Five days before the state funeral, the Queen leaves Buckingham Palace for the last time. I sit, glued to the tv, in my friend’s loft, watching her Household Guard (both infantry and mounted regiments) in their scarlet uniforms and huge bearskin hats, march out of that famous gate, headed by a man whom I think might be part of the Lord Chamberlain’s office.
Before the procession moves off, he twirls his stick, ceremoniously, and then the haunting refrain of Johann Walch’s funeral march (attributed to Beethoven) starts up, paled by the Coldstream Guards. It is an astonishing site, watching the coffin being pulled along on a gun carriage, the Imperial Crown, orb and sceptre atop, the Queen’s children (and grandchildren) marching behind and thousands of people lining the Mall, hoping for a glimpse of the pageantry.
As the band plays, along with a haunting muffled drumbeat, her coffin proceeds towards the Palace of Westminster, which is part of the Houses of Parliament and close to Westminster Abbey, She will lie in state in this palace (which was the original meeting place for the House of Commons) from Wednesday late afternoon until 6am on Monday morning. Already, there are logistical discussions about the paying of respects, and the management of a queue, which is expected to be long. No-one knows how long, of course.
At this point, I haven’t really thought about filing past her coffin - I have a friend who did so when Winston Churchill died, and another who queued at Jerusalem’s Knesset, after Yitzhack Rabin was assassinated. By the evening, to my astonishment, Radio 4 is reporting that the queue to pay one’s respects is already 5 hours long, and stretching across Lambeth Bridge, back to the National Film Theatre on the South Bank, where wristbands to join it are being handed out.
At 8am the following morning, BBC Radio 4 informs me that it has grown enormously.
It is now stretching back to Tower Bridge!
News anchors are reporting that the estimated waiting time is now around 11 hours.
I discuss the situation with my friend Brett (born in the USA, as Springsteen sang, but in my eyes an honorary Brit).
We consider joining the next morning (we don’t want to stand in line through the night, as it could be chilly) with sandwiches, books and each other for company.
But I feel like I’m possibly coming down with a cold and unsure if I’ll last the course. We decide to play it by ear.
On Friday - I wake, exhausted and aching a little. Moreover, the queue is so long now that it‘s stretching back to Southwark Park, in Bermondsey, and organisers are telling people not to show up, because they’re temporarily having to close the entrance (where wristbands are being given out). It seems the die is cast and Brett and I agree to stay home.
I sit and watch news presenters interviewing people who’ve joined it. David Beckham has been spotted, quietly and unobtrusively standing in line overnight (apparently, he purchased donuts for everyone in his group!) Philip Schofield and Holly Willougby, presenters of breakfast tv’s ‘This Morning’ program are being castigated for ‘jumping the line’ and petitions are being signed, calling for them to be fired for their disrespect.
Seems this queue business is really getting serious.
The following morning, it’s a beautiful, bright, sunny day and I decide to walk from my friend’s loft, down to Tower Bridge and across the Thames, to see for myself what’s going on. It really is a sight. Thousands of people are standing in a well-organised line (all with fluorescent-coloured wristbands) and are moving slowly west, along the banks of the river, as far as the eye can see.
Everyone’s laughing, joking and in high spirits. I walk alongside them all, amazed, and when I arrive at London Bridge ask a few of them how long they’ve been walking - about three hours, they say. It’s hard to estimate how much longer they’ve got but according to the official ‘You Tube Queue Tracker’ it’s another eight hours, minimum.
And at that precise moment, I don’t feel sorry for them;I feel envious. I want to join this queue - I can’t even articulate why exactly but I want to make this ‘pilgrimage.’ Whether it’s to pay respects to a woman who never complained about the duty thrust upon her, or to feel ‘British’, whether I want to be part of something wider than myself or to vicariously mourn my father, I want to be in this queue.
My mind is made up. I am returning home to prepare sandwiches, snacks, a thermos and to borrow some super comfy shoes. Tomorrow, I will be there.