THE
BOY WITH THE FLAG It was very quiet where I lived as a
child. It was so quiet you could hear a butterfly stretching its wings on a
buttercup. It was so quiet sometimes I thought I was sleeping when I was wide
and well awake. Many was the day I used to sit by our gate and count the cars
going by. The average haul per morning was a rough half a dozen. There was so
little traffic on the roads that when I was really bored I would lie down in
the middle of the thorough-fare and not move until I felt the distant rumble of
an approaching vehicle when I would slowly rise and amble back to the verge as
the arriving car thundered by at a full twelve to thirteen miles an hour. Few cars of distinction passed our
way except in Ascot week, when due to the sudden volume of traffic I would have
to forego my position of rest on the crown of the road and sit instead on our gate
and stare for hours at the ladies and the gentlemen in all their finery en
route to the racecourse. To us in our backwater they were like visitors from another
world both in their dress and their limousines, the sort of folk we never saw
in our village, not even in Church, all except for our Duke. We had a semi-resident Duke oddly enough
for such an insignificant hamlet. He was called Connaught, the seventh child
and third son of Queen Victoria and by the strangest of coincidences as I was
to discover some twenty years later, he was my future wife’s grandfather’s
godfather. Whenever the Duke was in residence at Bagshot Park he would attend
Matins at the Church of Anne, always entering five minutes late through the
side door and sitting in his private pew below the pulpit. Once seated the Duke
would take a large gold watch from his fob and place it ostentatiously on the
front of his private box directly in the eye-line of the vicar once he had climbed
into the pulpit to preach. Should the vicar talk for too long or even worse, should
his sermon prove exceptionally boring the Duke would cough just the once and
tap his watch three times. My mother told me services were infinitely more
tolerable when the Duke attended because no sermon ever lasted more than five
minutes. It was through the Duke that I
became familiar with the King and Queen. One quiet day when I was taking forty
winks in the middle of the Bracknell Road I was awoken from my childish reverie
by the imperious sound of an upper class klaxon. Getting to safety in plenty of
time I stood on the verge and watched the great car - and by great I mean huge as
well as fine - glide by behind one police out rider. I was very close to it and
found myself briefly staring at a simply beautiful woman wearing a small hat
and a fur stole seated next to a handsome man who was smoking a cigarette. The
beautiful woman waved at me with a smile and the man nodded. Now I might only
have been a child but in those days we knew our Kings and our Queens and once
the road was clear I ran into our house and told my mother who had just smiled
at me. She in turn smiled herself and told me to go and wash because lunch was
ready. When my sister came home from school I told her as well and she gave me
a Chinese burn. Some weeks passed or it might have
been months – being a child I had not yet got a proper grasp of time - when it
happened my sister and I were playing ponies up and down our drive, and as
we were changing legs or it might have been reins on the verge of the Bracknell
Road I chanced to look up the hill and saw a police outrider hanging a left off
the London Road on the Cricketer’s Bridge, closely followed by a familiar huge
black limousine. Moments later my sister and I stood on the grass wayside to
wave excitedly to our Sovereigns both of whom this time waved very happily
back. Once they were gone out of sight we cantered up the drive to tell our
mother who smiled and told us to wash our hands because it was lunch time. As
we washed up I said to my sister that I had told her so for which she gave me
another Chinese burn. But my mother must finally have
believed me because soon the local policeman who had obviously been grilled by
Mama would arrive on his bicycle to give us advance warning of the latest visit
of the King and Queen, so that by the time the car swept slowly by the three of
us were well and truly in place with three small Union Jacks in hand ready to
be vigourously waved. In return we received two big smiles from the Monarchy as
well as two cheery waves. We waved until their crowns had disappeared out of
sight over the hill, although I very much doubt that they were doing the same. There was never anyone else out on our
road because I don’t suppose anyone else knew about these private visits to the
Park, so we had the King and Queen all to ourselves, and they had the three of
us all to themselves. I can’t remember how many times we waved at each other
and so fond is my memory that if I chose a number it would be bound to be an
exaggeration. I can however assure you that they passed by our gate on a number
of occasions over a period of two or three years on their journey from the Park
back to Windsor Castle and so good was our information that by the fourth or
fifth trip we were there to wave them hello as to wave them goodbye. Then many years passed, during which
the King died, the Princess became the Queen and the Queen became the Queen
Mother, and about thirty years after I had first waved at her I found myself at
lunch with the beautiful woman in the little hat and fur stole. I had about
four people on my list of those I simply had to meet in my life and the Queen
Mother was right up there at the top with Gene Kelly and Duke Ellington, both
of whom I also managed to encounter. The occasion of the lunch was a private
party for her birthday given by a friend of ours who knowing my reluctance to
do formal, forbade my beloved to tell me who the Guest of Honour was until
after we had formally accepted. The Queen Mother was late as was her custom –
quite rightly so too, because imagine if she had been a good time keeper and
people had arrived after her? – and when she did finally arrive I was down the
area steps of our friend’s rather grand country house opening the champagne
which I had been requested to do by my host because (a) his butler was too
nervous and (b) the champagne was a bit lively and the walls of our host’s salon
were silk lined. So there I was like something out of
Upstairs Downstairs opening bottles of
pop when Her Majesty arrived and having taken due note of the figure in an
especially bought new dark suit emerging from the servants quarters with a
bottle in hand and a linen napkin draped over one arm, jumped to the wrong
conclusion and kindly handed me her coat before disappearing regally within. Sometime later when I had settled
her private detectives down in front of their lunch of beer and sandwiches I made
my way to the salon where I was formally introduced to the Guest of Honour who smiled
very sweetly but a little surprisingly before directing me to fetch her a
drink. She was perhaps even more surprised when she saw me sitting down to
lunch next door to our hostess but once a Queen always a Queen and perhaps
supposing that one must always move with the times a good and grand luncheon
was finally enjoyed by all. After lunch I found myself deep in
conversation with her Majesty and can report you she was as funny and as warm as
can be. We talked of many things, all of which shall remain private, except for
our final exchange. I told her about my sister and my mother and myself all standing
waiting to wave to her and to the King whenever she passed by our gate adding that
I was of course sure that she wouldn’t possibly remember such a thing and to my
astonishment she gave me that famous smile and said but yes she did, and that how
she and the King always used to look out for the little boy and girl and their
mother on the Bracknell Road. Finally as she took her leave she turned back to
me to tell me with a certain look in her famous eye me that I had done very well for
myself and that there would always be a place for me at Clarence House. |
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CategoriesBrendan BehanCannes Film Festival 2012 community police Dance, art and healing End of the Rainbow Films and filming humour, books music OLYMPICS AND THE FUTURE Sexual innocence The Nanny State the price of fame Vision why do you write? |
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