change in the order of the day or of the gates being opened to admit them. Standing there had become a habit. No one had the initiative to leave for fear they might miss something, and when inevitably the children made known their need to go to the lavatory, the Claggs proceeded to do so in relays. Fortunately they were in reach of the underground public convenience at Hyde Park Corner. Violet went first with Granny and Gwenny. Then Will trailed thither with Johnny. When they returned, somewhat refreshed, they simply continued to stand. It was as though they were all under some kind of spell which fixed them into eternity to that spot.
Will Clagg, it is true, made a half-hearted attempt to break out of the cocoon of inertia that surrounded them, but he was too beaten morally to make a job of it. He mumbled something to the effect that maybe they had all best go home and get into something warm and dry. No one answered him. To Violet home was the end of the adventure, such as it was, and, as for Granny, the day of suffering was only half over. There were still four or five hours of discomfort and misery to be banked for the future. She was in no hurry to call it off.
There was no way of knowing whether Clagg would have pursued the subject in spite of being ignored, for at that moment – and it was then shortly after two o’clock – came the sound of the thump-thump-thump of distant drums and the wind-wafted oompah of the military brasses. The procession was on its way.
The effect was immediate, electric and revivifying upon all those caught behind the barrier. The martial music stiffened their backs and brought new life into eyes dulled with fatigue and weariness. They began to chivvy the constable. ‘Come on now. Are you going to let us through or not?’
The young policeman, himself moved by the distant sounds, grinned uncomfortably. It felt as though something ought to be happening, yet the situation had not changed. ‘I got no orders to do so,’ he reiterated. ‘I can’t see no more myself than you can.’
‘You’re pyed to stand there. What abaht those kiddies come all the way from Sheffield to see the Queen?’
The constable turned his back. Nearer and nearer approached the first of the bands, thumping, shrilling and blaring forth a blood-stirring military air. The music waxed in brazen volume as the marchers emerged from the canyon of Piccadilly and burst into the square, turning the corner with the squealing of fifes, braying of brasses and the solid beating of wet drum-skins. ‘Boom, boom, boompety-boom’ went the rhythms and in one’s mind’s eye one could picture the proud drummers in their leopard aprons twirling their sticks over their heads before they brought them down to crash once more into the sides of their instruments. ‘Tee-boom, tee-boom, tee-boom!’ Cymbals crashed, shivered and shimmered, shaking the air with their vibrations.
To the thrilling swing of the music was now added the endless throp-throp-throp-throp of marching feet and the mournful, high-pitched, long-drawn-out cries of command from the officers to right wheel as they turned around the triangle past Hyde Park Corner, divided and passed through the arches leading to the East Carriage Drive.
From then on, none of those remaining behind the barrier thought any more of leaving. The sound filled their ears, heated the blood in their veins and shook their bones. It was tantalising to the point of madness, but there was no escape from it. Without realising it, they were settling for half the loaf. If they could not see, at least they could hear. Several of those near the Claggs close to the little door were jigging up and down in time to the music. It warmed them and pleased them. In a way it was like listening to the radio as band followed band, and if there were not the tread of marchers then there would be the rhythmic clopping of the hooves of cavalry horses on asphalt streets, accompanied by the merry, metallic jingling
Will Clagg, it is true, made a half-hearted attempt to break out of the cocoon of inertia that surrounded them, but he was too beaten morally to make a job of it. He mumbled something to the effect that maybe they had all best go home and get into something warm and dry. No one answered him. To Violet home was the end of the adventure, such as it was, and, as for Granny, the day of suffering was only half over. There were still four or five hours of discomfort and misery to be banked for the future. She was in no hurry to call it off.
There was no way of knowing whether Clagg would have pursued the subject in spite of being ignored, for at that moment – and it was then shortly after two o’clock – came the sound of the thump-thump-thump of distant drums and the wind-wafted oompah of the military brasses. The procession was on its way.
The effect was immediate, electric and revivifying upon all those caught behind the barrier. The martial music stiffened their backs and brought new life into eyes dulled with fatigue and weariness. They began to chivvy the constable. ‘Come on now. Are you going to let us through or not?’
The young policeman, himself moved by the distant sounds, grinned uncomfortably. It felt as though something ought to be happening, yet the situation had not changed. ‘I got no orders to do so,’ he reiterated. ‘I can’t see no more myself than you can.’
‘You’re pyed to stand there. What abaht those kiddies come all the way from Sheffield to see the Queen?’
The constable turned his back. Nearer and nearer approached the first of the bands, thumping, shrilling and blaring forth a blood-stirring military air. The music waxed in brazen volume as the marchers emerged from the canyon of Piccadilly and burst into the square, turning the corner with the squealing of fifes, braying of brasses and the solid beating of wet drum-skins. ‘Boom, boom, boompety-boom’ went the rhythms and in one’s mind’s eye one could picture the proud drummers in their leopard aprons twirling their sticks over their heads before they brought them down to crash once more into the sides of their instruments. ‘Tee-boom, tee-boom, tee-boom!’ Cymbals crashed, shivered and shimmered, shaking the air with their vibrations.
To the thrilling swing of the music was now added the endless throp-throp-throp-throp of marching feet and the mournful, high-pitched, long-drawn-out cries of command from the officers to right wheel as they turned around the triangle past Hyde Park Corner, divided and passed through the arches leading to the East Carriage Drive.
From then on, none of those remaining behind the barrier thought any more of leaving. The sound filled their ears, heated the blood in their veins and shook their bones. It was tantalising to the point of madness, but there was no escape from it. Without realising it, they were settling for half the loaf. If they could not see, at least they could hear. Several of those near the Claggs close to the little door were jigging up and down in time to the music. It warmed them and pleased them. In a way it was like listening to the radio as band followed band, and if there were not the tread of marchers then there would be the rhythmic clopping of the hooves of cavalry horses on asphalt streets, accompanied by the merry, metallic jingling
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