Three Launton Villagers remember the Coronation in 1953

Coronation memories from Launton People

On the following pages (22, 23, 24, 29, 30 and 31) are recollections of the Coronation in 1953 collected by the Launton Historical Society for its display to mark the 2012 Diamond Jubilee. There will be a new LHS display in the Playing Field Hall for the Platinum Jubilee in June. The contributions here are from the following: Suzanne Smith (nee Matthews), Margaret Crouch, and Jenny Jones.

1. Suzanne Smith (née Matthews)

I lived with my parents Monica and Jack and my brother Robert at No 1 in (old) Sherwood Close; I was seven years old when the new Queen Elizabeth was crowned.

That morning I woke up very excited because the day had come for me to wear the new red, white and blue small check dress Mum had bought especially for the Coronation. During the morning we walked as a family down to the Cross, where the villagers had assembled outside The Bull for commemorative photographs. Afterwards our family went down Blackthorn Road, to my grandparent’s cottage, “Linden Lea”.

My Gran and Granddad, Wack and Jessie Butler, then came with us and other neighbours from the few houses then in Blackthorn Road, to the home of Mr and Mrs Burrows, the last house in the row. It was only because Bill and Connie Burrows had been able to a purchase a television that I and my family were able to watch our new Queen being crowned in Westminster Abbey. The television, a large cabinet with a small screen, was standing in the corner of the sitting room. The adults sat on a selection of odd chairs around the room while we children sat in front of them, cross legged on the floor.

I remember the ceremony to this day, but as a child it seemed to go on for such a long time. I wondered when it would be over as it seemed as though it would never end. At the time, I found it amazing to think that the black and white scenes we were watching were being transmitted all the way from London as they happened. It was the first time my family and I had ever seen a television set, let alone seeing pictures coming over the airwaves. When the programme ended everyone went to the kitchen and had sandwiched and drinks. It was a lovely day to remember and all thanks to Mr and Mrs Burrows.

In the afternoon there was a fancy dress parade and, I think, a special tea for the children, where coronation mugs were given out. Richard Burden dressed up as Charles 1, and I as Nell Gwyn. My grandmother had dyed on old sheet to make me a long green dress and I carried a basket of oranges. The night before, I had to have my hair washed and twisted in narrow strips of white rags to make it curly. The following evening, before I went to bed, my parents gave me a gilt model of the coronation coach with its eight white horses. Afterwards, this little coach stood on my bedroom windowsill, until I left home to get married.

On Coronation Day evening, there was a celebratory dinner held in the village hall, which my parents attended along with many other village people.

2. Margaret Crouch

Coronation Day dawned damp and cold: not the sort of day everyone had hoped for.

I was fortunate to have been given a ticket for a stand in Oxford Street. The instructions were to be seated at 8am and be prepared to stay until 4.30pm.

So at 4am (armed with a picnic, rug and a waterproof cape) I left High Wycombe with friends of my parents and we drove up to London. The car had to be left some way from Marble Arch and we walked the rest of the way to our stand.

It was an amazing experience - I had never seen such crowds. It was almost impossible to walk on the pavements as people were sleeping on every available space, and had been doing so for several nights in order tot have a place to view the parade following the Coronation. Just before we reached our stand, almost half way down Oxford Street, we spied a cafe in a side street and decided to have breakfast. I was sent to Oxford Street to try and buy a paper. I was rather apprehensive as there were crowds everywhere and it was a bit of a struggle to move. But, my word, it was worth it - I got on to Oxford Street just as the early editions of the papers arrived. The most incredible atmosphere developed. It started with a huge roar, seemingly rolling down the street; cheering and singing followed and finally the first billboards. EVEREST CONQUERED. Such an amazing, emotional and triumphant scene, and I was so fortunate to witness it. Even more of a struggle to return to the cafe with the paper - how I wish I had kept it!

It wasn’t far to our stand but it took quite a while to reach it. Still drizzle and dark, but ut didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits.

Our seat on the stand were very basic - just rows of forms on the top of a partly rebuilt department store. Fortunately it had a sort of temporary tarpaulin shelter as a roof - so we were not rained on from above, only round the sides. We were thankful for the rugs we had taken; waterproofs were worn all day.

Programmes and timetables were provided, so we settled down to wait - and wait. (Sadly I kept neither programme nor timetable, and I fear I can’t remember times). We read through all the literature and listened to a radio commentary that was relayed to the stand.

I felt so sorry for the servicemen and police who were lining the route, getting wetter and wetter. Eventually the roar and cheering rolled down the street. Everyone edged forward and in the distance two very wet mounted policemen came into view; the commentary told us they were checking the route was clear.

