so that it would not slip or slide or alter its position, once placed, during the long and arduous ceremony that was to follow until it was removed.
And as he lowered the shining object on to her head, he held to it for a moment yet, as though to make sure that it was comfortable and had settled firmly and securely. One felt the sigh in the heart of the old man that such a burden of responsibility should be put upon one so young, such a fearful inheritance handed on to one so gentle and frail. He was endowing her with grandeur and simultaneously bestowing upon her endless cares.
Then with a fine and paternal flourish of both hands he released it and stepped back. The great act of the Crowning was completed.
*
The sharp crack of saluting charges fired from mobile artillery stationed in nearby Hyde Park startled them all. The shots were echoed by the distant thudding of guns from the Tower of London. Bells pealed and jangled wildly from all quarters.
Will Clagg looked at his watch. It was 12.32. The cannon and the bell-ringing and the full-throated cheers from the throngs massed on the other side of the wall drowned out the little radio. He took off his hat and let the rain fall on to his head. ‘The Queen has been crowned,’ he said. And for a moment it didn’t matter that he was standing bareheaded behind the barrier. He felt a pride and a thrust of gladness through his heart that he was there.
Violet Clagg murmured, ‘God bless her,’ and dabbed at her eyes with a sopping handkerchief with which she had been wiping the moisture from her neck.
Granny Bonner sniffed and said, ‘Good luck to her.’
Those gathered around the wireless set cheered too, and Johnny waved his flag. But Gwendoline cried, ‘Daddy, is she coming now? Daddy, I can’t see anything!’
‘No, no,’ Clagg soothed, ‘not yet, Gwenny. There’s lots of time still. We’ll be there when she does.’ But he didn’t know how.
*
Granny Bonner’s feet were beginning to hurt her in her wet shoes. Her thighs ached from standing. She was hungry. Her hair was soaked. But of all things she was wishing that it would rain even harder and that somehow before the day was done even more dreadful things would happen to them than had already occurred.
For the truth was that she was having the time of her life and expected to collect from exposure to the weather such a catalogue of ills, aches and pains as would keep the Clagg family in total subjugation to her for the next six months.
Indulging Granny’s miseries was a part of the ritual of living at the Claggs. To hear her tell it, she suffered from rheumatism, arthritis,
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