A Platinum Poem

by John Béchamel (the Saucy Poet)

Blessed Elizabeth, with patience she waits,
Her Reign much accomplished, her strength now abates,
Her public adoring flood into the Mall,
Our nation restoring, our thanks to the Gal’

 

David Taylor

Photo of 'Dancing Queenie' by A Mott

A Lifetime's Brushes with Royalty

It was my first experience of a sense of ceremony, the year, 1953. Aged almost six, I had climbed from the three-quarter bed, shared with my sister Linda, expecting another day of play with neighbouring kids on the street outside.

The middle of the bed was yet to be occupied by our younger sister, Gill. We had no idea that night ten months previously that the next morning would present us with a baby sister. She was still in a cot in mum and dad’s room but would join us within a couple of months, her place always in the middle of the bed.

So far as we knew, 2^nd June 1953 was an ordinary day on New Parks Estate. By mid-morning, there was a buzz in the air.  We joined the crowds that had poured from each new council home to line both sides of the road. We had lived on Frolesworth Road now for eighteen months and had no idea what we were waiting for.

Out of the blue, brass band music filled the air and the Drum Major marched into the end of the road, followed by the meticulously in-step Boys Brigade Band. Three-year old Alan Pole shouted excitedly at the top of his voice “it’s the King, it’s the King”.   

The Drum Major was a boy who lived across the green in front of our house. He looked a man to me, rather rotund but probably aged fourteen or fifteen years.  He took his role very seriously and the band were well practiced at marching behind him in unison. They read the music from an eye level sheet clipped to their instruments. I did not know the name of the drummer. He was a strange looking lad with no apparent friends, but in this role, he excelled and took great pride.

His drum was as large as I, but how envious I was as he balanced it on his ample stomach and beat it with large drumsticks.

As the band exited through the other end of the road, we were taken into home to get changed. Our best dresses and shoes, stored in mum’s wardrobe, were bought downstairs. We were going out, but knew not where.

Everyone in the street was heading in the same direction. After a ten-minute walk, we arrived at what I now know was an old aircraft hangar on the golf course.

Inside, the extensive, hollow building was draped with red, white and blue flags, bunting and balloons. Long tables with white cloths were laden with food, a real treat at a time when many foods were still on ration.

Considering this was the top event in my life so far, memories are few.  I do remember being presented with a Coronation Mug as we left. We used these mugs daily, a welcome replacement for the tin mugs that mum and dad had purloined from the army.

The final treat of this day was to go into the end house. Mr. and Mrs. Dawson had purchased the only TV in the street. We were invited in to watch the crowning of Queen Elizabeth II. Through the crowd of neighbours, it was impossible to see very much of the ceremony on the nine-inch screen. The picture was many shades of grainy grey, but moved and had sound which was quite amazing.

It would be another two years before a TV appeared in the living room of number 52.

 

My royal claim to fame

When Uncle Derek came to visit, it was in a shiny black limousine which he parked outside our home looking totally out of place on the council estate. There was no question, back then, of it coming to any harm, and it awarded us a temporary celebrity status.

Uncle Derek was a chauffeur, and on his days off could use a car from the royal fleet.

This was in stark contrast to his early life. The premature death of his father found him experience nothing but poverty and neglect. Evacuated during the war, his age under five, he was sent to a Boy’s Home in Llandudno.

Derek was selected by Lord Portarlington to be sent away to an elite school to learn the art of Driving/Chauffeuring. Such was the prestige of his qualification, he was awarded a position as one of the drivers for the royal family.

We lost touch with Derek when he married and went to live in America. Here, he became chauffeur to Arthur Miller, the playwright. He travelled back to UK as part of his work, but we never saw him again. My mother did not agree with his choice of wife, an older lady, and I suspect he was another relative lost through an argument.

 

My next experience of royalty came in 1958. The queen came on a to visit Leicester. She was to visit the Corah hosiery company. The word went around that there had been a gold-plated toilet installed in her honour. The follow-up news, that she did not use it.

