Queen Mum

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The Queen Mother died not too long ago, and unless I miss my bet – she is still dead.

Such statements, for a typical Brit, border on blasphemy - sort of like jokes about the Pope or your dear sainted departed mother. There is certainly an odd love/hate relationship with the Royals in the United Kingdom.

We were fortunate enough to be in London during the Queen “Mum’s” passing (even that sounds a bit scandalous – but you know what I mean). Just weeks before the papers were ready to declare the monarchy dead (Prince Charles had been up to something again, I believe). Then the headlines mourned…“Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother departed this earth peacefully in her sleep at age 101” and the grandeur of the monarchy was restored.

What was quite strange to an uncultured outsider like myself, was the genuine shock felt by people in her passing. She was 101 years old for crying out loud. How long did they think she would live? The palace had been planning this event for the past 25 years (I hold a mental image of them pulling the “Queen Mum Funeral” file out of storage each year, changing the date, and sticking it back in the dusty case). Her husband died 51 years ago. It seemed to me she had done her bit for King and Country and had the right to move on.

Almost immediately, as with every great story of our modern era, the media became the message. The BBC newsreader had the unashamed cheek to announce the sad news shile wearing a dark maroon tie - rather than the appropriate black tie – a tie deemed suitable for royal mourning. Prince Charles (after consulting with his mother, of course) went on television to publicly chastise the BBC for their lack of respect and obvious anti-royal sentiments.

Then the papers and the radio and the television went into a frenzy reporting nothing but Queen Mother stories. The problem was, it soon became obvious that nobody really knew anything about her. Inevitably the stories degenerated into long dissertations on why the media saw fit to report on this story to the exclusion of all else… pretty much just the reporters contemplating their navels in public – much to their delight and the public’s disgust. But of course, paper sales increased – so an irritated public got just what they deserved, at least according to a self-consumed media.

As I said, strangely, this country that so loved the Queen Mum had no idea what she had done or thought. Perhaps this is why they loved her so. She had the good sense to keep her royal mouth shut. During her public life she gave only one interview, back in the 1920’s. Apparently her husband (King George) was not amused, so she never gave another.

All the retrospectives of her life focused on four things, glibly summing up her existence. First, she loved to drink gin (which was often cited as an example of her “common touch”). She loved to race (and gamble on) horses. She insisted on staying in London during the bombings of WWII – thus demonstrating courage to a besieged populace at a much needed time. And finally, she was much beloved.

When you asked why she was “much beloved,” typically people’s response went something like this. “Well, she was the Queen Mum, wasn’t she? I mean, she’s been around my whole life. She’s an institution. She was sort of like your own Gran, isn’t she? She liked her drink and she played the horses – she never forgot her roots, did she? And I remember her coming to our neighborhood during the war and standing on the rubble. She was a right old bird.”

As I noted, the Royal Palace had been planning this funeral since the 1950’s and did it right. The casket lay on display in Westminster Cathedral for much of the week as people filed past, paying their last respects. My wife and I decided that our 8-year-old would benefit from witnessing such an historic occasion, so we rode the “Tube” down to Westminster station, bracing ourselves for what might be a long wait in line (I was prepared to go as much as an hour… maybe an hour and a half). But it was not to be.

We were greeted by (I assume) officials at the station, who handed out cards announcing the official visiting hours. They also announced that the end of the queue was now two stations back the way we had just come. This did not look promising.

Undeterred, we strode out into the brisk sunshine and made our way to the cathedral. Several policemen were stationed on each corner, directing a massive – but orderly in a way only the British can be orderly – crowd.

“Please join the queue at its end, across the river and down the South bank. There is presently a 8-9 hour wait to view the Queen Mother,” a Bobby said through a hand held megaphone.

Now here is the difference between an American, an Englishman and a Frenchman. As an American, our response was typically American. “Forget this, let’s find something to eat and see if anything else is open around here. History or not, I ain’t waiting around all day to gawk at some box.”

The British, on the other hand, seemed to take it all in stride. “Did you hear that Nigel? Best find the end of the queue. Good thing we brought sandwiches and tea.” And then they toddled off, seemingly happy with the prospect of standing in line for the better part of a day. I secretly suspect that the British are not quite happy unless they are a bit uncomfortable. And standing in line is really just an added bonus.

Having just moved to France, I couldn’t help but think how this whole scene might be played out across the channel. First, it would be anyone’s guess if anyone would show up. The sun was shining and there was not a bottle of wine in sight, so my guess is the place would have been pretty much abandoned. But if the crowd had arrived, I can guarantee that nothing resembling the orderly serpentine line of humanity that stretched around the cathedral, across a bridge, along a sidewalk, and under three more bridges until it faded into the distance would have taken shape.

More likely the cathedral would resemble a bee hive, with the swarm conducting an intricate dance, each vying to be the first in – and none succeeding. There would be shouting and pushing… but inside would be calm and orderly, with meticulous respect.

What a difference a slim sliver of water makes – be it a channel or an ocean.

written by Jay Warmke - July, 2003

The Queen Mum is Still Dead