London Rain

by Nicola Upson

  And it was. Sunlight danced and sparkled on a pair of glass coaches, and two small princesses waved exuberantly from the windows of the first. Josephine looked down at the young Elizabeth and wondered if she had any idea yet of what this day meant for her future; there were times when she herself felt as though the path of her life were all too clearly mapped out, but she couldn’t begin to imagine how it must feel to have the years laid down for you so publicly and so irrevocably. Would this little girl embrace the responsibilities that had unexpectedly come her way, or would she secretly kick against the loss of her freedom for the rest of her days, envying the sister who seemed so close to her now but whose fate was so very different?

  It was amazing what a difference the weather made to the public’s mood. Queen Mary’s procession followed quickly on the heels of her granddaughters’, and she acknowledged her ovation with characteristic dignity and grace, visibly moved by the warmth and respect she had received from everyone over the years – well, almost everyone. ‘Third time lucky for her,’ Ronnie said irreverently. ‘She certainly knows how to see them in and out, doesn’t she?’ The sun brought a new dimension to the vista of brilliant uniforms and tossing plumes, recreating the movement of the horses and the marching of the bands in an ever-shifting shadow play on the streets and nearby buildings. Even to a nation so confident of its own pageantry, the precision of the spectacle was extraordinary, but it was the noise that struck Josephine most – the clatter of hooves, the jingle of harnesses and the crunch of gun-carriage wheels, distinct even above the roar of the crowds. The procession was relentless as it reached its height: sailors and marines, soldiers and airmen, all interspersed with less-familiar sights; three maharajahs – the King’s Honorary Indian Aides-de-Camp – looked splendid in jewelled turbans of blue, cream and gold; and the Yeomen of the Guard, the King’s Bargemaster and a dozen Watermen wore uniforms which brought vanished centuries to life. Behind them, massed bands struck up another spirited march, and for a few brief moments, the intensity of the experience silenced everyone. ‘There’s no finer sight than a country at peace with itself,’ Mrs Snipe said eventually, and Josephine had to agree.

  Then, at last, the moment that everyone had been waiting for. The breastplates and plumes of the Lifeguards heralded the approach of the King and Queen, and the crowds in this part of the city got their first glimpse of the coronation coach. Looking down the line of stands, Josephine marked its approach by an advancing tide of flags and handkerchiefs, long before the horses came into view – eight Windsor Greys in gold-and-crimson harness, driven by four postilions in red jackets and jockey caps with grooms walking beside them. The sun seemed to increase in strength, repentant for its late arrival, but it had met its match in the gold-encrusted windows and painted panels of the state coach. George VI wore the crimson velvet cap of state, trimmed with ermine; beneath it, his face was pale – he couldn’t have had any more sleep than she had, Josephine thought – and he gazed straight ahead, exchanging an occasional word with his wife. ‘God, he looks terrified,’ she said, borrowing the Snipe’s binoculars to get a better view. ‘You would be, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Mmm. Look at her, though – you’d never guess who was the commoner if you didn’t know.’ The Queen sat on crimson cushions, dressed in an ermine cloak, and Ronnie was right about her confidence: she smiled broadly at the crowds, bowing to left and right as the cluster of gold moved forward.

  The coach received a tremendous ovation in Parliament Square amid the music of the bands, the pealing of the Abbey bells and the fluttering of handkerchiefs and flags, finally drawing to a halt outside the annexe. Moved as much by the spirit of unity as by the occasion which inspired it, Josephine watched the King step down, followed by his queen. It was ironic, she thought, that of all the people gathered here today, only these two were playing out a different role; the abdication had changed nothing for the crowds or the officials or the guests, all of whom behaved exactly as they would have done had this been Edward VIII’s coronation. History rolled on, but there was a personal drama here that Josephine found more poignant, a sacrifice made by one couple because of the love of another. They paused for a moment to acknowledge the appreciation of the crowd, then turned and mounted the blue-carpeted steps to the Abbey. As they disappeared inside, the Royal Standard which flew over the annexe was taken down and another flag raised above the main building to mark the beginning of the ceremony. It was precisely eleven o’clock.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ Ronnie said, eyeing up one of the baskets that was yet to be opened. ‘Is it too early for a gin?’

  4

  The walls of the Abbey could scarcely keep the noise of the crowds at bay. Ripples of applause grew rhythmically outside, gathering strength like the tide and breaking against the stone, falling away suddenly only to begin again somewhere else. The intrusion felt curious, out of kilter with the quiet mystery of what was happening inside, but far less brazen than the microphones positioned at various points around the building. From his post high up in the triforium, Penrose could count four by the altar, eight around the thrones and chairs of state, and – perhaps most incongruously of all – two hanging down over St Edward’s Chair, where the most intimate moments of the ceremony would take place. Apart from one short break during the prayer of consecration, when the broadcast would switch to a hymn from St Margaret’s Church, everything that was said or sung today would be heard by millions, and Penrose could not help but feel that the microphones were as symbolic in their way as any of the more ritualistic items laid out on the altar table; they were a reminder that – for the first time ever – the world was present even after the doors were closed, and they stood not for age or for tradition, but for democracy.

