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 |
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, 2nd 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
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