As she moved through her tenth decade, age – inevitably, inexorably – caught up with Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, of blessed memory. Little by little she stooped more. She resisted for some time but sported a stick for some months. Originally it was a stag horn walking stick but lately it was one of a lighter wood, with a marble handle, a gift from her Army for her Platinum Jubilee. Her public appearances became fewer, cancellations more numerous. For her last engagements, audiences to her outgoing and incoming Prime Ministers, she remained at Balmoral. Asquith had to go to Biarritz to kiss hands on his appointment by King Edward VII. The last photograph of her, with Liz Truss, caught something of that increasing frailty. Yet, while waiting for the soon-to-be-appointed Prime Minister, as she stood, slightly bent forward, she looked up and her eye caught the photographer, perhaps with camera poised, and the Queen’s face lit up and she broke into a radiant, beaming smile. It was one of the best photographs of her. And that was why, only two days later, the death of a 96-year-old women, in failing health, still came as such a shock, a heavy blow. She had promised all those years ago, in the springtime of her days, to devote her life, however long or short it might be, to her duty and service to all her people. She fulfilled her vow to the very end, to the very last day. She kept her promise.
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The mechanism and ritual of death and transition from one monarch to another began their relentless trajectory. There is no gap. The Queen is dead. Long live the King. Hardly time for private mourning: much is in the public eye, the full glare of cameras.
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King Charles’s first address to the nation, sombre, moving, eloquent in its tribute to his mother and his commitment, echoing hers, to serve the people to whom God had called him for what years remained of his life. It marked that almost ontological change effected in the anointing before coronation. He pre-empted debate by announcing Camilla as Queen Consort and the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge as the Prince and Princess of Wales. Divesting himself of some charitable engagements, acknowledging his life would change by setting aside the espousal of contentious causes, he emphasised a conscious, determined continuation of his mother’s position above the political arena.
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The Accession Council, broadcast for the first time in its history, was remarkable: so many once-familiar faces, grown older. A roll-Call of Who Was Who. All standing, as is Privy Council custom, with three Lords Spiritual sporting black armbands on lawn sleeves. Beyond risible. And +Cantuar spending inordinate time before fixing his signature to the Instrument. Checking the spelling? Fortunately it was the inconveniently positioned ink-stand and pen holder that attracted most attention and wry amusement, not least the King’s dismissive gesture for someone to sort it out. As it was seventy years since this last happened, the odd slip was inevitable. The subsequent proclamation from the battlements of St James’ Palace by Garter King of Arms had the same solemnity seen in black and white archive footage from 1952 and before the War.
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Many parishes swiftly responded with seemly liturgical provision. Catafalques were constructed, tallow candles arrayed, Requiem Masses arranged, reminders of the changed words of the National Anthem noted and sung. Pleading Christ’s Passion for Her Majesty was infinitely more consolatory than the passionless, pedestrian State religion of St Paul’s. Although impressively brought together quickly, material having been prepared some years ago by a former Dean, and beautifully sung by the choir, it was let down by a flimsy sermon. Although I heard relatively little of the commentary, and there was almost none in Westminster Abbey, a few blips hit the ear: ‘They sit in silence talking to each other’. Sir William Wordsworth. No BBC programme is complete without the spouting of vapid clichés by Alan Titchmarsh. +Cantuar gave his blessing as if drawing a cartoon in mid-air.
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One commentator used words of Elizabeth I to encapsulate Elizabeth II. ‘Although God hath raised me high; yet this I count the glory of my Crown, that I have reigned with your loves. It is not my desire to live and reign other than my life and reign should be for your good. And though you have had and may have wiser and mightier rulers in this seat, yet you never had nor shall ever have any that will love you better.’
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The Lying in State, over four days and nights, saw a steady wave of patient and reverent mourners – not tourists, not the merely curious. The Funeral offices in Westminster Abbey and St George’s Chapel were exemplary in their solemn dignity. The most abiding impressions of the processions from the Abbey and to St George’s Windsor was of the steady inescapable beat of the bass drum and the steady tread of those marching: the pulse of death and collective grief. At Windsor, the symbols of royal power, orb, sceptre, and crown were removed from her coffin and placed on the altar. The Lord Chamberlain snapped the rod of his authority. The obsequies ended as a piper played a lament and slowly, inexorably the sound faded as he left the chapel. The obsequies were ended; yet is still seemed impossible to believe.