A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II (14 page)

Not all of the proceedings were to be seen. The receiving of communion by the sovereign was deemed too private and too sacred a thing to broadcast but the more
‘public’ parts of the event – the recognition, the oath, the anointing, the investiture and the homage – would be witnessed by a worldwide audience. It was the Queen who
decided that the route followed by her carriage through London should be significantly lengthened, so that more people would have the chance to see her. She also asked that places along the way be
especially allocated to schoolchildren.

The State Coach was refurbished and modernised, its iron tyres replaced with rubber for smoother travel, and the lighting inside it improved to make the occupants more clearly visible. It was
also, unbeknown to the crowds, fitted inside with a cumbersome wireless so that the Queen and her husband could hear the BBC commentary as they travelled to the Abbey.

In the days before 2 June, London filled with both visitors and participants. The latter included some 15,000 troops who would line the streets or march in the procession. Their tents filled the
parks, which were made off-limits to civilians.

The day itself mocked any notion of ‘Queen’s weather’ – the sunshine that is supposed to accompany royal occasions. It was misty, cold and very wet although the
spectators, sleepless and huddled along the roadsides, succeeded in enjoying it regardless. The Queen began it as she had begun her father’s Coronation day – by looking out at the early
morning crowds from an upstairs window of the Palace. They still had several hours to wait but at half-past ten the State Coach, its gold paintwork contrasting with the dismal grey sky, emerged
from the Palace gates. The pent-up enthusiasm of the thousands who lined the Mall was released in a tidal wave of cheering. Preceded by the Sovereign’s Escort of Household Cavalry,
accompanied on horseback and afoot by a splendidly uniformed entourage, the Queen and her consort moved down the Mall at walking pace
(the coach is too heavy to travel any
faster). Soldiers presented arms, the crowds yelled, applauded, waved flags. The coach turned right down Whitehall and traversed Parliament Square to arrive at the Abbey’s West Door, which
was obscured by a decorative temporary annexe. The youth and beauty of the sovereign, as well as her enthusiasm for her role, made a deep impression on those who saw her that day. ‘Charming
little creature!’ enthused one of them, Lord Pethwick-Lawrence. ‘I only hope they don’t work her too hard.’

Waiting inside was a congregation of more than 8,000 people that included the prime ministers of the Commonwealth countries. In the streets were two million spectators. The service – all
seven hours of it – was watched on three million televisions in Britain by up to 27 million viewers, four-fifths of the population. Many people bought the first television their family had
owned in order to see the ceremony. Others landed themselves on friends and relatives to sit clustered in front of the screen, just as a generation earlier they had sat around the wireless to hear
George VI crowned. Celebrations were held throughout the Commonwealth and the Empire and beyond. Within the community of British nations, cities were decorated with bunting and filled with marching
troops and parading dignitaries. There was, in those days, no question of seeing the service live on television overseas, but it could be heard on radio and – in the days afterward –
viewed as a full-scale film. Narrated by the actress Anna Neagle, this was to be watched in cinemas all over the globe. In the Irish Republic, which had severed its links with the Crown some years
earlier, it was withdrawn from picture-houses after bomb threats by extremists, but it was viewed surreptitiously in church halls by largely Protestant audiences. It was an event that raised morale
throughout the world, and even countries without any British connection became involved. Brazil, neither a former colony nor a member of the Commonwealth, made the sovereign a present. It was a
necklace and a pair of earrings of diamonds
and aquamarines, and it was no mere official gesture. It was a gift from the Brazilian people, not their government, and it had taken
them a year to assemble the stones. They were later to add a matching bracelet – a most generous offering from a generous nation. The Queen would wear these jewels on her state visit to the
country 15 years later.

For the hungry there had been good news. Rationing of eggs was ended and – to the delight of the youngest of Elizabeth’s subjects – so was that of sweets. Everyone was
allocated an additional pound of sugar to allow the making of cakes. The Coronation really seemed as if some magic wand had been waved and the world transported back – for just a few hours
– to pre-war days.

