The Queen and I
Des Wilson, a Hastings resident and HIP contributor describes his encounters with the late Queen.
When I was a child my first encounters with Elizabeth the Second, first as Princess and then as Queen, were associated with school holidays. In the early 1950s when she was Princess Elizabeth and I was a small boy, she and the Duke came to my town in New Zealand on a day when I had not done my homework. Fortunately, we were given the day off to see her and I thankfully avoided what could have been a painful reprimand.
Some years later, because we had no TV in New Zealand then, we were given another day off to see a film of the Coronation at the local cinema. Once more I had not done my homework. Whether she intended to save me or not, I seemed, as a schoolboy, to be always in her debt.
CREDIT: Unsplash
Fast forward to the 1960s and I am now in London working as director of Shelter when the call came. “There’s a Lord Plunkett on the phone,” I was told. The call was transferred, and an upper-class voice identified himself as Equerry to the Queen.
“Her Majesty wonders whether you would like to join her for lunch on 21 March,” the voice said.
Well, what do you say? Definitely, you don’t say ‘no.’
So cometh 21 March and I’m sound asleep at five in the morning when the phone rang. I shot upright. Five o’clock ! No-one rings at five o’clock, unless there’s been a disaster. I raced downstairs, forgetting to put on my dressing gown, a mistake, because it was freezing cold.
I heard a voice with a distinctly NZ accent. The conversation went like this – “Des, this is a proud day for the Wilson family.”
“I’m sorry, who’s this?”
“It’s Dad. Your father.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
‘’I was saying it’s a proud day for the Wilson family.
“I heard that – but why?”
“You, having lunch with the Queen.”
Now, how did he know that? Then it dawned on me. New Zealand is 12 hours ahead of the UK. The Palace must have released the news. While it would be a matter of no consequence in the UK, it would be big news in NZ and MEGA news in our small town – headlines in the local newspaper and my parents’ phone was ringing off the hook, even from people who would usually pass them in the street with barely a nod.
I was by now a block of ice and got him off the phone and crawled back under the blankets. But I couldn’t sleep. The call had unsettled me. Perhaps this was a bigger deal than I had realised. I polished my shoes, ironed my only suit, a shabby bit of cloth purchased for £3 about seven years earlier, and by 9am I was in a menswear shop in the Strand buying a shirt and tie. From there I went to have a haircut.
At 12.05 precisely I walked under Admiralty Arch as immaculate as ever I would be – hair neat and tidy, freshly-ironed suit, new shirt and tie, even clean shoes. I could see the Palace ahead, just 15 minutes away. What could possibly go wrong?
What went wrong was that the skies opened, and London was hit by a torrential rainstorm. It was like a monsoon. Within a couple of minutes everyone, including me, was soaked to the skin. My suit was like a shapeless sack. My shirt and tie were dripping wet. My newly-cut hair looked like a hay stack in the rain. Desperately I ran towards to that impressive row of buildings in the Mall and burst through the door of one, there to be confronted by a doorman who, looking at this bedraggled intruder, told me firmly that it was a Members’ Club and I should leave without delay.
I asked him to call me a cab but he declined. “But you don’t understand,” I said, “I am due at the Palace to have lunch with the Queen.”
He looked at me as if I was mad until I showed him my invitation card, when, a changed and now impressed man, he sprang into action, and minutes later I was on my way.
At the Palace the flunkies on the door looked at me in horror and rushed me into an anteroom where, clearly accustomed to this kind of disaster, they set to work with a hairdryer and returned me to some semblance of order.
I was hastily ushered upstairs, my shoes squeaking and squelching from water and joined a small group waiting to meet the Queen. They were all immaculately dressed and dry and looked at me with a combination of dismay and disdain.
The rest of the event did not go well. The Queen was as pleasant as she is said to have always been, even when I stood on the paws of a corgi. But the Duke and I did not hit it off – I seem to recall he told me at one point I was talking nonsense – and the youthful Prince Charles, who sat between me and the film director Richard Lester, who made the Beatles film, A Hard Day’s Night, was far more interested hearing about the Beatles than he was in me.
Finally, I was ushered down the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footmarks on the carpet, and back onto the Mall where I trudged dismally back to the office.
Two weeks later I was on a plane headed for Scotland and who should sit beside me with his grouse-shooting gear but Lord Plunkett. “Did you enjoy the lunch?” he asked jovially.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t think I was at my best.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “Her Majesty is used to meeting all sorts.”
Oh dear. But no doubt this was true. At least she had saved me a heap of trouble for missing my homework. Come to think of it, I forgot to thank her for that.
