I was born in England six months after Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen and like most English children, I was raised with a reverence for the Royal family.
On this sad day, I would like to resurrect a story from my childhood memories to share with you.

One day, when I was about eight or nine years old, we heard that the Queen was going to visit Chatham (Kent), just a short bus ride away and I begged to be allowed to go and see her. It was during the school holidays, but Mum would be working at the post office that day and we were to be minded by Mrs Roberston.

Mrs Robertson was a dour Scotswoman. She had no love for our Queen and scoffed at the idea of taking us to see her. However, luck was on my side. Dad was reading the Sunday paper and realised that Her Majesty would be coming much closer. She was leaving by plane from Rochester airport, which was right beside our own estate. I could walk there.

I spent the week before her visit planning everything down to the finest detail. I picked out my nicest frock and my best shoes to wear. Dad had taught me to spit and polish the way they did in the army so although my shoes were not so new anymore, they would look their very best.

Each night I would go to bed dreaming of the day. She would be coming down the main road in her carriage, wearing her flowing dress and tiara and I would be standing by myself at the side of the road, waving as she passed. When she saw me she would tell them to stop and she would come over to talk to me. She would say “What lovely shiny shoes you have” and I would say “My dad taught me to spit and polish so they would shine for you” but then I thought, “Are you allowed to say ‘spit’ to the Queen?” I asked Mum who told me if I said that; the Queen would think my shoes were grubby the rest of the time so it would be better to just say “thank you ma’am” and curtsy.

The big day finally arrived and I took a bag containing my dress and shoes with me to Mrs Robertson’s. I don’t think Mrs Robertson liked children very much, as soon as Mum left she would send us outside into the back garden and we wouldn’t see her until lunchtime when she would bring out our sandwiches and let us use the loo. Then it was straight back outside until Mum picked us up.

Dad had told me that the Queen would be arriving at the airport about 2pm so I left my clothes and shoes inside Mrs Robertson’s house with the sandwiches.

Unfortunately, that day, my little sister, Janet, needed the loo about 11.30 so Mrs Robertson made us all go at the same time, I never thought to get my bag then.
At lunchtime, Mrs Robertson brought the sandwiches out and went back inside, locking the door behind her as usual. With the sandwiches eaten, I knocked at the door to get my bag….no answer.
I called out to her, I begged and pleaded to get the bag but she wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there. I didn’t have a watch but I knew time was getting on and I was terrified I would miss the royal visit.
I hammered on the door til it almost broke, crying and yelling at the top of my voice. Finally, I realised that there was no way I was going to get my dress and shoes, from the silence and lack of response I had a pretty good idea that Mrs Robertson wasn’t even in the house anymore.

So, not knowing whether she was still there to look after them, and despite being told to go on my own, I took my two brothers and my sister with me and we went up to the main road. There was already a crowd gathering along the roadside, and policemen were making sure they all stayed well back.

Suddenly John, my baby brother, aged three, made a run for it and I went after him.

A policeman scooped him up before he reached the traffic but the policeman noticed my red eyes and tear stained face and wanted to know the reason. I told him the whole sorry story of how I had had to come to see the Queen in my play clothes and Wellington boots.
When I had finished, he said, “Come with me”, and still carrying John, he took the four of us over the main road and behind the wooden rail fence that bordered the airport. “Stand on the rails” he said “ and you’ll be able to see the Queen but she won’t be able to see very much of your clothes and boots, and this little tyke will be safe from the road”.

We were the only ones on that side of the road and he made us promise to stay there until he returned afterwards to take us safely back across.

A little while later, a cheer went up and everyone began waving flags. Oh the shame of it all. My one and only chance to see the Royal Family and I was wearing Wellington boots. I stood on the fence and waved madly and hoped she wouldn’t see the ugly things adorning my feet. The cars went past slowly, I saw a lady wearing a coat and hat turn to look in our direction. She saw us and smiled and waved and we politely waved back..

Then they were gone. I looked down the road…where was the carriage? Where was the Queen?
The policeman came back to get us and asked if I had seen Her Majesty, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so”, I said.

I never really knew whether I saw the Queen or not that day. At least I was spared the ultimate indignity of curtsying in my Wellington boots.

 

[Sethia Soliman]

I was born in England six months after Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen and like most English children, I was raised with a reverence for the Royal family.
On this sad day, I would like to resurrect a story from my childhood memories to share with you.

