Uncle George Remembers XIV

“Although it could be said that the Earl Marshal’s office is wherever he happens to be working at the moment, he had a permanent set of chambers in the House of Lords, which were not very splendid, nor very comfortable, and they reminded one of a church vestry because of their substantial Victorian gothic decoration and furniture.

He did not of course use these rooms when it came to one of his big State occasions like the organising of a coronation, because they were much too small and in many other ways unsuitable. His working office for such important functions has, in comparatively recent years, been at commodious premises like Norfolk House (for the funeral of King George V), a house in Buckingham Palace Road (coronation of King George VI), St James’s Palace (funeral of King George VI) and, for the 1953 coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, 14 Belgrave Square.

This house is a large Belgravian mansion, situated in the north-west corner of the square, with one wing running down West Halkin Street. It was, I was informed, the lease-hold property of the Ministry of Works and, as it was empty and available, the Minister of Works kindly put it at the disposal of the Earl Marshal for the duration of the coronation preparations.

For his own use as his private office, he earmarked a small room at the back, not actually the smallest room in the house but not far from it, and for his secretaries one or two roomier ones close by. For myself as Garter, and for my immediate staff, I had a set of larger rooms, still modest, but more commodious than his. And the further down the scale you went, so to speak, the larger and more numerous grew the rooms, an arrangement which has always slightly puzzled me.

This Earl Marshal’s office opened for business quietly (he was away at the time) on 1st October 1952 and closed abruptly, after a last few weeks of intense commotion, on 2nd June following, being the night before the coronation. It of course remained half-open for some weeks afterwards whilst it was being restored to its former emptiness and whilst anti-climax reigned.

It was only a matter of days after starting up that problems began to arise, which was perhaps to be expected in such a “one-off” situation as preparing for a coronation. A curious but, I suppose, quite understandable thing about most of the heads of departments, which included myself (as the Earl Marshal’s chief of staff and planner) was that all of them were certain that they each were individually running the entire show.

One of them, not surprisingly since it was almost true, was the Minister of Works at that time Mr David Eccles, MP (later Viscount Eccles), who was sometimes affectionately known as “smartie-boots” because of his cloth-top boots and elegant air, and, not quite so affectionately, as “the abominable showman”, largely because he once referred jocularly at a press conference to the Queen as “my leading lady” – a description of Her Majesty somewhat in contrast with the Earl Marshal’s at a similar and almost concurrent press conference, which was “my master”. Ah well! MPs have to watch their votes; Earl Marshals say what they think suitable.

Be that as it may, Mr Eccles, with a warrant of appointment from the Earl Marshal, was given the enormous task of building the stands along the coronation processional route and of constructing the furniture, decorations, building and woodwork inside and outside the Abbey. It was a massive undertaking for him but he had his own departmental architect, Mr E Bedford, who had his own staff to assist him, and they employed Messrs John Mowlem to do the building and construction work , Messrs Templeton of Glasgow to make the carpets, Messrs Warners of Braintree to manufacture the velvets and brocades, Mrs Constance Spry to provide the flowers, and Mr James Woodford, the distinguished sculptor, to design and make the ten heraldic beasts, each six feet high and with menacing expressions on their faces, which welcomed the guests and, indeed, the Queen herself, when they arrived at the Abbey on coronation day.. The use of these fearful monsters, which were known as “The Queen’s Beasts”, may sound curious but it was quite in accordance with former regal pomp and whimsy.

Another candidate for being the mainspring on which all depended was the then Chester Herald, John Heaton-Armstrong (later Sir John), who was in charge of the allocation of the 7,500 seats in the Abbey, with 15,000 people wanting them, all of whom were certain they had a right to be there. It was a task which required skill and diplomacy and he did it impeccably. But he was inclined to brusqueness with those who did not always see eye to eye with him, and though we had been great friends for years, we did not speak amiably to one another again for quite a long time after.

