We came up to London on the fourteenth of June—that was a week before the great Jubilee day. Coming into London from the country was always exciting. We came in from the east side and the Tower of London always seemed to me like the bulwarks of the city. Grim, formidable, speaking of past tragedies, it always set me wondering about the people who had been imprisoned there long ago.
Then we would come into the city and on past Mr. Barry’s comparatively new Houses of Parliament, so magnificent beside the river, looking, deceptively, as though they had weathered the centuries almost as long as the great Tower itself.
I could never make up my mind which I loved more—London or the country. There was a cosiness about the country, where everything seemed orderly; there was a serenity, a peace, which was lacking in London. Of course Papa was rarely in the country and on those occasions when he came, I had to admit peace and serenity fled. There would be entertaining when he came, and Olivia and I had to keep well out of the way. So perhaps it was a matter of where Papa was that affected us so deeply.
But I was always excited to be returning to London, just as I was pleased to go back to the country.
This was a rather special return, for no sooner did we reach the metropolis than we were aware of the excitement which Miss Bell called “Jubilee Fever.”
The streets of the city were full of noisy people. I watched them with glee—all those people with their wares who rarely penetrated our part of London; they were there in full force in the city—the chairmender, who sat on the pavement mending cane chairs, the cats-meat man with his barrow full of revolting-looking horseflesh, the tinker, the umbrella mender, and the girl in the big paper bonnet carrying a basket full of paper flowers to be put in fireplaces during the summer months when there were no fires. Then there were the German bands which were beginning to appear frequently in the streets, playing popular songs of the musical halls. But what I chiefly noticed were the sellers of Jubilee fancies—mugs, hats, ornaments. “God Bless the Queen,” these proclaimed. Or “Fifty Glorious Years.”
It was invigorating, and I was glad we had left the country to become part of it.
There was excitement in the house too. Miss Bell said how fortunate we were to be subjects of such a Queen and we should remember the great Jubilee for the rest of our lives.
Rosie Rundall showed us a new dress she had for the occasion. It was white muslin covered in little lavender flowers; and she had a lavender straw hat to go with it.
“There’ll be high jinks,” she said, “and there is going to be as much fun for Rosie Rundall as for Her Gracious Majesty—more, I shouldn’t wonder.”
My mother seemed to have changed since that memorable time when Captain Carmichael had given me the locket. She was pleased to see us, she said. She hugged us and told us we were going to see the Jubilee procession with her. Wasn’t that exciting?
We agreed that it was.
“Shall we see the Queen?” asked Olivia.
“Of course, my dear. What sort of Jubilee would it be without her?”
We were caught up in the excitement.
“Your father,” said Miss Bell, “will have his duties on such a day. He will be at Court, of course?”
“Will he ride with the Queen?” asked Olivia.
I burst out laughing. “Even he is not important enough for that,” I said scornfully.
In the morning when we were at lessons with Miss Bell, my parents came up to the schoolroom. This was so unexpected that we were all dumbfounded—even Miss Bell, who rose to her feet, flushing slightly, murmuring: “Good morning, Sir. Good morning, Madam.”
Olivia and I had risen to our feet too and stood like statues, wondering what this visit meant.
Our father looked as though he were asking himself how such a magnificent person as he was could possibly have sired such offspring. There was a blot on my bodice. I always got carried away when writing and made myself untidy in the process. I felt my head jerk up. I expected I had put on my defiant look, which I invariably did, so Miss Bell said, when I was expecting criticism. I glanced at Olivia. She was pale and clearly nervous.
I felt a little angry. One person had no right to have that effect on others. I promised myself I would not allow him to frighten me.
He said: “Well, are you dumb?”
“Good morning, Papa,” we said in unison. “Good morning, Mama.”
My mother laughed lightly. “I shall take them to see the procession myself.”
He nodded. I think that meant approval.
My mother went on: “Both Clare Ponsonby and Delia Sanson have invited us. The procession will pass their doors and there will be an excellent view from their windows.”
“Indeed yes.” He looked at Miss Bell. Like myself, she was determined not to show how nervous he made her. She was, after all, a vicar’s daughter, and vicar’s families were always so respectable that daughters of such households were readily preferred by employers; she was also a lady of some spirit and she was not going to be cowed before her pupils.
“And what do you think of your pupils, eh, Miss Bell?”
“They are progressing very well,” said Miss Bell.
My mother said, again with that little laugh: “Miss Bell tells me that the girls are clever … in their different ways.”
“H’m.” He looked at Miss Bell quizzically, and it occurred to me that not to show fear was the way to behave in his presence. Most people showed it and then he became more and more godlike. I admired Miss Bell.
“I hope you have thanked God for the Queen’s preservation,” he said, looking at Olivia.
“Oh yes, Papa,” I said fervently.
“We must all be grateful to God for giving us such a lady to rule over us.”
Ah, I thought. She is the Queen, though a woman. Nobody took the crown from her because she was a woman, so Cousin Mary has every right to Tressidor Manor. Thoughts like that always came into my mind at odd moments.
“We are, Papa,” I said, “to have such a great lady to rule over us.”
He glared at Olivia, who looked very frightened. “And what of you? What do you say?”
“Why … yes … yes … Papa,” stammered Olivia.
“We are all very grateful,” said my mother, “and we shall have a wonderful time together at the Ponsonbys’ or Sansons’ … We shall cheer Her Majesty until we are hoarse, shall we not, my dears?”
“I think it would be better if you watched in respectful silence,” said my father.
“But of course, Robert,” said my mother. She went to him and slipped her arm through his. I was amazed at such temerity but he did not seem to mind. In fact he seemed to find the contact rather pleasing.
“Come along,” she said, no doubt seeing how eager we were for the interview to end and growing a little tired of it herself. “The girls will behave beautifully and be a credit to us, won’t you, girls?”
“Oh yes, Mama.”
She smiled at him and his lips turned up at the corners, as though he could not help smiling back although he was trying hard not to.
When the door shut on them we all heaved a sigh of relief.
“Why did he come?” I asked, as usual speaking without thinking.
“Your father feels he should pay a visit to the schoolroom occasionally,” said Miss Bell. “It is a parent’s duty and your father would always do his duty.”
“I’m glad our mother came with him. That made him a little less stern I think.”
Miss Bell was silent.
Then she opened a book. “Let us see what William the Conqueror is doing now. We left him, remember, planning the conquest of these islands.”
And as we read our books I was thinking of my parents, wondering about them. Why did my mother, who loved to laugh, marry my father, who clearly did not? Why could she make him look different merely by slipping her arm through his? Why had she come to the schoolroom to tell us we were going to see the procession, either from the Ponsonbys’ or the Sansons’, when we knew already?