One day, when I was about eight or nine years old, we heard that the Queen was going to visit Chatham (Kent), just a short bus ride away and I begged to be allowed to go and see her. It was during the school holidays, but Mum would be working at the post office that day and we were to be minded by Mrs Roberston.

Mrs Robertson was a dour Scotswoman. She had no love for our Queen and scoffed at the idea of taking us to see her. However, luck was on my side. Dad was reading the Sunday paper and realised that Her Majesty would be coming much closer. She was leaving by plane from Rochester airport, which was right beside our own estate. I could walk there.

I spent the week before her visit planning everything down to the finest detail. I picked out my nicest frock and my best shoes to wear. Dad had taught me to spit and polish the way they did in the army so although my shoes were not so new anymore, they would look their very best.

Each night I would go to bed dreaming of the day. She would be coming down the main road in her carriage, wearing her flowing dress and tiara and I would be standing by myself at the side of the road, waving as she passed. When she saw me she would tell them to stop and she would come over to talk to me. She would say “What lovely shiny shoes you have” and I would say “My dad taught me to spit and polish so they would shine for you” but then I thought, “Are you allowed to say ‘spit’ to the Queen?” I asked Mum who told me if I said that; the Queen would think my shoes were grubby the rest of the time so it would be better to just say “thank you ma’am” and curtsy.

The big day finally arrived and I took a bag containing my dress and shoes with me to Mrs Robertson’s. I don’t think Mrs Robertson liked children very much, as soon as Mum left she would send us outside into the back garden and we wouldn’t see her until lunchtime when she would bring out our sandwiches and let us use the loo. Then it was straight back outside until Mum picked us up.

Dad had told me that the Queen would be arriving at the airport about 2pm so I left my clothes and shoes inside Mrs Robertson’s house with the sandwiches.

Unfortunately, that day, my little sister, Janet, needed the loo about 11.30 so Mrs Robertson made us all go at the same time, I never thought to get my bag then.
At lunchtime, Mrs Robertson brought the sandwiches out and went back inside, locking the door behind her as usual. With the sandwiches eaten, I knocked at the door to get my bag….no answer.
I called out to her, I begged and pleaded to get the bag but she wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there. I didn’t have a watch but I knew time was getting on and I was terrified I would miss the royal visit.
I hammered on the door til it almost broke, crying and yelling at the top of my voice. Finally, I realised that there was no way I was going to get my dress and shoes, from the silence and lack of response I had a pretty good idea that Mrs Robertson wasn’t even in the house anymore.

So, not knowing whether she was still there to look after them, and despite being told to go on my own, I took my two brothers and my sister with me and we went up to the main road. There was already a crowd gathering along the roadside, and policemen were making sure they all stayed well back.

Suddenly John, my baby brother, aged three, made a run for it and I went after him.

A policeman scooped him up before he reached the traffic but the policeman noticed my red eyes and tear stained face and wanted to know the reason. I told him the whole sorry story of how I had had to come to see the Queen in my play clothes and Wellington boots.
When I had finished, he said, “Come with me”, and still carrying John, he took the four of us over the main road and behind the wooden rail fence that bordered the airport. “Stand on the rails” he said “ and you’ll be able to see the Queen but she won’t be able to see very much of your clothes and boots, and this little tyke will be safe from the road”.

We were the only ones on that side of the road and he made us promise to stay there until he returned afterwards to take us safely back across.

A little while later, a cheer went up and everyone began waving flags. Oh the shame of it all. My one and only chance to see the Royal Family and I was wearing Wellington boots. I stood on the fence and waved madly and hoped she wouldn’t see the ugly things adorning my feet. The cars went past slowly, I saw a lady wearing a coat and hat turn to look in our direction. She saw us and smiled and waved and we politely waved back..

Then they were gone. I looked down the road…where was the carriage? Where was the Queen?
The policeman came back to get us and asked if I had seen Her Majesty, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so”, I said.

I never really knew whether I saw the Queen or not that day. At least I was spared the ultimate indignity of curtsying in my Wellington boots.

This was a wonderful read. Thank you so much for taking the time to share this story with us!

 

[Macarj]

Great story well written

 

[millicent haha]

Well written, alright! No waste of words and I loved how you described each part as if we might (and indeed do) feel your young tension.

 

[Suzanne rose]

So beautifully written

I visualised that whole story.

But I want more.

Did you find out if Mrs Robinson was at home.

Was she paid to mind you.

What happened when you got back home.

This story you should send to the Palace.

