Wet-Day Programme

by Lucy Ashe

The boy drummed his fingers against the long wooden table. The sky was disappointingly blue, only a few feeble clouds floating shyly above the Hill. His one role on this bright March morning of 1957 was entirely and frustratingly reliant on the Wet-Day Programme galvanising itself into action. He was desperate for the clouds to roll together with thick grey anger, for fast drops of rain to spill their fury onto the clean white stones of the Memorial Steps. He looked up again from his solitary position in the Alex Fitch Room. That one cloud on which he had been pinning all his hopes had vanished, drifting nonchalantly no doubt towards Ruislip.

Queen Elizabeth II visiting Harrow in 1957 accompanied by Head Master Dr Robert L James

And so he would remain alone in the Alex Fitch Room, with no Queen, no Duke, no Countess, no Major, no Squadron Leader: no one would be visiting this room which he had been charged to keep empty of visitors and boys just in case the weather turned, and Her Majesty’s visit had to re-route itself. Outside, the Royal Guard took their position, the heavy tramp of their feet mingling with the fast chatter of the local residents who had flocked here for the occasion. The boy allowed himself a brief smile as he remembered how he had watched the armsdrill rehearsal, leaning out of the window from his room in The Head Master’s. He was too little and too young to join, being only in his first year. But maybe it was for the best; he wasn’t sure he’d have managed to muster that look they all had of stern patient cheerfulness.

Even the sun was taunting him, it seemed, shining brightly through the stained-glass windows of the Alex Fitch Room. The wood panelling was lit up in a rainbow of colour, even the stone of the ancient fireplace quivering with expectation. But it was the noise that truly signalled the arrival of the Queen. As the Royal car came to a stop outside Druries, the babble of conversation exploded

Queen Elizabeth II with Head Master Dr Robert James outside Druries, 1957 into a choir of cheers, the High Street alive and lined with people. The boy had a good view from up here, he reasoned, even if the saddle bars of the bay window obstructed the line of his vision. He could make out the awning with its red carpet laid out, the neat army berets of the boys lining the path, the splashes of colour painted by the vibrant academic hoods of the masters. And then the Queen. She walked slowly, making her way up towards the School Yard, flanked by the Guard of Honour. She wore a dark velvet coat, three rows of pearls just visible at her collar, and a small white Juliette cap positioned above the crown of her head like a soft coronet. A pale jewelled flower decorated her lapel and a handbag of black leather rested over her wrist, its lines sharp and neat like a miniature school satchel.

As she disappeared out of his view, the boy stepped back with a sigh. He looked up, the sun still streaming through the polychromatic patterns of the window.

Another queen stood in the glass, her figure fixed in time, her skirts pressed in yellow and orange and blue, a high ruff encircling her jewelled red hair. He had never really looked at her before, Queen Elizabeth I granting the royal charter to John Lyon in 1572. In the panel next to her, John Lyon knelt before his Queen, reaching out for the scroll, his blue coat shimmering in the liquid light. As the boy gazed up at the window, he felt as though time was shifting and dancing around him, two monarchs gifting their interest in his little world.

The crowd outside was stirring, the throngs of visitors moving on to where they might next spy the Queen on her tour. It seemed that the Fine-Day Programme would continue its relentless schedule. The boy lifted himself up on to the old wooden table and folded his arms. Another blending of time, he thought, as his feet bounced against this table that had survived since the reign of King James I. There were many other boys stationed like him today, he consoled himself, instructed to wait inside on the chance the weather might change. In the Small-ball courts, the Gymnasium, the Workshops, the Art Schools, even in the Science Schools where a dead porpoise waited to be dissected at Her Majesty’s pleasure: they all had a role to play.

But there really was no chance of rain now. He might just make it down to the School Farm and back again before anyone noticed he had gone. He swung his legs awkwardly, his shoes barely reaching the ground. He should be there, really, showing off the Farm to his Queen. Especially considering all those mornings this term he had fed the chickens and cleaned the glass milk bottles. Suddenly determined, he sprang forward onto the mottled wooden floorboards and ran down the narrow stairs, his

Queen Elizabeth II at the School Farm, 1957

feet light as he sprinted out of the War Memorial, weaving his way through the crowds. He dashed down Football Lane, charged onwards by the Ducker fields, nearly skidded in a puddle of mud, and then, finally, arrived at the School Farm just in time to see Her Majesty and Prince Philip admiring the deep-litter house. A stern glance from a Monitor stationed outside the piggery dulled his speed and so he lingered out of sight behind the milking parlour.

The Queen turned and looked back up towards the Hill. The boy followed her gaze, blinking as he took in the expanse of green playing fields, the line of boarding Houses, the Butler Museum, the Vaughan Library, the double spires of Chapel and St Mary’s. He was just 14 years old. It was hard to imagine how this view might change over the next 40, 50, 65 years. Would he still be able to charge across playing fields at the age of 80, he found himself wondering? Perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps he might live every one of his days without worrying whether it would be a Wet-Day or a Fine-Day; perhaps he would learn to find purpose in the rain and in the sun, in the spotlight or behind the scenes. Perhaps, he thought as he started to jog back up towards his station in the Alex Fitch Room, he would learn that service is not always about being seen, or in applause, or a wave from a queen.

He sprinted back up the steps into the Fitch Room. All was well. The room was quiet. He settled back down at the table, spreading his hands along the surface. A beam of sunlight found the stained-glass window, illuminating the blue of John Lyon’s coat and the red of his stockings. The boy reached out his arm until it was patterned with dappled light: shadows danced across his skin. He thought of the boys moving in clockwork rhythm around the Hill in the company of Queen Elizabeth II. But he stayed here, waiting, while light spun around him, the gold and blue of Queen Elizabeth I and her servant, John Lyon.

Queen Elizabeth II with a Harrow football, 1957

Alex Fitch Room, stained glass window image of Queen Elizabeth I and John Lyon.