The queen had arrived wearing an elaborately embroidered dress but she re-appeared, as custom dictated, in a ‘linen shift’ – effectively the plain, short-sleeved white shirt of
a medieval peasant, in order to present an image of simplicity and humility. On top of this, as the ceremony went on, was placed her long, velvet-and-ermine robe (embroidered in gold, in frantic
haste, by a team at the Royal School of Needlework) and then she was given the accoutrements of office: the orb, the sceptre and the amulets (a gift from the Commonwealth). The holy oil with which
she was to be anointed was unavailable, having been lost in wartime bombing, and a similar concoction had had to be mixed at Savory and Moore, the perfumers in Bond Street. Last came the St
Edward’s Crown itself, a replacement dating from the Coronation of Charles II for the original that had disappeared at the time of Cromwell.

It weighed seven pounds – in addition to the 17 pounds of her robes. She was so heavily burdened that, after being crowned, she had to be lifted and steered gently to the dais by the
Archbishop of Canterbury and others. It had been suggested that the crown be made lighter for her, but with her characteristic stoicism she had insisted that if her father had worn it so could she.
To an extraordinary extent it symbolises
the history of the nation and Empire. One of its stones – a sapphire – is reputed to have belonged to the Abbey’s
first builder, Edward the Confessor. Another was owned by Mary, Queen of Scots. Another – the Black Prince’s Ruby – was actually worn by King Henry V at Agincourt and again by
Richard III at Bosworth. A fourth was worn in exile by King James II. The crown even incorporates the pearl earrings of Elizabeth I. It was as if the sovereign were wearing on her head a summing-up
of British history and national greatness, which of course she was.

Her husband, also in ermine-lined velvet robes but dressed as an Admiral of the Fleet, was the first secular figure to pay her homage. Her mother and sister were both present, watching from a
gallery nearby. Her son, not yet five, was there too although he had not been considered old enough to watch the whole of the lengthy proceedings, and had been spirited in only for the most
important phase. Her daughter, less than three, was altogether too young and had been left at home, where a children’s party was going on.

The ceremony included a beautiful prayer that asked: ‘The Lord give you faithful parliaments and quiet realms; sure defence against all enemies; fruitful lands and upright magistrates;
leaders of integrity in learning and labour; a devout, learned and useful clergy; honest, peaceable and dutiful citizens.’ Curious as it may seem from a later perspective, there was a
widespread feeling in Britain that the start of this reign marked the beginning of a New Elizabethan Age, that the nation was on the cusp of an era to rival the Tudors. The phrase – mere
journalistic hyperbole – was seen and heard everywhere, and sent many people in search of similarities and coincidences. It was viewed as significant not only that the two queens shared a
name but that they had both come to the throne at the age of 25. A very distinct echo of the Elizabethan age of discovery – and a bright augury for the future – was heard with the news,
released on the morning of the Coronation, that Everest had
been climbed by an expedition led by one of her subjects (a New Zealander) and that the Union Flag had been planted
on the summit.

For the banquet that followed the ceremony Prue Leith, the doyenne of English cooks, devised a dish that she called Coronation Chicken. The chicken was covered in a creamy mayonnaise sauce with
mild curry powder and was a rich gold in colour. In later versions it also had sultanas and sliced almonds. It has been ever since a much-loved sandwich filling and is ubiquitous on supermarket
shelves all over the United Kingdom. Despite the perishable nature of its ingredients it has proved the most enduring as well as the most popular Coronation souvenir.

The whole event was extensively reported in newspapers all over the world. The tone – with the predictable exception of the left-wing press and Communist countries – was indulgent,
fulsome and awestruck. Nowhere outside the Arabian Nights was there such splendour. A feast of colour and pageantry, ancient ritual and popular celebration, all carried out with characteristic
understatement and perfect timing. The fact that the new sovereign was a demure and beautiful young woman added immensely to the charm of the event, as it had when Victoria was crowned 115 years
earlier. It was also a moment of national affirmation for, although Elizabeth’s country had survived the war, its Empire was fast unravelling. Britain was no longer rich enough to belong to
the Great Powers Club. Before the conflict had even ended, the US dollar had ousted sterling as the world’s most important currency, and America and Russia had simply elbowed Britain aside
and gone on to dominate the world between them. The British people needed the rhetoric of the New Elizabethan Age to bolster a confidence that was otherwise seeping away. With the Coronation the
United Kingdom was able, for a few hours or days, to lead the world in
something
, to compel international attention and respect, to foster envy
in others. It emphasised
all the things that money could not buy nor sudden poverty negate – breeding, heritage, long-developed self-assurance that could so easily shade into a smug belief that ‘no one can do
these things like we do’. It was what the Festival of Britain two years earlier was supposed to have been – a signal that Britain had recovered from the war and was once again a happy
nation, its technology and culture leading it back to prosperity.