Thank so much for sharing this with us.

 

[JayKay]

Oh my goodness, my eyes are brimming with tears. I can feel your pain, and the hurt from the miserable Mrs Robertson is still there. (Mrs Robertson will be long gone, nothing to fear any more.)
It has taken the grief of today with
Queen Elizabeth's passing, for these memories to be told again.
I wonder if you got your best dress and highly polished shoes back again?
Queen Elizabeth ii,
My Queen, our Queen, THE Queen!
Long may her memory reign in us.

 

[Nana Zorak]

Lovely story, but it made me very cross that someone like your carer was such a dragon & did you tell your mum about her? I was also born in England but have been here almost 60 years with only one trip back to the old dart. After a month in a very grey England, I was so happy to return to the sun. With the passing of the Queen, I must admit I have felt very patriotic, especially seeing all the sad faces around in London & Scotland.

 

[margie]

 

[OldBells]

I was born in England six months after Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen and like most English children, I was raised with a reverence for the Royal family.
On this sad day, I would like to resurrect a story from my childhood memories to share with you.

One day, when I was about eight or nine years old, we heard that the Queen was going to visit Chatham (Kent), just a short bus ride away and I begged to be allowed to go and see her. It was during the school holidays, but Mum would be working at the post office that day and we were to be minded by Mrs Roberston.

Mrs Robertson was a dour Scotswoman. She had no love for our Queen and scoffed at the idea of taking us to see her. However, luck was on my side. Dad was reading the Sunday paper and realised that Her Majesty would be coming much closer. She was leaving by plane from Rochester airport, which was right beside our own estate. I could walk there.

I spent the week before her visit planning everything down to the finest detail. I picked out my nicest frock and my best shoes to wear. Dad had taught me to spit and polish the way they did in the army so although my shoes were not so new anymore, they would look their very best.

Each night I would go to bed dreaming of the day. She would be coming down the main road in her carriage, wearing her flowing dress and tiara and I would be standing by myself at the side of the road, waving as she passed. When she saw me she would tell them to stop and she would come over to talk to me. She would say “What lovely shiny shoes you have” and I would say “My dad taught me to spit and polish so they would shine for you” but then I thought, “Are you allowed to say ‘spit’ to the Queen?” I asked Mum who told me if I said that; the Queen would think my shoes were grubby the rest of the time so it would be better to just say “thank you ma’am” and curtsy.

The big day finally arrived and I took a bag containing my dress and shoes with me to Mrs Robertson’s. I don’t think Mrs Robertson liked children very much, as soon as Mum left she would send us outside into the back garden and we wouldn’t see her until lunchtime when she would bring out our sandwiches and let us use the loo. Then it was straight back outside until Mum picked us up.

Dad had told me that the Queen would be arriving at the airport about 2pm so I left my clothes and shoes inside Mrs Robertson’s house with the sandwiches.

Unfortunately, that day, my little sister, Janet, needed the loo about 11.30 so Mrs Robertson made us all go at the same time, I never thought to get my bag then.
At lunchtime, Mrs Robertson brought the sandwiches out and went back inside, locking the door behind her as usual. With the sandwiches eaten, I knocked at the door to get my bag….no answer.
I called out to her, I begged and pleaded to get the bag but she wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there. I didn’t have a watch but I knew time was getting on and I was terrified I would miss the royal visit.
I hammered on the door til it almost broke, crying and yelling at the top of my voice. Finally, I realised that there was no way I was going to get my dress and shoes, from the silence and lack of response I had a pretty good idea that Mrs Robertson wasn’t even in the house anymore.

So, not knowing whether she was still there to look after them, and despite being told to go on my own, I took my two brothers and my sister with me and we went up to the main road. There was already a crowd gathering along the roadside, and policemen were making sure they all stayed well back.

Suddenly John, my baby brother, aged three, made a run for it and I went after him.

A policeman scooped him up before he reached the traffic but the policeman noticed my red eyes and tear stained face and wanted to know the reason. I told him the whole sorry story of how I had had to come to see the Queen in my play clothes and Wellington boots.
When I had finished, he said, “Come with me”, and still carrying John, he took the four of us over the main road and behind the wooden rail fence that bordered the airport. “Stand on the rails” he said “ and you’ll be able to see the Queen but she won’t be able to see very much of your clothes and boots, and this little tyke will be safe from the road”.

We were the only ones on that side of the road and he made us promise to stay there until he returned afterwards to take us safely back across.

