To the Ends of the Earth

What was difficult for an alien to see was that this was essentially a middle-class monarchy. Decent philistines, the royal couple liked animals and country-house sports and variety shows. They never mentioned books at all, but they were famous for preferring certain television programs. Newspapers had published photographs of the Royal Television Set: it had a big screen and a sort of shawl on the top, but it was just like one you could hire for two quid a week up the High Street. Over the years the Queen had become shrewder-seeming, an even-tempered mother-in-law and a kindly gran. Prince Philip was loved for being irascible. He was noted for his grouchy remarks. He used the word bloody in public, and after that it was hard for anyone to find fault with him. The Queen was his opposite, growing smaller and squashier as he seemed to lengthen and grow spiky—the illusion had sprung out of his having become vocal. The Queen and the Prince were well matched, but it was less the sovereign and her consort than the double act that all successful middle-class marriages are.

In the lobby they were selling souvenirs of the Royal Visit. How had they had time to prepare these paperweights and medallions and letter openers and postcards saying CRAW’S NEST HOTEL—SOUVENIR OF THE ROYAL VISIT?

“We knew about it in January, but we had to keep it a secret until May,” Eira said. “We kept praying that nothing would go wrong. We thought the Falklands might finish it.”

So they had been putting the place in order and running up souvenirs for almost seven months. The royal lunch had lasted an hour.

That night they held a celebration party in the hotel parking lot. It was a way of giving thanks. The hotel invited the whole town, or rather two—Easter Anstruther and Wester Anstruther. They had a rock band and eight pipers and some drummers. The racket was tremendous and continued until two o’clock in the morning, hundreds of people drinking and dancing. They sold sausages and fish and chips, and there were bales of hay for people to sit on. The band was bad, but no one seemed to mind. There were old people, families, drunks, and dogs. Small boys smoked cigarettes in a delighted way and sneaked beer from the hotel. Girls danced with each other, because the village boys, too embarrassed to be seen dancing, congregated in small groups and pretended to be tough. There was a good feeling in the air, hilarity and joy, something festive, but also grateful and exhausted. It wasn’t faked; it was like the atmosphere of an African village enjoying itself.

The cleaning ladies were buzzing early the next morning.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Mrs. Ross said. “It didn’t seem real. It was like a dream.”

I said, “What will Willie Hamilton think?”

Willie Hamilton was their Member of Parliament and noted for being in favor of abolishing the monarchy.

“Willie Hamilton can get stuffed.”

Trippers

ROSALIE AND HUGH MUTTON COLLECTED PRESERVED RAILWAYS. They had been on the Romney, Hythe, and Dym-church; the Ravenglass; all the Welsh lines; and more. They loved steam. They would drive hundreds of miles in their Ford Escort to take a steam train. They were members of a steam railway preservation society. This North Norfolk Railway reminded them of the line in Shepton Mallet.

Then Mrs. Mutton said, “Where’s your casual top?”

“I don’t have a casual top in brown, do I,” Mr. Mutton said.

“Why are you wearing brown?”

Mr. Mutton said, “I can’t wear blue all the time, can I.”

Rhoda Gauntlett was at the window. She said, “That sea looks so lovely. And that grass. It’s a golf course.”

We looked at the golf course—Sheringham, so soon.

“I’d get confused going round a golf course,” Mrs. Mutton said. “You walk bloody miles. How do you know which way to go?”

This was the only train in Britain today, the fifteen-minute ride from Weybourne. It was sunny in Sheringham—a thousand people on the sandy beach, but only two people in the water. Because of the railway strike all these trippers had come by car.

There were three old ladies walking along the Promenade. They had strong country accents, probably Norfolk. I could never place these burrs and haws.

“I should have worn my blooming hat.”

“The air’s fresh, but it’s making my eyes water.”

“We can look round Woolworth’s after we’ve had our tea.”