Coronation

Gerald 

18, Wellington Road, May, 2023

Gerald is pottering in the greenhouse. Quite literally: he is potting up his tomato seedlings for this year’s crop. He is whistling softly to himself as he presses each plant firmly into its new home. Not many people who whistle these days, he thinks. But he prefers make his own entertainment over listening to the radio at the moment: these past few weeks in the run-up to The Coronation, there has been nothing but endless chatter and speculation about who will be there, what will happen and what it all means. 

Gerald couldn’t give tuppence about the whole ridiculous spectacle: a staunch republican since his University days, he cannot see the value in the Monarchy that every expert on these matters seems to think he should have. He is weary of the succession (pun intended) of history buffs thrust on to Radio 4 to give their learnèd opinion. Stuff and nonsense. He wonders if his neighbours in Wellington Road would be shocked to hear his thoughts on the Royal Family? Most houses seem to be sporting some kind of homage to the Coronation - everything from Union Jack bunting to red-white-and-blue hanging baskets to strings of Christmassy fairy lights. Gerard considers what a republican might look like? He doubts if too many folk have him pegged as one who would happily vote to remove the current Head of State. Being a quiet sort of chap (shy, one might say), soft-spoken and generally unconventional, he keeps his opinions of all things royal-related to himself. 

Gerald is enjoying his task: something so satisfying in cultivating ones’s own tomatoes. Nothing better on a Summer’s day than a tomato, still warm and juicy, straight from the plant and into the salad bowl. Since the pandemic, gardening seems to have become more important than ever: not just as a place for quiet and solitude, but also as was of being a little more self-sufficient. Mind you, COVID 19 turned out to be a stimulus for all manner of garden produce being swapped and shared amongst neighbours. Gerald is pleased that this has not only continued, but has grown (pun intended) into (in Gerald’s view at any rate) a friendlier community. Sad, though, to require a pandemic to encourage people to get to know each other better. Jessie is a case in point. Marvellous woman from number 7 - one would never know she’s almost 96: she has the curiosity and intellect of someone half her age. Always intrigued, always learning, always with some new morsel of knowledge to pass on. 

Having completed the re-potting of the tomatoes, the next job on Gerald’s list is to earth up his potatoes: granted, he only has four plants, but they provide a decent enough crop and deserve some care and attention. Each plant needs to have the soil stacked close to the stem to avoid sunlight getting to the growing spuds (and protect against frost, but that is unlikely). Gerald tends to his potatoes, whistling again: “There you go, snug as a bug in a rug.” There’s time for a cup of tea before tackling the lawn. Since its no-mow May, there will be no mowing, but a little maintenance is required. Another COVID revelation: why spend so much time and effort on a patch of thirsty grass, when one can turn it into a small wildflower meadow? Seemed like a no-brainer - and now the perennials are growing back, and the new seeds are starting to sprout. 

As he boils the kettle, Gerald realises that he’s been whistling one of the songs from “Hamilton” - the one sung by the King, who looks and sounds as if he has somehow stumbled into a Broadway musical from a Blackpool pantomime. Catchy tune. Another COVID perk: forced to discover different streaming services on the laptop: Gerald is quietly pleased that he can navigate such technology - not bad for an agèd baby-boomer. He takes his mug of tea out into the garden: even though there’s still a cool breeze it’s good to be outside. He takes a look at the days crossword; not his best performance this morning as there have been a fair few clues that have got him stumped.  24 Across (4)Shakespeare’s worldview: timeless and wise.  Worldview? The only thing he can think of is all the world’s a stage… Stage! Aha! “Now if we take away “T”for time, we get sage! Ha ha! wise...sage. Got there in the end.” Gerald’s small celebration is cut short by his next-door neighbour, Sunny, calling over the fence. 

“Any chance you could walk Henry this afternoon? I’ve got an appointment at the optician, and the day is running away with me.”

Henry is Sunny’s boxer - often a reluctant walker now that he is getting on in years, but Gerald doesn’t mind as they seem to go to at about the same pace. Another COVID bonus – being able to take rent-a-dog for a walks during lockdown. 

“Absolutely!” says Gerald, a little too enthusiastically. 

“Two o’clock okay for you?”

“Absolutely. Be happy to.”

“See you then.” 

Henry is taking his sweet time appraising the best place to pee; Gerald is mulling over another of the crossword clues while Henry makes his mind up. Gerald smiles to himself, realising that the crossword setter has cleverly misdirected him. Touché, madam. He makes a mental note to fill in the clue when he gets back. 

It’s a quiet afternoon on Wellington Road: being a school day there are not too many people out and about. Gerald takes Henry for a stroll through the park – well not the whole park, as they would never make it home for tea – but pleasant stroll through the trees. The daffodils are over now, but the bluebells are starting their annual spring show. Henry doesn’t seem to be much interested in bluebells – especially when there are other dogs to meet and greet. Gerald manages to persuade Henry that the local Shitzu is really not that interesting and that he should focus on the treats that Gerald keeps in his pocket. Works every time. 