  When the ceremony began, though, a stillness descended on the Abbey and it was as if all the comings and goings had never happened. The crowds faded, and everywhere Penrose looked the past reclaimed the day – in the quiet strength of the stone, in the diffuse light which fell on the cross, in the echoes of lost centuries and the tombs of the famous dead. He should have been scanning the crowd, but, as the last notes of ‘Zadok the Priest’ died away, he found it hard to concentrate on anything but the thousand-year-old ceremony unfolding in front of him. For all the secular pomp and military showmanship, the Coronation was first and last a hallowing, a consecration, and its central act was the anointing. Penrose watched, spellbound, as the Lord Chamberlain removed the King’s crimson velvet robes, stripping him of the trappings of earthly majesty. Clothed simply now in white shirt and breeches, the King walked slowly towards the altar to sit for the first time on Edward the Confessor’s chair, a gothic piece of ancient oak with freshly gilded lions at its feet. Four Knights of the Garter stepped forward to hold a canopy of gold cloth over the monarch, partially concealing him from view, and the Dean poured oil from a golden ampulla, shaped like an eagle, into a spoon. With great solemnity, the Archbishop of Canterbury dipped his fingers in the oil and anointed the King in four places – the palms of both hands, the chest and the crown of his head. The gesture was both earthly and mystical, an acknowledgement of the bond between God and King, and Penrose – who had no religious faith but who sometimes envied those who did – was moved.

  He looked back at the congregation and saw his own fascination mirrored there, even in the faces of those who had witnessed the ceremony before. So far, the day had been flawless and he hoped that the street celebrations which followed – a far greater challenge than his duties here – would go as smoothly. His mind wandered during the investiture, and he found himself thinking about the contingency plans that had been made for the afternoon and evening, trying to predict the areas of most concern. Eventually, the ceremony began to move more swiftly, and the anticipation in the Abbey was almost tangible as the Archbishop lifted the crown from its place on the altar. The King bowed his head in reverence during the prayer that followed, and the crown was carried towards him, past the Queen and her entourage and below the Royal Ga
llery where his mother and daughters sat expectantly. Then the Archbishop held the crown aloft with both hands and lowered it slowly until it rested on George VI’s head.

  A cheer rang out through the Abbey, and the triumphant notes of silver trumpets rose up to greet them. As the tumult died down, the pealing of the bells could be heard, faint and muffled through the stone walls. In the distance, Penrose thought he detected the booming note of a gun salute from the Tower of London, but it was soon eclipsed by a repeated, staccato chant that came from all directions, uniting those inside and out. ‘God save the King! God save the King! God save the King!’

  5

  The wireless was on in the background and Marta half-listened as she worked, still in her pyjamas and conscious of being the least appropriately dressed woman in London, but too engrossed in what she was doing to care. Yet another trumpet fanfare marked the latest significant moment in an otherwise obscure ceremony, and she thought again about Josephine; a day of waiting and cheering and crowds would not be doing much for her headache. It was odd that none of her calls had been returned, but Josephine had had an early start and Marta knew by now that she was always anxious and short-tempered when something important was happening with her work – and the situation with Lydia was preying on both their minds. In hindsight, she wished she had ignored Josephine’s protestations and talked to Lydia as soon as they got back from Suffolk. The waiting wasn’t good for any of them; even Lydia had been quiet and distracted over dinner last night, and that wasn’t like her at all.

  She lit another cigarette and read back over the script she was working on, an early draft of a screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock and Alma Reville. The Lost Lady was an adaptation of a recent novel, and Hitchcock – looking for a follow-up to Young and Innocent, the film he was currently making of Josephine’s book – had inherited the project from another director as a way of fulfilling his contract before moving to America. It was Marta’s job to add some dialogue to the original script, working with the new scenarios that Hitch and Alma had developed, and she enjoyed it as she enjoyed all the work she did for them. It was well-paid if not well-credited – Hitchcock’s attitude to dialogue writers was less than complimentary – and she found it easy as well as satisfying; she had held imaginary conversations in her head for most of her life, so putting words into the mouths of other people came as second nature – and the beauty of a script was that they only answered back if she let them.

  The first, uplifting notes of the Te Deum drifted across the room and Marta turned the wireless up to listen to the closing part of the ceremony. She had always loved choral music and the voices soothed her while she worked, reminding her of when she was young and lived in Cambridge, and often went to Evensong at King’s. It had been a sanctuary of sorts from a bad marriage, not in the religious sense, but because it offered more precious gifts of beauty, peace and hope, the very things that her husband had taken from her. The bell that sounded the call to prayer each day had been just audible from where she lived, and she remembered how desperately she had left the house when she heard it, not to find God but to find herself. It was funny, but Cambridge had been on her mind more often of late, and she couldn’t decide if that was because her life in London was beginning to crowd in on her, or because she was finally ready to face her past.