I wish I could remember how the parade went. It was very impressive, with rank after rank of regiments of the services from all the Commonwealth countries as well as our own. All so smart and colourful - even if some of the ‘Blanco’ ran off on to their uniforms. We all felt sympathy for some of the Commonwealth regiments with thin and sparse uniforms - they were, and looked, perished!

3. Jenny Jones

It wasn’t meant to be like this. I should be at home, dressed in my best frock, sitting on the carpet in our living room surrounded by a select group of relatives and neighbours in front of the newly acquired “tele”. Instead I am huddled into my navy gaberdine and sitting in the rain next to my father, halfway up in a temporary grandstand in Piccadilly, surrounded by hundreds of strangers who, like us, have deployed newspaper as makeshift cushions, rugs and even boat-shaped hats to try and mitigate the effect of the thick drizzle which has been falling all day. These are the very same newspapers whose banner headlines that morning had proclaimed “Everest Conquered,” an achievement which had happened four days previously but news of which had been held over to make the day even more special.

We have heard the service on Westminster Abbey over loudspeakers and joined in the shouts of “Vivat Regina” and the singing of “God Save the Queen”. We have listened to and tried to count the echoing booms of the salute and now the sound of cheering is coming closer from our right, faces and bodies are appearing in the windows of the buildings opposite, the crowds on the pavements are edging forward and those at the back have raised their cardboard periscopes as the noise of tramping feet and brass band music indicate the imminent arrival of the Grand Procession.

Column after column of military men march by, the soldiers with arms sloped and bayonets fixed, their standards flapping. The sound of the bass drums pulses through me. There are men from all corners of the globe in this parade; some, like the Canadian Mounties in bright red jackets, instantly recognisable, and Australians with their one-sided hats. One sight will stay in my memory for ever: the Gurkhas, small olive-skinned men in khaki uniforms, who are followed immediately by some six foot six plus Afghan and Pakistan pipers, proud as camels in flowing sand-coloured robes.

Next come the guardsmen: do their bearskins get heavy when wet?, I wonder. Then there are carriages with dignitaries from the colonies and Commonwealth: I don’t find these people very interesting as they can’t be seen very well, but now a cheer goes up and my father points to a large lady in an open carriage who is waving and smiling broadly and obviously having the time of her life: she is Queen Salote of Tonga.

After an hour it’s getting to the climax of the procession and everyone is standing up now, so I have to climb onto my seat to see as the carriages pass by with some royal personages who I recognise from the pictures in the papers. A mass shout of “God Save the Queen” is coming towards us and now here I see the grey horses and the golden coach we’ve been waiting for hours and hours. The Queen looks small under the large crown she is wearing; she is holding the orb and sceptre, I think, and we cheer and cheer; the Duke of Edinburgh looks far more relaxed than she does. There are one or two groups of people who are walking, rather than marching, after the coach and then it all goes quiet, apart from a buzz of conversation.

We still have to sit until the soldiers lining the route move and we can climb down from our seats. People are heading for Green Park tube station behind us, but my father decides we need some exercise and we start to walk back to our hotel. Never before have I had to wade, knee deep in some places, through streets choked with wet newspaper and this is just one more memory I shall store away.

In the evening we are joined by my mother, who has finished her hostess duties at home and caught a train to meet up with us in London.

We are hoping to get down to the Embankment to see the fireworks, but we are too late, traffic is stationary for miles around. Instead we head for Buckingham Palace and are walking down the Mall as the lights come on, strung from poles on both sides of the road. Thousands of people seem to be heading back in the opposite direction and they are saying the Queen has made her last appearance for the night, but my parents are veterans of these occasions, having attended a previous Coronation and two Royal Weddings and it is only just ten o’clock after all; they are sure there will be more appearances.

Now I am standing against the railings of the floodlit palace, joining in with shouts of “We want the Queen. We want the Queen” with all the might of my ten-year old voice. It seems such a long time to wait, it has started to rain again but I don’t mind because I am anxious for my mother to see the Queen in the flesh, as she gave up her seat for me. And then the door to the balcony opens at last and there she is, without her crown now, but still small compared to the Duke beside her. She waves and someone leads a shout of “Three cheers for the Queen.” “Hurrah. Hurrah. Hurrah” we cry. It is a magical moment/

The next day we drive home and many times my father asks me “Jenny Wren, Jenny Wren, where have you been?”

“I’ve been up to London to look at the Queen” I reply.