On the way back they bump into Jesse who is on her way to the corner shop. “I’m out of flour”, she explains, “I don’t know what I do with it! One moment I have packets of the stuff, and the next minute - pouf! All gone! I was about to make scones, but, like Old Mother Hubbard the cupboard was bare!” She gives Henry a little scratch behind his ears, before continuing on her way. “Why don’t you pop round later, Gerald - they’ll be a fresh batch of scones!” 

“Don’t mind if I do,” says Gerald. Time was, he thinks, that flour could not be sourced for love nor money…

Later, Gerald and Jesse are having a chat over tea and scones at Jesse’s kitchen table. As the five o’clock news comes on the radio, Jesse groans and turns it off. 

“Can’t bear any more of this wretched Coronation coverage – it’s driving me up the wall! Demented! Every time I turn the radio on there seems to be some damn fool wittering on about crowns and carriages and archbishops. I really couldn’t care less.” 

“I didn’t have you down as a republican, Jesse”, says Gerald, genuinely surprised.

“Oh,  I remember the last one – a lot of poppycock and flummery if you ask me…which most people don’t. It’s true, you know: old women really are treated as if they are invisible.”

“What do you remember from the last time?” Asks Gerald, unsure how to respond to Jessie’s last comment.

“Not a lot. Of course there was coverage on the radio in the newspapers…even on the TV, but we were not long married and we barely had two pennies to rub together for the electric, let alone enough to rent a TV. So, for a treat, we took ourselves down to the seaside for the day and had a lovely time walking along the prom and eating fish and chips on the beach. Never been a fan of the Royals myself - can’t see the point really. Anyway, each to their own. What about you, Gerald? Will you be watching the whole thing on TV?”

“Goodness me, no. Perish the though – I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.” Jesse laughs out loud. As they sip their tea, Gerald has an idea. 

“Tell you what, Jesse, why don’t we drive down to the seaside on Coronation Day? Would you like that? We could even have fish and chips on the pier! 

“I can’t think of anything better”, says Jesse, helping herself to another scone.

The weather on Coronation Day seems not to have received the memo: drizzling and grey – not the best day for a trip to the seaside, but Gerald and Jesse are determined to have their grand day out. They take the scenic route, down country lanes avoiding the main roads. There are a few cars and even fewer pedestrians around, and they make their way to the coast mostly in companionable silence: Gerald keeping his focus on the road ahead and Jesse content to watch the world go by. They are able to find a convenient parking spot close to the pier, and they make their way slowly, but steadily along the promenade. The rain holds off for the most part, and they treat themselves to a modest portion of haddock and chips, which they eat sitting on a bench at the end of promenade.   

The plaque reads: For Valerie, who loved this view. “Thank you, Valerie,” says Jessie, pouring a cup of tea from her Thermos, “And thank you so much, Gerald.” 

“My pleasure.”

“Look!”, says Jessie, “Thrift.” She breaks off a small stem of the pink flowers from a clump growing by their feet.

“‘Round low peninsulas pink with thrift’. Betjeman,” says Gerald, quoting a favourite poet.

“That’s what used to be on the threepenny bit. Thrift. A joke, really - threepence wasn’t worth much,” Jessie says. 

On the way home Jesse falls quietly asleep; Gerald glances over to see her head nodding slightly, her breathing deep and regular. She wakes up just as they are turning into Wellington Road. 

“Here we are,” says Gerald, “home safe and sound.”

“I’ve had a wonderful day. Thank you for driving.” Jessie gives his arm a quick, affectionate squeeze.

“You are most welcome.” Gerald helps Jessie out of the car and sees her to the front door of Number 7. He notes she is still holding on to the stem of thrift. 

The next day, Gerald picks up his Sunday newspaper from the doormat. Unsurprisingly, there is extensive coverage of the previous day’s events, and many photos of glittering royals. One photo catches his eye - that of the new King in all his regalia. Gerald can’t help but smile. Hamilton! He puts the kettle on for a cup of tea, and, whistling to himself, turns the pages over to find the crossword.

Jessie

7, Wellington Road, May 2023

Jessie is taking her frustration out on an unsuspecting, and quite innocent, carrot. “BBC radio will report live from Westminster Abbey and there will be expert insight and analysis from our Royal Correspondent. “Expert my foot,” snorts Jessie, “What insight do you need? What colour socks the King is wearing? For Heaven’s sake.” Chop, chop, chop. “We will report from different parts of the processional route, giving listeners a sense of the anticipation, pageantry and atmosphere as it happens.” “Fiddlesticks. Any fool can make that up”, she says aloud,  “‘The crowd is waiting for the King’s coach to appear. The guardsmen are wearing red and gold. And everyone is having a jolly good time.’ There. No need to employ fancy reporters, I’ve done it for you” she says, jabbing her vegetable knife at the radio to make her point. Jessie continues berating Radio 4 until the carrots are chopped more finely than she had intended. No matter. Add a bit of coriander and a stock cube and Bob’s your Uncle. Tasty soup for supper.  

