Coronation (5 page)

In the meantime he marched on blindly and dumbly, and his family followed him, none of them knowing whither they were going. Thus they passed from Belgrave Square up William Street into Knightsbridge, where again they encountered crowds streaming eastwards.

They stood there under the grey weeping skies for a moment, watching the people. From the direction of the river, borne on the rain-laden gusts of wind, came a distant thudding. Johnny Clagg pricked up his ears. ‘Guns!’ he cried excitedly.

The sound of the saluting cannon seemed to point up all they were being denied. For an instant Will Clagg caved in completely, sick at heart and defeated. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ve had it. I’m a fool. I’ve queered it. We’d better go home.’

Violet Clagg took his arm. ‘Don’t take it so to heart, Will. It wasn’t your fault.’ The word ‘home’ penetrated to both children and they sent up an anguished wail of protest, but oddly enough it was Granny now who put her foot down.

‘Go home?’ she repeated. ‘And disappoint the children? Nonsense! I came here to see the Coronation and that’s what I’m going to see. We’re as damp as we can be now. We can stand.’

They all stared at her in astonishment and none more startled than her son-in-law. Granny somehow looked a little less grim and forbidding. A small measure of the dignity of refusal to be defeated by adverse fates had come into her small grey figure.

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Clagg. ‘Do you mean that, Granny?’

‘Mean it? Of course I do, and don’t stand there talking and wasting time, Will Clagg, when we ought to be going along to find some place where these poor children can see
something
.’

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Clagg repeated, and then his spirits suddenly lifted. ‘Good for you, old girl. Who would have thought it? What do you vote, Vi?’

‘If you don’t think the children will get too wet.’

‘They’re wet as they can get now, but dry enough inside, I’ll wager. What’s a little bit of rain, eh? Come on then, off we go.’ He took his daughter’s small hand in his huge thick paw and said, ‘You’re going to see the Queen just like I promised you.’

There was no problem as to which direction they should take. They were like punters pulled up at the side of a fast-moving stream; they had only to push themselves out into the current to be carried along. And on they went now, hopeful, cheered and united again, prepared to put the best face possible on the matter and save what was left of the day.

Suddenly, however, they found their progress slowing as those in front of them came almost to a halt; others continued pushing, threatening to compress them.

Then from ahead there arose a shout from the crowd, which turned into a great roar of protest, and, standing for a moment on tiptoes to enable him to look over their heads, Will Clagg saw to his horror what was happening and what had aroused the outcry.

Some fifty yards beyond where they were, police had linked arms to form a living wall behind which, for a moment, they contained the surging crowd, and into the space thus won at the back of them a solid wooden barrier, seven feet high, was being swung across the road from each side on hinges to meet in the centre, where it was locked and barred into place, as immovable as the wall that Hadrian had built against the Picts and Scots. These barriers had been erected across the streets and avenues at key points leading into the procession route around the entire perimeter of the area, enabling the police completely to seal off the Coronation district when, in their judgment, it was no longer safe to permit further crowding. They had been thrown wide early in the morning to permit buses and cars through, as well as to admit the spectators who had been streaming thither steadily since before dawn. Now the order had gone forth to bar further entrance. Only at the centre of each was a small door, guarded by two constables within and one on the outside, to permit the passage of those who had tickets or passes, or others authorised to enter or leave the Coronation area, such as messengers, vendors, photographers, pressmen, doctors, etc.

There was no mistaking what had taken place, and, if Clagg had not been aware, the change in mood and temper of the crowd would have told him. There were cries of anger and the police came in for some plain speaking. For the second time that day Clagg felt his heart sinking helplessly in his breast. ‘Oh Lord!’ he cried. ‘We’re too late!’

‘Go on,’ said Granny, ‘don’t stop. What are you waiting for?’ She was too small to see what had happened.

‘There’s no going on,’ Will said. ‘They’ve closed the gates. We’re shut out.’

Yet there was still some movement forward, though it had turned sluggish, and the Claggs were swept along with it as those behind pushed forward, intent upon arguing with the police. They soon met the counter-thrust of those returning from the barrier with disappointment written on their faces. They were saying, ‘It’s no use. They won’t let anybody through.’

‘You tell the police what happened to us and they’ll let us by,’ said Granny.

Clagg was not so sure, but knew that he must try.

Ten yards away from the barrier where the policeman was standing the struggling pack of humanity ground to a halt.

‘Wait here,’ Clagg said to them. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ And now, using his broad shoulders and powerful frame, he shoved through. The crowd, which had once seemed friendly, co-operative and hospitable, was no longer so. It took him minutes by sheer strength and drive to reach the constable at the small portal giving ingress to the barrier, and he was bathed in sweat when he arrived there.

Panting, half-blinded by rain and perspiration running into his eyes, he said, of course, quite the wrong thing for a start: ‘Look here, officer, we’ve got to get through.’

The officer replied in a monotone like the tape recording of the time on the telephone, ‘No more permitted through. Sorry, you’ll have to go back. No more permitted through.’

‘But I had tickets,’ Clagg shouted at him.

‘Tickets,’ echoed the constable. ‘Very well, let’s have a look at them, then,’ and to those who were nearest and almost on top of him he said, ‘Would you mind giving way and letting this man by? He’s got tickets.’

But of course Clagg had no tickets, and he now inwardly cursed himself for ever having been so stupid as to turn them over. Detective or no detective, at least he might have held out one or two.

‘Well?’ said the constable.

Clagg became flustered. ‘I said I
had
tickets. I haven’t got them any more. One of your busies took them from me. They were counterfeit. Twenty-five guineas each. I brought the whole family down from Sheffield. There was nothing but a bombed-out house there,’ he finished lamely.