A little while later, a cheer went up and everyone began waving flags. Oh the shame of it all. My one and only chance to see the Royal Family and I was wearing Wellington boots. I stood on the fence and waved madly and hoped she wouldn’t see the ugly things adorning my feet. The cars went past slowly, I saw a lady wearing a coat and hat turn to look in our direction. She saw us and smiled and waved and we politely waved back..

Then they were gone. I looked down the road…where was the carriage? Where was the Queen?
The policeman came back to get us and asked if I had seen Her Majesty, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so”, I said.

I never really knew whether I saw the Queen or not that day. At least I was spared the ultimate indignity of curtsying in my Wellington boots.

I'm glad you got out to have a look and the kind policeman helped you. Please don't think that all Scots are like Mrs Robertson, I, for one, would have gladly taken you all out to see. I would not have locked you out in the garden on your own all day either, that was disgraceful.

 

[Tristeagan]

Lovely story, but it made me very cross that someone like your carer was such a dragon & did you tell your mum about her? I was also born in England but have been here almost 60 years with only one trip back to the old dart. After a month in a very grey England, I was so happy to return to the sun. With the passing of the Queen, I must admit I have felt very patriotic, especially seeing all the sad faces around in London & Scotland.

I have been here almost 60 years too, we came to Australia in 1964 when I was almost twelve.

 

[Shanti]

I was born in England six months after Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen and like most English children, I was raised with a reverence for the Royal family.
On this sad day, I would like to resurrect a story from my childhood memories to share with you.

One day, when I was about eight or nine years old, we heard that the Queen was going to visit Chatham (Kent), just a short bus ride away and I begged to be allowed to go and see her. It was during the school holidays, but Mum would be working at the post office that day and we were to be minded by Mrs Roberston.

Mrs Robertson was a dour Scotswoman. She had no love for our Queen and scoffed at the idea of taking us to see her. However, luck was on my side. Dad was reading the Sunday paper and realised that Her Majesty would be coming much closer. She was leaving by plane from Rochester airport, which was right beside our own estate. I could walk there.

I spent the week before her visit planning everything down to the finest detail. I picked out my nicest frock and my best shoes to wear. Dad had taught me to spit and polish the way they did in the army so although my shoes were not so new anymore, they would look their very best.

Each night I would go to bed dreaming of the day. She would be coming down the main road in her carriage, wearing her flowing dress and tiara and I would be standing by myself at the side of the road, waving as she passed. When she saw me she would tell them to stop and she would come over to talk to me. She would say “What lovely shiny shoes you have” and I would say “My dad taught me to spit and polish so they would shine for you” but then I thought, “Are you allowed to say ‘spit’ to the Queen?” I asked Mum who told me if I said that; the Queen would think my shoes were grubby the rest of the time so it would be better to just say “thank you ma’am” and curtsy.

The big day finally arrived and I took a bag containing my dress and shoes with me to Mrs Robertson’s. I don’t think Mrs Robertson liked children very much, as soon as Mum left she would send us outside into the back garden and we wouldn’t see her until lunchtime when she would bring out our sandwiches and let us use the loo. Then it was straight back outside until Mum picked us up.

Dad had told me that the Queen would be arriving at the airport about 2pm so I left my clothes and shoes inside Mrs Robertson’s house with the sandwiches.

Unfortunately, that day, my little sister, Janet, needed the loo about 11.30 so Mrs Robertson made us all go at the same time, I never thought to get my bag then.
At lunchtime, Mrs Robertson brought the sandwiches out and went back inside, locking the door behind her as usual. With the sandwiches eaten, I knocked at the door to get my bag….no answer.
I called out to her, I begged and pleaded to get the bag but she wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there. I didn’t have a watch but I knew time was getting on and I was terrified I would miss the royal visit.
I hammered on the door til it almost broke, crying and yelling at the top of my voice. Finally, I realised that there was no way I was going to get my dress and shoes, from the silence and lack of response I had a pretty good idea that Mrs Robertson wasn’t even in the house anymore.

So, not knowing whether she was still there to look after them, and despite being told to go on my own, I took my two brothers and my sister with me and we went up to the main road. There was already a crowd gathering along the roadside, and policemen were making sure they all stayed well back.

Suddenly John, my baby brother, aged three, made a run for it and I went after him.