Lately, Jessie is starting to feel her age. She still can’t quite believe she is 96. Same age as the Queen when she died, she reminds herself. Still, she’s not afraid of dying - and COVID gave her a golden opportunity to set her affairs in order. She’s ready. Meanwhile, as she waits for the Grim Reaper to come knocking, she carries on as best she can. She finally gave in and has someone to do most of the cleaning and ironing. Not that she minds: she enjoys Julie’s company every Tuesday and Thursday. Not that there is much to clean or iron, but Julie makes sure Jessie gets her money’s worth by doing extra chores: washing the net curtains and giving the fridge a once-over. Julie is Jessie’s kind of gal. Friendly, but not chatty. Caring, but not nosey. 

Having prepared the ingredients for soup (she does like a hearty bowl of soup) Jessie decides to make a batch of cheese scones to go with it. She gathers the ingredients: butter, sharp cheddar, powdered Coleman’s mustard (no other brand will do)…self-raising flour? There is only a couple of spoonfuls left in the jar. No matter - the corner shop (another COVID revelation - shop local) has a decent selection. She checks the weather - still overcast and on the chilly side, but not raining. Good. She puts on her coat and ties a headscarf under her chin - just in case. Somewhat ‘babushka’, but if it was good enough for the Queen, it’s good enough for her. 

On her way, Jessie bumps into Gerald, who is walking Henry the boxer. Jessie has a soft spot for the affable dog. Henry seems to have slowed down lately as well - must be feeling his age, too. Jessie also has a soft spot for Gerald from number 18 - his homegrown tomatoes are a wonder, and he has excellent taste in books. His collection kept Jessie entertained during lockdowns when the library was closed, for which she is thankful. Gerald, like Julie, is a quiet soul, although once you get him chatting about something that interests him, he can talk the hind leg off a donkey. Having invited Gerald over for tea and scones later, Jessie gives a grateful Henry a scratch behind his ears and carries on her way. 

As she does the washing up, Jessie replays the conversation with Gerald. She can’t quite believe she has found another soul who has less-than glowing opinions of the Royal family. Well I never. It’s always the quiet ones, her mum used to say. Anyway, Jessie is now thoroughly looking forward to Coronation Day, as she and Gerald will be on a little jaunt down to the seaside for some fish-and-chips. She’s glad of a fellow unbeliever. It’s not that she particular dislikes any of them (although she would cheerfully give a certain unrepentant philanderer a piece of her mind, and no mistake). It’s just…well, she’s always had the uneasy felling that all the deference, all the flattery, all the forelock-tugging has only added to the class divide over the decades. Not that she has any evidence, mind you - just a feeling, just a feeling.

Coronation Day is quite a disappointment weather-wise. Jessie almost feels sorry for the folks who are camped out along the Mall, claiming the best vantage points for a glimpse of the diamonds and ermine. Which begs a question. Will C & C be using fake fur, or will dozens of unfortunate stoats be  dispatched  for the occasion? Jessie reckons the former - the new King being a bit hippy-trippy, talking to his plants and what-not. The trip to the seaside might well be a damp and chilly affair, so Jessie makes an extra-large Thermos of tea and packs her umbrella. Gerald rings the door bell just as she is buttoning her raincoat. 

They spend a very jolly day at the seaside, taking a stroll along the Prom! Prom! Prom! Although there were no brass bands playing tiddely-anything: obviously they were all busy elsewhere today. Not a pom-pom-pom to be had for love nor money. Perhaps they were in The Mall too, entertaining the punters with rousing patriotic tunes. The bandstand looks forlorn and windswept, waiting patiently for better weather and the coach parties from London. They stop at a fish-and-chip stand, and take their meal to a bench overlooking the sea, complete with clumps of pink thrift. She picks a stem, a souvenir of a special day out.

On the way home she drifts off to sleep - a combination of the fresh sea air and the soft hum of the car engine - well that will be how she justifies it. Truth is, she’s taking little afternoon naps more frequently these days. She is roused just as they turn into Wellington Road - strange how her subconscious knows that she is home. Gerald helps her out of the car, and she gives him a small wave as she opens the front door. Pulling off her raincoat and scarf, she realises she is still holding the thrift. Shame to just let it wither, so she puts it some water in a teacup on the kitchen windowsill for the time being. She drifts off to sleep, her bones weary, but her mind clear.

The next morning, Rose from number 11 calls to ask if Jessie needs anything from Tesco while Rose does the weekly shop. There is no answer