A Tribute to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II

On the death of Queen Elizabeth II, Prestige’s two resident Brits pay homage to their late monarch and ponder a future without her.

The Real Deal

I only saw her once, but fittingly it was one of the first events of my life I can clearly remember. It was a blustery afternoon in late 1954, with scud clouds from the North Sea dumping rain showers and sudden bursts of sunshine illuminating the autumnal dampness – hardly ideal weather for a royal visit, but in those far-off days we took what we were given without complaint.

Just months after the second anniversary of her accession to the throne, Queen Elizabeth II was in her late twenties. Standing at the front of a crowd by the side of the road, my coat and flag flapping wildly in the wind, I was only a few months past my third birthday, but I knew already why and for whom I was there.

After what, to an impetuous child, seemed like an endless wait, the motorcade appeared on the roundabout and her Rolls-Royce ascended the incline towards us. I gazed transfixed as the big maroon limousine slowly and silently glided past, our young sovereign and her consort waving to us – to us! – from the back seat, radiant and remote, a vision magical, other-worldly and unattainable, in stark contrast to the austerity of post-war Britain and our own grey seaside town in the north of England.

After living outside of the UK for half my life, my views about the Queen, the monarchy and my own country have inevitably altered, yet I’ve never forgotten those few moments long ago. But after a lifetime of following in her footsteps towards old age, albeit with a quarter-century gap between us, her importance to me became more meaningful and profound than any fleeting fairy-tale childhood apparition.

As a child, I could not have known – nor even begun to appreciate – the vow she took as a 21-year-old princess while on a visit to South Africa with her parents in 1947. “I declare before you all,” she’d proclaimed in ringing girlish tones, “that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family to which we all belong.”

As to the “imperial family”, that, of course, is history, but it was clear her pledge to serve and her work ethic never wavered. Even from a distance, she became a reassuring constant, and all while her own persona was inexorably shifting from dazzling young woman to mother and, eventually, grandmother – to her own family, the nation and the Commonwealth, as well as countless millions of people around the world who had no evident connection.

Her schedule was relentless, yet she didn’t take “sickies” and, unlike other world leaders, nor did she keep people waiting just because she could. With only a couple of exceptions (and both, in retrospect, forgivable), her instinct for what was right and expected of her was equally unfailing. Was any head of state ever so steadfast and so selfless over so many years? I can’t think of one.

She made hundreds of official visits to countries and territories overseas, attending state banquets, independence celebrations, the openings of schools and hospitals and – most important of all – simply meeting people and hearing their stories. It was never about her, but them.

Just as the world changed immeasurably during her reign – by the early ’60s the Empire had ceased to exist and Britain’s global role went into gentle and then more acute decline – Elizabeth II changed too, yet her values of service and decency appeared immutable. And though she wasn’t like us – with such vast privilege and wealth she couldn’t be – her tastes were so endearingly prosaic it wasn’t hard to relate to her. She seemed never happier than when among her horses and corgis, dressed in headscarf and battered Barbour, enjoying family barbecues, and tanking around her Balmoral and Sandringham estate at the wheel of a Land Rover.

She was, in other words, real – and for me she was the real deal. And, like many millions of others, I suddenly find myself mildly bewildered by the realisation that I’ll miss this woman I never met, and by the uncertainty of a future without her presence. – JW

Gen-Rex Luxe

I “met” the Queen twice in my lifetime under very different circumstances 48 years apart. Once, on July 1, 1974, the morning she visited Beaumont Street in Hexham, Northumberland, marking the majestic Abbey’s 1,300th anniversary. Her Majesty was the first monarch to visit the old Roman town, my birthplace, in more than 600 years, and as she passed my six-year-old iteration, with a group of schoolboys from the local primary school, it occurred to us how snazzy she looked – this outfit wasn’t one of those pastelly pinks or yellows which later became her signature, this was a geometric print with black lightning strikes across it. She looked like a right royal tiger. And contrary to my expectation, she wasn’t wearing a crown. We waved at her and beamed, “Welcome to Hexham, Your Majesty,” as she smiled back at us only a few feet away. She felt like a fairy godmother, or something out of a book. She responded, but so enthralled were we, her words poured out in an indistinct but glorious gilt-edged purr of royalspeak.

September 15, 2022, London. I’m meeting the Queen for the second time. After two or so hours of waiting in line, I turn the corner at the top of Westminster Hall to descend the stairs towards the catafalque, flanked by a pristine military guard, and a coffin clad in the Royal Standard, bearing the body of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention and the down on my cheek is quivering; you can almost see, hear and taste the static, as I wait … and wait to be summoned … and then advance. And there I am. In front of Her, in front of History, or more accurately, Herstory, in this vast space, steeped in provenance and solemnity, a deluxe surrealscape, as she passes from one world to the next. She dazzles despite her absence, no less striking than in 1974, but this time with a crown.

And as I walk out of history, away from Her Majesty and into the light, I’m inexorably drawn by the pull of present tense. In 1970, three years after I was born and before Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II ever set foot in Hexham, Prince Charles gave his first speech on the subject of environmental protection at the Countryside Steering Committee for Wales. “When you think that each person produces roughly two pounds of rubbish per day and there are 55 million of us on this island using non-returnable bottles and indestructible plastic containers, it is not difficult to imagine the mountains of refuse that we shall have to deal with somehow.” How did we miss this humbling oh-so-prescient paradox? That in tarrying a lifetime to assume his role as monarch, the Prince of Wales had been valiantly awaiting his people – nay, the world – already a lifetime ahead.

In many ways, he’s been advocating, under the radar, the best-case scenario for
a next-gen-luxury world. Take his vintage and highly prized Aston Martin DB6 MkII Volante, bought in 1970. After decades of driving the gas-guzzling beauty and beast, Charles suggested it needed re-engineering for alternative fuel in the contemporary world, one where waste products could be converted into fuel. So he turned to a company called Green Fuels who could supply waste-derived bio-ethanol produced from white wine unfit for human consumption and whey, a by-product of cheese manufacture. The Prince of Wales then had Aston Martin specialist RS Williams convert the DB6’s engine, and an immediate upgrade in performance was noted to the surprise and delight of all. According to Aston Martin’s website, King Charles III’s cousin, the furniture maker and honorary chairman of Christie’s David Linley, subsequently told a joke about the prince and his car: “How does Prince Charles drive his Aston Martin? Caerphilly.”

If King Charles III can direct some of his visionary temperament and prescient flair towards helming the United Kingdom, while encouraging greater and more responsible nurture of the planet at large, we may yet expect a progressive monarchical soft-power shift with harder-edged avant-garde characteristics. Now there’s a legacy. Here’s to C III R. Go C-Rex. – SS

(Header image: LONDON, ENGLAND – JUNE 15: Queen Elizabeth II arrives at St Paul’s Cathedral for a service of Thanksgiving held in honour of her 80th birthday, June 15, 2006 in London, England. (Photo by Tim Graham Photo Library via Getty Images))