It all sounded very fishy to the constable, who not only was young but not a Londoner. He had been imported from the West as an auxiliary to assist in the enormous job of controlling the city during the Coronation. ‘What’s all this,’ he said, ‘pushing through here saying you had tickets and then you haven’t any? Acting like that won’t get you anywhere.’

Two couples threaded their way through, holding up pasteboards. ‘Step aside, please,’ the constable said, ‘and let these people by as
has
got tickets,’ and his tone was heavily pointed.

In that bitter moment Clagg recrossed the awful gulf between the privileged and non-privileged. His magic talisman had been taken from him. Now that he no longer had it he was just like all the rest, to be pushed and buffeted about. As the four ticket-holders passed through, Clagg had a glimpse through the gap at the vast sea of people on the other side, or rather the backs of their heads; he could look down Piccadilly and see the trees in Green Park; then the barrier closed again.

Helpless once more in the face of the situation, Clagg could do nothing but growl, mutter and mumble and avoid looking at his family, who had now managed to join him, and then tell the story of the fraudulent seats to those nearest him. Several of them only laughed, obviously disbelieving, but some of them knew that he was telling the truth; their sense of fair play was outraged and they even shouted at the constable that it was a shame and he ought to let the Claggs through, which of course made him all the more determined to stick to his guns and his duty.

Gwendoline said suddenly, ‘I’m tired, Daddy.’ Clagg picked her up in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder contentedly and trustingly, and immediately went to sleep.

They would have gone away then, and probably found their way back to St Pancras and home, or might even have managed somewhere to connect with a television set, had it not been for the inevitable rumours, one after the other, that went sweeping through the ranks of those barred from entrance, keeping hope alive.

When the first protests and attempts to pass the barrier had proved unavailing, the crowd had begun to thin and change as disappointed ones left and new ones arrived, but retained a kind of permanent core who stayed there because of bits of so-called inside information which seeped through to them: the gates would be thrown open once more within an hour; within two hours; within three. As soon as the press of people on the other side had distributed itself, more were to be permitted to enter. No, the gen was that immediately after the Crowning those that had remained outside would be allowed in.

There was no truth in any of these rumours, but they continued to multiply or gain fresh impetus whenever newcomers would arrive or at the emergence of someone from within. Every time the small door opened there would be a buzz and stir in the crowd as they caught a glimpse of the packed throng on the other side. They also saw that a space had been cleared by the police just inside the door, which furnished fuel to the hopes that they were preparing to admit them. There was even one report that when the constable guarding the portal was changed, an ‘all right’ chap would be coming on who would know how to close an eye and see that deserving parties managed to get inside. These quickly circulated bits of hearsay kept this knot of people standing there in the rain waiting and hoping, hour after hour through the morning. And among them were the Claggs.

They had nowhere else to go except home, defeated. As long as there seemed a chance of getting in at this point, they had to remain. And unfamiliar as they were with the manner in which false stories could circulate through a crowd, Clagg believed that here was their best opportunity rather than to go wandering about the fringe of the Coronation area in the city that was unknown to them.

And perversely enough, things
did
happen which made it appear as though they were about to win through. Such as the time when the door opened and two police sergeants, stiffly saluted by the P.C. on guard, came out. They stood for a moment regarding the knot of people and conversing in low tones. Hearts began to beat in anticipation, eyes again came alight with expectancy; there were shouts of ‘What about it Sergeant?’ It seemed so obvious that they were looking the situation over preparatory to giving orders to have them admitted. But they only turned their backs and without even speaking to the constable returned inside again. Yet even while immediate hopes were dashed, how could one know that, having looked the situation over, they would not make their report within, after which action in favour of those waiting would be taken? At least so the grape-vine had it, and the Claggs stayed on.

Gwendoline awakened, lifted her head from her father’s shoulder and asked sleepily, ‘Is the Queen coming?’

He put her down with aching arms. Her mother pushed some damp locks away from her forehead and said, ‘Not yet, luvvy. Have another little nap.’

Granny said, ‘Why don’t you tell her? She isn’t ever going to see her.’

‘I can’t,’ replied Will Clagg in agony.

For the first time Johnny Clagg became aware of the true nature of the situation. ‘Aren’t we going to see
anything
?’ he yammered.

Clagg had to lie to him. ‘Not yet. Maybe later.’ He wondered whether with the little money he had on him he might bribe the policeman to let them through, and simultaneously knew that never in a million years would he be able to approach the constable with such a proposition, nor in as many aeons would the man ever accept it. In the meantime the rain continued to fall and in the distance there was a pealing of bells.

And just when all euphoria occasioned by the incident of the police sergeants had been drained away, there occurred another diversion: a party of young people arrived, well bundled up against the weather, three girls and two boys just out of their teens. They had with them an umbrella, a small portable radio and a packet of sandwiches. With that extreme and happy disregard of youth for what goes on about them, they had apparently never heard of or read the long complicated rules laid down by the authorities governing pedestrian and vehicular movement on Coronation Day, and blithely demanded admission of the harassed constable. Denied it, they made no protest but, sheltering the wireless beneath the umbrella, switched it on and formed themselves into a circle to listen.

The voice of the commentator inside Westminster Abbey came through. Those standing nearby, including the Claggs, moved closer to hear and soon there was a ring of listeners gathered about the young people. They and their portable set were a centre of attraction, and this made them happy.

The contact furnished by the voice emerging from the little speaker brought the Claggs back to life again. They were filled with gratitude for it and it seemed as though things had suddenly taken a turn for the better and they listened eagerly. It didn’t strike them that they might have been hearkening to the same commentary in the warmth and comfort of their own home.