Des Wilson, a Hastings resident and HIP contributor describes his encounters with the late Queen.
When I was a child my first encounters with Elizabeth the Second, first as Princess and then as Queen, were associated with school holidays. In the early 1950s when she was Princess Elizabeth and I was a small boy, she and the Duke came to my town in New Zealand on a day when I had not done my homework. Fortunately, we were given the day off to see her and I thankfully avoided what could have been a painful reprimand.
Des before the rain; Right hand image credit: Unsplash
Some years later, because we had no TV in New Zealand then, we were given another day off to see a film of the Coronation at the local cinema. Once more I had not done my homework. Whether she intended to save me or not, I seemed, as a schoolboy, to be always in her debt.
Fast forward to the 1960s and I am now in London working as director of Shelter when the call came. “There’s a Lord Plunkett on the phone,” I was told. The call was transferred, and an upper-class voice identified himself as Equerry to the Queen.
“Her Majesty wonders whether you would like to join her for lunch on 21 March,” the voice said.
Well, what do you say? Definitely, you don’t say ‘no.’
So cometh 21 March and I’m sound asleep at five in the morning when the phone rang. I shot upright. Five o’clock ! No-one rings at five o’clock, unless there’s been a disaster. I raced downstairs, forgetting to put on my dressing gown, a mistake, because it was freezing cold.
I heard a voice with a distinctly NZ accent. The conversation went like this – “Des, this is a proud day for the Wilson family.”
“I’m sorry, who’s this?”
“It’s Dad. Your father.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
‘’I was saying it’s a proud day for the Wilson family.
“I heard that – but why?”
“You, having lunch with the Queen.”
Now, how did he know that? Then it dawned on me. New Zealand is 12 hours ahead of the UK. The Palace must have released the news. While it would be a matter of no consequence in the UK, it would be big news in NZ and MEGA news in our small town – headlines in the local newspaper and my parents’ phone was ringing off the hook, even from people who would usually pass them in the street with barely a nod.
I was by now a block of ice and got him off the phone and crawled back under the blankets. But I couldn’t sleep. The call had unsettled me. Perhaps this was a bigger deal than I had realised. I polished my shoes, ironed my only suit, a shabby bit of cloth purchased for £3 about seven years earlier, and by 9am I was in a menswear shop in the Strand buying a shirt and tie. From there I went to have a haircut.
At 12.05 precisely I walked under Admiralty Arch as immaculate as ever I would be – hair neat and tidy, freshly-ironed suit, new shirt and tie, even clean shoes. I could see the Palace ahead, just 15 minutes away. What could possibly go wrong?
What went wrong was that the skies opened, and London was hit by a torrential rainstorm. It was like a monsoon. Within a couple of minutes everyone, including me, was soaked to the skin. My suit was like a shapeless sack. My shirt and tie were dripping wet. My newly-cut hair looked like a hay stack in the rain. Desperately I ran towards to that impressive row of buildings in the Mall and burst through the door of one, there to be confronted by a doorman who, looking at this bedraggled intruder, told me firmly that it was a Members’ Club and I should leave without delay.
I asked him to call me a cab but he declined. “But you don’t understand,” I said, “I am due at the Palace to have lunch with the Queen.”
He looked at me as if I was mad until I showed him my invitation card, when, a changed and now impressed man, he sprang into action, and minutes later I was on my way.
At the Palace the flunkies on the door looked at me in horror and rushed me into an anteroom where, clearly accustomed to this kind of disaster, they set to work with a hairdryer and returned me to some semblance of order.
I was hastily ushered upstairs, my shoes squeaking and squelching from water and joined a small group waiting to meet the Queen. They were all immaculately dressed and dry and looked at me with a combination of dismay and disdain.
The rest of the event did not go well. The Queen was as pleasant as she is said to have always been, even when I stood on the paws of a corgi. But the Duke and I did not hit it off – I seem to recall he told me at one point I was talking nonsense – and the youthful Prince Charles, who sat between me and the film director Richard Lester, who made the Beatles film, A Hard Day’s Night, was far more interested hearing about the Beatles than he was in me.
Finally, I was ushered down the stairs, leaving a trail of wet footmarks on the carpet, and back onto the Mall where I trudged dismally back to the office.
Two weeks later I was on a plane headed for Scotland and who should sit beside me with his grouse-shooting gear but Lord Plunkett. “Did you enjoy the lunch?” he asked jovially.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t think I was at my best.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said. “Her Majesty is used to meeting all sorts.”
Oh dear. But no doubt this was true. At least she had saved me a heap of trouble for missing my homework. Come to think of it, I forgot to thank her for that.
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