A policeman scooped him up before he reached the traffic but the policeman noticed my red eyes and tear stained face and wanted to know the reason. I told him the whole sorry story of how I had had to come to see the Queen in my play clothes and Wellington boots.
When I had finished, he said, “Come with me”, and still carrying John, he took the four of us over the main road and behind the wooden rail fence that bordered the airport. “Stand on the rails” he said “ and you’ll be able to see the Queen but she won’t be able to see very much of your clothes and boots, and this little tyke will be safe from the road”.

We were the only ones on that side of the road and he made us promise to stay there until he returned afterwards to take us safely back across.

A little while later, a cheer went up and everyone began waving flags. Oh the shame of it all. My one and only chance to see the Royal Family and I was wearing Wellington boots. I stood on the fence and waved madly and hoped she wouldn’t see the ugly things adorning my feet. The cars went past slowly, I saw a lady wearing a coat and hat turn to look in our direction. She saw us and smiled and waved and we politely waved back..

Then they were gone. I looked down the road…where was the carriage? Where was the Queen?
The policeman came back to get us and asked if I had seen Her Majesty, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so”, I said.

I never really knew whether I saw the Queen or not that day. At least I was spared the ultimate indignity of curtsying in my Wellington boots.

I was born in England six months after Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen and like most English children, I was raised with a reverence for the Royal family.
On this sad day, I would like to resurrect a story from my childhood memories to share with you.

One day, when I was about eight or nine years old, we heard that the Queen was going to visit Chatham (Kent), just a short bus ride away and I begged to be allowed to go and see her. It was during the school holidays, but Mum would be working at the post office that day and we were to be minded by Mrs Roberston.

Mrs Robertson was a dour Scotswoman. She had no love for our Queen and scoffed at the idea of taking us to see her. However, luck was on my side. Dad was reading the Sunday paper and realised that Her Majesty would be coming much closer. She was leaving by plane from Rochester airport, which was right beside our own estate. I could walk there.

I spent the week before her visit planning everything down to the finest detail. I picked out my nicest frock and my best shoes to wear. Dad had taught me to spit and polish the way they did in the army so although my shoes were not so new anymore, they would look their very best.

Each night I would go to bed dreaming of the day. She would be coming down the main road in her carriage, wearing her flowing dress and tiara and I would be standing by myself at the side of the road, waving as she passed. When she saw me she would tell them to stop and she would come over to talk to me. She would say “What lovely shiny shoes you have” and I would say “My dad taught me to spit and polish so they would shine for you” but then I thought, “Are you allowed to say ‘spit’ to the Queen?” I asked Mum who told me if I said that; the Queen would think my shoes were grubby the rest of the time so it would be better to just say “thank you ma’am” and curtsy.

The big day finally arrived and I took a bag containing my dress and shoes with me to Mrs Robertson’s. I don’t think Mrs Robertson liked children very much, as soon as Mum left she would send us outside into the back garden and we wouldn’t see her until lunchtime when she would bring out our sandwiches and let us use the loo. Then it was straight back outside until Mum picked us up.

Dad had told me that the Queen would be arriving at the airport about 2pm so I left my clothes and shoes inside Mrs Robertson’s house with the sandwiches.

Unfortunately, that day, my little sister, Janet, needed the loo about 11.30 so Mrs Robertson made us all go at the same time, I never thought to get my bag then.
At lunchtime, Mrs Robertson brought the sandwiches out and went back inside, locking the door behind her as usual. With the sandwiches eaten, I knocked at the door to get my bag….no answer.
I called out to her, I begged and pleaded to get the bag but she wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there. I didn’t have a watch but I knew time was getting on and I was terrified I would miss the royal visit.
I hammered on the door til it almost broke, crying and yelling at the top of my voice. Finally, I realised that there was no way I was going to get my dress and shoes, from the silence and lack of response I had a pretty good idea that Mrs Robertson wasn’t even in the house anymore.

So, not knowing whether she was still there to look after them, and despite being told to go on my own, I took my two brothers and my sister with me and we went up to the main road. There was already a crowd gathering along the roadside, and policemen were making sure they all stayed well back.

Suddenly John, my baby brother, aged three, made a run for it and I went after him.

A policeman scooped him up before he reached the traffic but the policeman noticed my red eyes and tear stained face and wanted to know the reason. I told him the whole sorry story of how I had had to come to see the Queen in my play clothes and Wellington boots.
When I had finished, he said, “Come with me”, and still carrying John, he took the four of us over the main road and behind the wooden rail fence that bordered the airport. “Stand on the rails” he said “ and you’ll be able to see the Queen but she won’t be able to see very much of your clothes and boots, and this little tyke will be safe from the road”.

