Post #60
September 13, 2022
Claire Bodanis
In memoriam Her Late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II (1926-2022).
The Lord moves in mysterious ways. I wrote the following words, “I am a monarchist!” (in a zoom chat box), not quarter of an hour before we heard the sad news on Thursday of the death of the Queen. It’s not something I tend to go around declaring, or writing for that matter, true though it may be. But as ever, context is all.
I had been lucky enough to spend the first part of that poignant day in the company of many of my Falcon Windsor colleagues, as we dispersed from what was a fantastic annual retreat. And I was looking forward to spending an hour and a half in the company of other splendid folk – Dark Angels – as we gathered for our quarterly zoom session to read out pieces of writing: appropriately, this month, on the theme of time. The session started at 6pm, and in the chat before the readings began, one of my colleagues was reflecting on the events of the afternoon. He began his comments with ‘I am not a monarchist, but…’, and went on to speak warmly of the Queen and what she meant to us all. It was in this congenial context that I wrote my fateful note in the chat box.
And I’m glad I did, because it meant that, when I appeared in tears out of the break-out room we’d been in when we heard the news, everyone was terrifically kind. We tend to remember where we were when we heard momentous news, and I will be grateful all my life long that on this occasion, I was in the company of the Angels. As it happened, I didn’t feel like reading out my piece of writing; but I did, instead, talk in the next zoom break-out room about why I felt so bereft at the death of a 96-year-old woman I’d never met.
It’s that story that I’d like to share with you in this special edition of the FW blog, in gratitude and homage to Her Late Majesty.
I grew up abroad in the 80s and early 90s and, like many British expats in those days, my brothers and I were sent to boarding school in England from an early age. For the holidays, we flew to and from school on our own, to what were then rather remote, far-flung parts of the world. Despite my mother’s – and our travel agent’s – expert organisation, things didn’t always go to plan. And it was at those moments, in the pre-mobile phone, pre-internet, pre-worldwide bank card era, that my brothers and I used to take heart from reading the wording, printed in rather beautiful, archaic script, on the inside front cover of our passports. For those readers who don’t have British passports (and the script is less archaic and definitely less beautiful today), I’ll quote it in full here:
Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State
requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty
all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer
to pass freely without let or hindrance,
and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection
as may be necessary.
In today’s connected world, the warm feelings this occasioned may sound a bit daft, but when we were all by ourselves in the middle of nowhere, it felt very reassuring to think that the Queen herself was looking out for us, and that anyone who messed with us would have her to answer to. Or, as one of my brothers liked to say: “Don’t worry, HM will come and bop them over the head with her handbag (or send in the SAS)!”
On reflection, our confidence perhaps wasn’t misplaced; after all we never really got into any trouble, and always made it home in the end, despite getting stranded on occasion in various places without the necessary visas, thanks to inefficient airlines. And, as a child travelling alone, I used to feel rather sorry for those who weren’t lucky enough to be the Queen’s subjects (as we were called in our passports back then), and so wouldn’t have Her Majesty dashing personally to their rescue in times of need.
Right now, feelings of sadness for what we have lost are foremost in my heart, although I know that in due course, feelings of gratitude for a long life of service impeccably lived will prevail.
Elizabeth, our Queen: may you rest in peace, and rise in glory.
On Sunday 11 September, our vicar asked me to sing Pie Jesu from Faure’s Requiem in memory of the Queen during the morning service, and you’ll find the (rather scratchy, sorry) recording of it in the audio version of this blog.