Also in the running for top place was the distinguished soldier, Major-General Feilden (knighted later, and known to his friends as Gerry). Energetic, ultra-dependable, a tower of strength, the type of British officer most feared by an enemy in time of war, he was in 1952 in command of the NAAFI. He, with another Major-General, Sir John Marriott, and a staff to assist them, was in charge of the 400 ushers whose principal duty at the coronations to ensure that the 7,500 ticket holders got into their right seats in the Abbey and not only to keep an eye on them there during the ceremonies but at the same time to make themselves as invisible as possible so as not to spoil their view.

This last duty was in one or two instances not so perfectly carried out as it might have been because some of the ushers were unable to resist having a peek at what was going on when they should have been making themselves scarce. For the information of posterity I mentioned this in an official report I had to make when it was all over, and General Feilden saw it. The result was that I got a crisp and soldierly letter from him telling me I didn’t know what I was talking about. He evidently forgot that I was an Irishman, and I replied as I felt Irish honour dictated – by challenging him to a duel and ending my letter with “At your service” (which I have read somewhere was the right thing to say when issuing a challenge). I believe he took it seriously, being, as I have inferred, a man not to be trifled with, but he did not, I am glad to say, actually accept my challenge. I think he was advised advised to cool down by his tactful colleague, Sir John Marriott, who advised me to do the same. The incident, I agree, was probably only due to an excitable state of mind which many people suffered from at the time of the coronation.

General Feilden’s 400 ushers, who were known as Gold-Staff Officers because each carried as his wand of authority a gilded wooden baton (blue-tipped to match the general scheme of decoration), consisted mostly of officers or former officers in the Armed Services, but also of distinguished civilians for whom seats or places could not be found in the Abbey.

They did a splendid job on coronation day, these courteous ushers, and indeed some of them proved their mettle in situations requiring the greatest savoir faire. For example, one Peeress of the Realm wished to bring her new-born baby with her to the Abbey and feed it there, and it required much gentle coaxing to persuade the noble lady that it was not a good idea. And there were the peer and peeress who arrived at the church in such a happy and glorious condition, presumably after an all-night celebration, that it required even more gentle coaxing to get them back in their motor-car and convince them that they should go home.

More than 400 golden batons were made for the 400 Gold-Staff Officers and the first sample batch of a dozen were made of English oak from the woods of Arundel Castle, the Earl Marshal’s ancient domain in Sussex. I arranged this because I thought it had an appropriate feeling of mystique about it which might appeal to the Gold-Staff Officers who were to be allowed to keep their batons as souvenirs. Alas, the central heating in 14 Belgrave Square and the ancient oaks of Arundel were incompatible. The batons, which should have remained as straight as ram-rods indefinitely, almost immediately assumed unwanted shapes such as curves and corkscrew twists. So they had to be scrapped and made anew from well-seasoned timber, wherever it may have come from. “A pity,” the Earl Marshal said, “I thought I had sold some timber!”

Not really a front runner at the Earl Marshal’s office, but certainly one who had keen aspirations in that direction, was James Arnold Frere, whom I have mentioned elsewhere and who at this time was Bluemantle Pursuivant of Arms. I had given him the double job of Press Liaison, because he was educated and articulate, and Dress Regulations, because he was an authority on costume, ancient and modern. But, in spite of his qualifications, he did not fit in very well and people called him (behind his back, of course) Bluebottle Pursuivant of Arms or, alternatively, Gasmantle, which showed that there was something wrong somewhere. Press reporters did not like him either and complained to me that he always looked at them as if they were repulsive. It was his way. So he became Dress only, at which he was pretty good, the Press being handed over to an experienced professional government Information Officer, Bob Hoare, who was loaned from his usual post, and who was much closer to real life than Bluebottle Pursuivant, and a pleasure to work with after Gasmantle.

Perhaps the only leading light at the Earl Marshal’s office who made no pretensions at all to running the entire show was the Earl Marshal. Being so to speak almost a sine qua non, it was not necessary.“

The Hon, Sir George Bellew, KCB, KCVO, KStJ, FSA.