SHE IS coming. He is coming. All in the merrie month of May. I do not know much about Barack Obama but I will tell you one thing about Elizabeth Alexandra Mary of Windsor: she has got an atrocious memory. I have known her since she was a slip of a princess but I bet if she meets me walking down Grafton Street during her visit to Ireland she won’t register a flicker of recognition. It is not as if I met her only once. She and I have been together on a number of occasions.
Our first meeting was at Windsor Castle. I was at Eton at the time. Well, camping on the playing fields of the famous school for the weekend to be precise. I had just turned 18 and had qualified for a King’s Scout certificate by passing proficiency tests in every outdoor pursuit from first-aid to tree climbing that Baden Powell had ordained would make callow youths fit, healthy and wholesome. It was the highest proficiency award in the Boy Scout movement and the scroll testifying to one’s achievements was traditionally handed over by the monarch himself. On this occasion King George VI, obviously not fully seized of the significance of the occasion, had decided to delegate the task to the young Princess Elizabeth.
Along with a few dozen other scouts from various countries of the old empire I paraded through the streets of Windsor to St George’s Chapel within the walls of the castle. There in the ancient mother church of the Order of the Garter we awaited the arrival of the princess in solemn silence. When she was ushered in the chief scout of the day made a few appropriate remarks and we then shuffled up the aisle under the heraldic banners of the Knights of the Garter to be presented with our mock vellum scrolls signed by the king himself.
“And where are you from?” the princess inquired sharply when I stepped forward to receive my scroll. Belfast, said I. I see said she. And that was the end of our first encounter.
Next time we met she had succeeded her father and was the fully fledged Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of her other realms and territories. As a political correspondent at Westminster and London editor of a Belfast morning newspaper I was from time to time invited to garden parties at Buckingham Palace. There on the lawn at the back of the palace the guests formed semi-formal lines and the queen walked casually along each line smiling at all and occasionally stopping to exchange brief pleasantries with a favoured guest.
Prince Philip straggled behind, his approach heralded now and then by a loud guffaw. It was rumoured that inside the palace he kept a kept a large cupboard with pigeon holes; each hole had a tag such as Australia, America, Ireland, doctor, sailor and so on containing topical jokes and remarks for use on his rounds. His Irish pigeon-hole must have been fairly bare. When he met anyone from Ireland he invariably boomed: “No bombs with you today I hope!” The queen, on the other hand, always had a relevant and courteous remark.
Our last meeting was in Belfast. A new (and much needed) bridge had been built over the Lagan. It was an impressive structure but Belfast being Belfast there was a row about what it should be called. The unionists wanted it to be named Carson Bridge after Sir Edward. The nationalists would not agree. Eventually it was decided to call it the Queen Elizabeth the Second bridge. And, of course, Her Majesty had to be invited over to formally christen it. Even the Rev Ian Paisley, just setting out on his turbulent political career, did not object because “the queen is a Protestant sitting on a Protestant throne”. The queen, accompanied by the prince, arrived in Belfast in July 1966 to perform the task. Security was tight but not quite tight enough. As the the royal party drove along Royal Avenue a spectator – an English woman it later transpired – threw a bottle of stout at the car. It caused no damage but some angry voices could be heard in the immediate vicinity of the woman complaining about the wanton waste of throwing a full bottle when an empty one would have served the same purpose.
There was a more serious incident a short time later as the entourage drove along Great Victoria Street. A person or persons unknown threw a 12lb concrete block from the top of a four-storey derelict building. It bounced off the front wing of the royal limousine leaving a visible dent. The car accelerated and drove on at speed towards Hillsborough Castle where the queen was to give a garden party for the more elite of her loyal Ulster subjects. As a reporter covering the visit, I had an entrance pass for Hillsborough so myself and a photographer made haste to the garden party.
While the photographer sneaked off in a fruitless search to find the damaged car I lined up with other guests to meet the queen and/or the duke in the gardens of the 18th-century mansion which, incidentally, is Her Majesty’s official home on this island. As at Buckingham Palace they worked the lines separately. She, with her smile for everyone, would stop from time to time to exchange a few words with a worthy citizen identified by a civil service flunkey. I got the universal smile but what was not given was the opportunity to ask her what she thought about falling Belfast breeze blocks.