Her Majesty’s garden party

*Pic: Her Maj in 1984 … before the garden party …

Written 13 July 1984

LONDON: SOME IDLE words by Mr Robert Hawke on the possible future status of Australia have had certain repercussions in this country. A while back, a cab driver accused me of being Australian. I admitted the colonial fault. More apparently, in sorrow than anger, he said: “They’re going to make it a republic, aren’t they?”

I hastened to reassure the wretched fellow: “That’s nonsense; there’d be a revolt if they were deprived of Her Majesty and the Royal Family.” And not only the loyal citizenry, I thought; splendid tabloid editors would take the strongest exception to cutting the link with certain members of the family.

I scored a ducat in a Foreign Press Association ballot. The card said: “Her Majesty’s garden party. No cameras or tape recorders. Dress: Gentlemen: morning dress or lounge suit. Ladies: day dress with hat.”

Mossbroz will lend you a morning suit, complete with top hat, for $A46.50. I figured that the legendary old clo’ firm would not require my business to do all right out of the three garden parties Her Majesty springs for some 18,000 deserving citizens, plus some of the press, in July.

The palace gates were opened to the mob at 3.15 pm; Her Majesty was to appear at 4 pm. The cabby did the best he could; he took me down The Mall and let me off on the south side of the rather ghastly Queen Victoria Memorial at the front of the palace. By then it was 3.40 pm; a vast queue was inching forward from half way round the side of the palace in Buckingham Palace Road.

By the time we had shuffled through the gates, across the courtyard, through the principal entrance, across the large quadrangle surfaced with fine red gravel bearing the weight of a few hundred Rollers, through the Grand Entrance, across the Grand Hall and the Marble Hall and out into the Bow Room, it was 4 pm and they’d rung the bells and shut the doors.

I peered out, round and over a dozen heads, through a French window. Outside was a terrace, and below that, shoulder to shoulder, were the top hats and summer hats of the 5,000 who had made it on time. A startling figure momentarily crossed my line of vision just outside the window.

Her Majesty, 58, was clad – and I can assert this with confidence, since the palace press people so advised – in a silk dress printed in brilliant, emerald green and black, and wore an emerald green hat trimmed with emerald and black flowers. So rapidly did the royal person appear and disappear, the words of the late statesman, R. G. Menzies, inevitably sprang to mind: “I did but see her passing by …” I imagined that the royal couturier had dressed her in this blazing outfit so that, if the royal bodyguard lost track of her, they would soon pick her up again.

Entering right, the heavily tanned Prince of Wales and the bearded Prince Michael of Kent paused on the terrace to chat for a minute or two. Prince Charles wore a black morning coat and held a black top hat and a tightly rolled umbrella. Inside the room, it was like a sauna; outside it was warm and humid. Did the Prince know something we didn’t?

On the terrace, out of sight, Her Majesty was making a number of presentations to five people, including the Marquess of Anglesey, lately appointed Lord Lieutenant of various counties. Below, on the grass, a somewhat lesser event was taking place: Lord Franks, Lord Warden of the Stannaries, was making presentations on behalf of the Duchy of Cornwall to such worthy persons as Mr and Mrs W. D. Gait, of Pitcote Farm, Stratton-on-the-Fosse, Bath, Avon.

These ceremonies over, the French windows were opened and the quondam prisoners of the palace were let out into the fresh air. I observed matters from the terrace. A vast expanse of greensward was enclosed by trees that blocked out all but a couple of tall buildings nearby. Away to the right were the royal flower gardens.

The assembled horde appeared to have been formed up in hollow rectangles into which the royal persons insinuated themselves and chatted for a while with a few of the worthies. A few pool photographers are allowed up on the battlements, but at ground level the protocol is that the royal chat is not reported. One assumes that in any event, (a) the chat is of the inspired small talk variety; and (b) that it would take, so great is the crush, one of the great break-down-the-door reporters to get within earshot.

In his rectangle, Prince Charles was chatting, amid a good deal of mirth, to a number of young ladies. He appears to have the blessed knack of making people feel good. Over on the right, under an awning of cream and green, were the royal tea tents.

At this first of the three garden parties, Commonwealth High Commissioners from Australia down to Ghana, and ambassadors from Algeria down to Honduras, were invited into the royal tent, along with sundry other local personages, such as the deputy Prime Minister, Viscount Whitelaw, and the Leader of the Opposition, Mr Neil Kinnock.

So that the lesser citizens could observe the royal persons in the action of eating and drinking, a number of metal and plastic chairs were set up in a semi-circle about 30 metres distant and facing the royal tent. The observers were prevented from rushing the royal tent by their own good manners and the pikestaffs of trusty Beefeaters dotted around in their navy blue hats with blue and white flowers and their charming red, black and gold uniforms.

In the distance, inside the royal tent, I could see a lady in green in the classic pose of the contented party-goer. She was taking the weight at two points: on her right elbow, which was on the bar, and on her left foot, around which her right leg was curled, the right toe pointing to the ground. She was talking to Prince Michael, but I could not be certain it was Her Majesty and indeed the posture suggested it was not.

Over on the left two ambulances, Surgeon Commodore J.W. Richardson and two Red Cross ladies stood at the ready in case the heat, patriotic fervour, or the gateaux proved too much for any of the party-goers. They were stationed near a long covered structure where afternoon tea was laid on for the hoi polloi.

I noted that many of the Brits seemed determined to get at least a slice of the Mossbroz outlay back: some clouted on to four or five cakes to go with the cup of tea. In order that the colonial might not be accused of vile greed, I modestly selected one cake and a cup of black tea, but allowed myself to be persuaded to have 130 millilitres of Lyons Maid Super Cup vanilla ice cream.

Stationed at either end of the lawn, the bands of the Welsh Guards and the Royal Marines spelled each other throughout the afternoon with Gilbert and Sullivan, Lerner and Loewe, charming stuff like that. The party was billed to end at 6 pm. At 5.57 pm Her Majesty emerged from the throng in the royal tent. She was followed at a proper distance by the Duke of Edinburgh, in a grey morning suit and cream weskit, Prince Charles, and by Prince Michael and Prince Georg of Denmark. Two Beefeaters held for the Queen a gap in the crowd. She offered them a smile that seemed tentative, as if she weren’t sure they would smile back.

I reflected that Her Majesty may be the one person in this beknighted country who cares about all her people, and has even gone so far as to have it leaked from the palace, after some shocking scenes between police and pickets, that some attempt should be made to settle the long-running miners’ strike. This has been ignored. The weekly private meetings between Her Majesty and that callous woman, the Prime Minister, are understood to be pretty frigid affairs.

At 6.03 pm one of the bands struck up God Save the Queen, and I was astonished to experience a little catch at the throat. The long reverse shuffle out of the palace completed, I was held up on the footpath outside by a fresh-faced young Bobby letting the Rollers and such get back in. He spoke to a girl who had been inside: “They say you haven’t seen England till you’ve seen the Queen.” I think he may be right.