The route was to take her down Charles Street. Mrs. Harrison, our next-door neighbour, was taking her three daughters to watch and invited me to go along. I was aged ten years, the same age as her youngest, Sheila.

We secured a spot on the front row, close to our bus stop. We were early and waited quite some time. Charles Street is a long road, and we were at the lower end close to the Corah factory.

The roar went up amongst the crowd at the top of the road, flags waving and people more animated as the procession arrived. Quick as a flash, the police escort sped by, followed by the royal car. A smiling queen’s hand was raised in a permanent wave as she passed.

All over, we headed back to the bus stop and caught the number 14 bus back home.

 

The Silver Jubilee almost passed me by.  I was a single parent with one full-time and two part-time jobs. I had no inkling of the arrangements that my neighbours were undertaking to celebrate the twenty-five-year celebration of the queen’s reign.

My now husband, and I joined in the frivolities in the late afternoon. We had missed the children’s fancy dress in the afternoon, much to my children’s disgust.

With much alcohol flowing and the celebrations continuing into the late hours, my six feet four inches partner climbed onto the trike of a three-year-old that had been abandoned on the footpath of our cul-de-sac.

Of course, he fell off and rolled into the gutter. He lay at the side of the road, refusing to get up. Unable to lift him, he was left outside to sleep it off. In the early hours, he crawled in and spent the rest of the night on the hall floor – and I still married him.

 

When Glenfield Hospital was built, I applied for, and gained, a nursing post on the Female Surgical ward. Once the first phase of the hospital was completed, it was officially opened by the Duchess of Kent.

There was a great deal of preparation for the royal arrival. Police searched all areas. Every store cupboard that had been piled high with drip stands and all manner of equipment needed for a busy Ward had to be tidied. Nothing, however, would have stood in the way of the sniffer dogs as they went about their serious business.

The Duchess, dressed in a pretty pastel blue outfit, led her entourage around Ward 26. She was shown into two of the high dependency bays, each containing six patients. Nurse preparations had started early that morning. All patients were bathed, hair brushed, clean nightdresses and smelling of Johnsons baby talc in readiness for the visit. Some remained in bed, others sat in chairs as the Duchess exchanged a few words with those well enough.

Some nurses stood with their patients within the Bay. Other Staff tried to hide discreetly outside the bay, armed with cameras to take photographs of the occasion.  I was one of them. Unknown to us, the TV cameras had spotted the line of six or so nurses, and filmed us from the rear as we snapped away. The shot appeared briefly on the local news that evening, my only TV appearance filmed of my back.

 

My final encounter with royalty came with pride and as a complete surprise. My sister invited myself and my husband to accompany her and my brother-in-law to Buckingham Palace, where she would be awarded an MBE for her services to charity.

We travelled to London, first class, by train the day before, such was the sense of occasion. Her husband treated us all to a show that evening and we thoroughly enjoyed the presentation of ‘Jersey Boys.’  Frankie Valli music had played a large part in all our teenage years and we returned to our budget hotel singing.

The next morning, Linda and I got ready in our carefully selected outfits, complete with hats. Hers a cream two-piece with navy accessories, mine lime green and purchased for my granddaughter’s wedding.  The four of us hailed a taxi to the Palace. The feeling was surreal. We had stood so many times outside, peering through the black and gold wrought iron gates, hoping for a glimpse of royalty or someone famous.  Here we were, four council house kids, strutting across the gravel inside those gates. What a thrill it was to enter Buckingham Palace.

My sister was whisked away to receive her instructions and the three of us climbed the opulent staircase into a large room where we were seated on gold trimmed red velvet chairs. Life size statues and detailed plaster work had to be marvelled at as we awaited the ceremony.

Prince Charles presented Linda’s MBE. Her curtsey was flawless, after much practice, and she chatted briefly with the future King. When I asked her what they talked about, she could not remember, so in awe was she of the occasion.

As we left and merged into the London crowds we were once again the four ex-council house kids. We found Princess Diana’s memorial playground in Kensington Gardens and rounded off a perfect day with tea and cakes.

 

Carolyn Wheatley

Photo by Edson Rosas on Unsplash