the queen and i
on my very weird meeting with the late QE2
A decade ago this November, on a dark and drizzly afternoon in my adopted city of London, England, I sat pantless in a doctor’s office and discovered I was pregnant, then hailed a black cab straight to Buckingham Palace to meet the Queen.
I was stunned.
By the pregnancy, I mean. The royal reception I’d been anticipating for months. Almost no one outside of a coveted prize stag or the occasional absent-minded chambermaid encounters Her Majesty without being prepared well in advance. Almost six months earlier I’d received a formal card in the post, first class signed delivery. Like every summons issued by Clarence House (the Palace’s official press office) the invitation was what Brit’s euphemistically call “a stiffy,” meaning it was ludicrously oversized, embossed and printed on thick creamy stationary, officially sealed and stamped in luxuriant wax the colour of oxygenated blood. The occasion itself was unremarkable – a media reception to drum up interest in one of the never-ending succession of Commonwealth royal tours.
The party was held in one of the Palace’s many chilly, underfurnished galleries, an enormous windowless room, barnlike in its proportions with high domed ceilings. The carpet was geometrically patterned with burgundy and gold fleur de lis. On arrival, I accepted a large glass of icy cold champagne from a tray and knocked it back without a thought (I was still in denial about the pregnancy). The food was restricted to filigreed silver bowls of salted nuts and twiglets, improbably delicious British mini-pretzels coated in sticky black yeast extract. Unsurprisingly, the room was teeming with journalists, that special breed of subject the Windsors distrust and depend upon in precisely equal measure. British ones mostly, a a number quite famous, as well as a smattering of Commonwealth foreign bureau types like me. I found my colleagues, the Canadians, gathered round Simon Schama, the renowned BBC historian and critic, as he recounted off the top of his head the provenance of one of the room’s many priceless oil paintings. I think it was a Turner? We listened rapt as he pointed out details about use of perspective and light.
After several minutes the courtiers (pencil-necked men in formal suits and an interchangeable array of tidy blonds in pearls named either Charlotte or Sophia, pronounced with a hard “i”) broke off their small talk and began weaving swiftly through the crowd, whispering into the ears of certain distinguished guests, who suddenly corrected their posture, wiped the twiglet dust from their mouths, then abandoned their half-finished glasses of bubbly on hurriedly proffered trays. A shiver of excitement went through the room and then, if by its own accord, an orderly queue began to form. It led into an adjoining room where it became apparent Her Majesty awaited us. I fell into place behind the other Canadians who were more experienced than me and thus au fait with the drill. We advanced surprisingly swiftly and at an efficient pace that was more akin to, say, a Frankfurt airport security line on a Monday than a receiving line at a society wedding or political fundraiser. When I got to the front a valet or ecquerry or butler-in-waiting bellowed my name, publication and nation-of-origin. Because I was the last in a succession of colleagues, Prince Phillip quipped good-humouredly, “Heavens, did the whole Canadian press corps turn up?”
The Queen, who was standing to his right, ignored him. She was tiny and wore a mint green skirt suit, large glasses, her hair immaculately curled and set. On her right hand was a single black glove which she extended toward me limply as I stood blinking, trying to remember a) how to curtsey and b) whether I should. The little girl in me was tempted, obviously, one doesn’t often (if ever) get the opportunity to curtsey, but the grown-up social democrat in me bristled. In end, I did nothing, apart from returning her gaze with a smile. It was impossible not to really. Her eyes were large and blue, which I’d expected, but also curiously alive – there was none of the Ativan-induced glaze one usually sees in overwhelmed brides, rack-rate politicians or celebrities at film festival parties being wheeled out for public display. It may have been a trick of the lighting design, but she seemed to emit a sparkle.