  She put her source material down, imagining how shocked Hitch and Alma would be by the idea that Ethel Lina White’s original novel might have any relevance to what she was doing, and went to make more coffee, looking out across the garden as she waited for the kettle to boil. She had sat by this window for hours after the first night that she and Josephine spent together, and she could still recall the devastating sense of loss she felt when Josephine left her alone in the house. It was as far from the euphoria with which she might have hoped to greet a new love as it was possible to get, but, in her heart, she had never expected her to return. The intensity of Josephine’s feelings had surprised Marta more than her own: once the love was there and acknowledged between them, there was an innocence to Josephine’s trust in it; she worried too much about the outside world, but not once when they were alone had Marta sensed anything but a fundamental faith in the beauty of what they shared, and she realised now that the assurance of that had healed her. Once or twice in her life she had considered ending everything, and she wondered if Josephine would ever know how many times she had saved her from the darkness of her own soul – by a look or by a kiss, by the passion and tenderness of her touch, by loving her in spite of the risks. And it was stupid or selfish of her – she wasn’t sure which was worse – to forget that Josephine also needed something more to live for. She was just as self-destructive in her way, and although she might baulk at leaving the world altogether, she would deny herself what she loved if she felt it was the right thing to do, no matter how much pain it brought her. Marta had made too many sacrifices in her life already to add their love to the list.

  Outside, the weather had lost its patience with the day and rain poured down into the garden, soaking the deckchairs that she had forgotten to bring in and laying low the early summer irises. Even so, she was pleased with how the garden had come on in the two years she had been there, and satisfied that it was in good shape for the next custodian along. She would miss it, but selling the house was the right thing to do. Although she hadn’t yet discussed it with Josephine, she knew that it would take more than one conversation to unravel her life with Lydia, and broaching the subject was just the beginning. If her intentions were to be taken seriously, she needed to find somewhere new that Lydia didn’t regard as a second home, somewhere out of London and less convenient for the theatre, somewhere she could be alone, and where Josephine could turn up unannounced whenever she liked without having to look over her shoulder. There would be somewhere that made them both happy. Cambridge might be the answer or it might not, but there would be somewhere.

  6

  ‘Their Majesties appear in the doorway and the people get a first glimpse of their crowned monarch. The Queen – sceptre and rod in hand – is the first to enter the state coach, and the national anthem crashes out as they drive away, drowned in mighty waves of cheering . . .’

  Vivienne sat in the broadcast cubicle on Constitution Hill, listening as Anthony’s colleagues described the royal couple’s departure from Westminster Abbey. The commentary so far had been flawless, the pictures both vivid and dignified, and she could only imagine the self-congratulation that would go on later: there was no organisation more practised than the Corporation at taking credit where credit was due. Every moment that passed according to plan put more pressure on Anthony not to drop the baton once it was handed to him, and she watched as he fidgeted in his chair, adjusting the microphone for the hundredth time and reading through some notes without taking any of them in. Her husband was more nervous than she had ever seen him. At breakfast, he had been irritable and self-absorbed, as he always was before a broadcast, but his mood had changed over the course of the morning to something approaching panic, and she watched him curiously, interested in a vulnerability that she had never seen before. ‘Look, it’s raining,’ she said, trying to distract him from his nerves. ‘What a shame.’

  ‘I can see it’s bloody raining, Viv. There wouldn’t be much point in my being here if I’d missed that.’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ She poured a coffee from the flask and put the cup on the desk next to him. ‘Have some of this.’ He ignored it, and she knew that what he wanted most was for her to leave him alone, but his discomfort gave her an obstinate desire to linger.

  ‘Don’t you want to go and soak up the atmosphere?’ he asked eventually, when she refused to get the message.

  ‘I think those crowds are soaking up a bit more than atmosphere.’ She stood beside him and looked out of the small oblong window, which offered a prime view over the solid bank of faces on Constitution Hill. The hill was a splendid setting for pageantry at any time, but today, at intervals of fifty feet or so, tall ma
sts flew white-and-gold banners emblazoned with the royal arms, offsetting the soft green plane trees that lined the avenue and leading the eye gently down to the Victoria Memorial and the beginning of the Mall. A bird’s-eye view of the procession from here would indeed be an unforgettable sight, and Vivienne did not doubt that Anthony would do it justice for the millions listening at home. ‘I’ll wait until your engineer gets here,’ she added, ‘just in case you need anything.’

  ‘If you must, but don’t keep talking to me. I can’t have any distractions while I’m working.’

  She could have retorted that the next time he let her interrupt his work would be the first, but she didn’t waste her breath. They were long past the pettiness of squabbles. It was after two o’clock and the head of the procession was approaching Hyde Park Corner; it could only be a matter of minutes now before Anthony’s turn came. ‘The skies have been ominously grey for some time, and now the first drops of rain are falling,’ said the voice over the airwaves – a little behind events, Vivienne thought. ‘The King and Queen – showing some understandable weariness now – pass through Marble Arch, where the crowds remain undaunted by the weather. The state coach begins its long progression down East Carriage Drive, where – as you will shortly hear – members of the British Legion stand proudly ready to greet Their Majesties with song, and then to Hyde Park Corner, where television cameras will for the first time transmit an historic event, taking our viewers to within a few feet of the coach as it passes through Apsley Gate.’