It might have come as a pleasant surprise, to those who regretted Britain’s ousting from pre-eminence by America, to learn that at least 40,000 Americans came to London for the Coronation
and that berths aboard the Atlantic liners were all-but-impossible to obtain. In addition to these, an estimated 55 million – almost a third of the population – watched the ceremony on
television in the USA. It was not possible to show it live, but the Royal Air Force flew over the BBC tapes so that it could be screened within hours. Among transatlantic guests at the ceremony
were George Marshall and Omar Bradley, towering figures in the recent war, and Jacqueline Bouvier who, as Mrs John F. Kennedy (she married him that year), would go on to be seen as her own
country’s equivalent of royalty. More unusually there was George Davis, a native of New Hampshire, who owed his invitation to a casual meeting with the Queen two years earlier, when he was
standing outside Clarence House and Prince Charles ran over to show him a picture book; part of royalty’s fairy-tale appeal is the way in which ordinary people can be swept up in its doings
through chance.

Once the Coronation was over, the next event was a tour of the Commonwealth. This was to be a massive undertaking. It would last six months, from 25 November 1953 to 15 May 1954 – the
Queen’s children would not see their parents for all that time – and would cover a total of 43,618 miles. Some countries, such as Australia and New Zealand, had not been visited since
before the war. With smaller territories it could
not be assumed, given her busy schedule, that the Queen would have time to go there again during her reign. This might be their
only glimpse of her.

The journey took in the West Indies, Australia, New Zealand, and parts of Asia and Africa. In the course of this it is estimated that she listened to 276 speeches and 508 renditions of
‘God Save the Queen’
.
Although she set off aboard the SS
Gothic
she would travel, at least some of the distance (the homeward stretch from Malta), in the Royal Yacht. This
vessel had been planned and begun before King George’s death, but had been completed after Elizabeth’s accession, and was launched by her. She had decided to discontinue the name
Victoria and Albert
(there had been three of these), ignored suggestions that
The Elizabeth
would be appropriate, and chose
Britannia
. At 412 feet in length and weighing 5,862
tons, the yacht was the size of a small warship and as luxurious as a country house – on which, in fact, the interiors were modelled. The yacht had a State Dining Room that could seat 56 (and
doubled as a cinema), as well as a drawing room, separate sitting rooms for the Queen and the Duke, accommodation for the Household, their staff and the crew, and a ‘barracks’ for the
Marine band that accompanied them on official visits. This was a vessel worthy of the New Elizabethan Age, a leviathan that could cross the world’s oceans and bring the refinement – and
the magic – of Buckingham Palace to distant continents. It provided a perfect setting for the monarch when overseas, and enabled her to return hospitality in suitable style.

On her return, the Prime Minister came aboard
Britannia
off the Isle of Wight and accompanied the Queen to London. The sight of the Royal Yacht steaming up the Thames and beneath Tower
Bridge, with the sovereign and the Premier on board, has become one of the most glorious images of her reign. Visible to the crowds on the banks as a tiny, waving
figure, she
gave no sign of fatigue despite having to remain in that position for over four hours.

At home, there was a simmering problem. Princess Margaret had been for some time involved in a relationship that was considered unsuitable. Group Captain Peter Townsend had been an Equerry of
her father’s. He was a Battle of Britain fighter pilot, and King George had wanted one of these men attached to his staff as a tribute to their courage. Townsend was a success with the
family. He was charming, modest, efficient, and had a pleasant sense of humour. He fitted in so well that he rose from temporary Equerry to Deputy Master of the Household, a position for which, at
36, he was young. Margaret was 16 years his junior and had first met him when aged 13. Idolising her father, she perhaps found it natural to admire an older man, and her girlish affection matured
into a serious regard. In the small world of the Court they could not have avoided each other, and he accompanied the family on its tour of South Africa. By the time of Elizabeth’s Coronation
they were deeply attached. What is surprising is that her family remained unaware of this burgeoning romance until Margaret announced her wish to marry him. They had not seen it as unusual that she
spent long periods of time with him, often alone.