We were the only ones on that side of the road and he made us promise to stay there until he returned afterwards to take us safely back across.

A little while later, a cheer went up and everyone began waving flags. Oh the shame of it all. My one and only chance to see the Royal Family and I was wearing Wellington boots. I stood on the fence and waved madly and hoped she wouldn’t see the ugly things adorning my feet. The cars went past slowly, I saw a lady wearing a coat and hat turn to look in our direction. She saw us and smiled and waved and we politely waved back..

Then they were gone. I looked down the road…where was the carriage? Where was the Queen?
The policeman came back to get us and asked if I had seen Her Majesty, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so”, I said.

I never really knew whether I saw the Queen or not that day. At least I was spared the ultimate indignity of curtsying in my Wellington boots.

Well articulated beautifully written. Great story.

 

[Ezzy]

I was born in England six months after Princess Elizabeth was crowned Queen and like most English children, I was raised with a reverence for the Royal family.
On this sad day, I would like to resurrect a story from my childhood memories to share with you.

One day, when I was about eight or nine years old, we heard that the Queen was going to visit Chatham (Kent), just a short bus ride away and I begged to be allowed to go and see her. It was during the school holidays, but Mum would be working at the post office that day and we were to be minded by Mrs Roberston.

Mrs Robertson was a dour Scotswoman. She had no love for our Queen and scoffed at the idea of taking us to see her. However, luck was on my side. Dad was reading the Sunday paper and realised that Her Majesty would be coming much closer. She was leaving by plane from Rochester airport, which was right beside our own estate. I could walk there.

I spent the week before her visit planning everything down to the finest detail. I picked out my nicest frock and my best shoes to wear. Dad had taught me to spit and polish the way they did in the army so although my shoes were not so new anymore, they would look their very best.

Each night I would go to bed dreaming of the day. She would be coming down the main road in her carriage, wearing her flowing dress and tiara and I would be standing by myself at the side of the road, waving as she passed. When she saw me she would tell them to stop and she would come over to talk to me. She would say “What lovely shiny shoes you have” and I would say “My dad taught me to spit and polish so they would shine for you” but then I thought, “Are you allowed to say ‘spit’ to the Queen?” I asked Mum who told me if I said that; the Queen would think my shoes were grubby the rest of the time so it would be better to just say “thank you ma’am” and curtsy.

The big day finally arrived and I took a bag containing my dress and shoes with me to Mrs Robertson’s. I don’t think Mrs Robertson liked children very much, as soon as Mum left she would send us outside into the back garden and we wouldn’t see her until lunchtime when she would bring out our sandwiches and let us use the loo. Then it was straight back outside until Mum picked us up.

Dad had told me that the Queen would be arriving at the airport about 2pm so I left my clothes and shoes inside Mrs Robertson’s house with the sandwiches.

Unfortunately, that day, my little sister, Janet, needed the loo about 11.30 so Mrs Robertson made us all go at the same time, I never thought to get my bag then.
At lunchtime, Mrs Robertson brought the sandwiches out and went back inside, locking the door behind her as usual. With the sandwiches eaten, I knocked at the door to get my bag….no answer.
I called out to her, I begged and pleaded to get the bag but she wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there. I didn’t have a watch but I knew time was getting on and I was terrified I would miss the royal visit.
I hammered on the door til it almost broke, crying and yelling at the top of my voice. Finally, I realised that there was no way I was going to get my dress and shoes, from the silence and lack of response I had a pretty good idea that Mrs Robertson wasn’t even in the house anymore.

So, not knowing whether she was still there to look after them, and despite being told to go on my own, I took my two brothers and my sister with me and we went up to the main road. There was already a crowd gathering along the roadside, and policemen were making sure they all stayed well back.

Suddenly John, my baby brother, aged three, made a run for it and I went after him.

A policeman scooped him up before he reached the traffic but the policeman noticed my red eyes and tear stained face and wanted to know the reason. I told him the whole sorry story of how I had had to come to see the Queen in my play clothes and Wellington boots.
When I had finished, he said, “Come with me”, and still carrying John, he took the four of us over the main road and behind the wooden rail fence that bordered the airport. “Stand on the rails” he said “ and you’ll be able to see the Queen but she won’t be able to see very much of your clothes and boots, and this little tyke will be safe from the road”.

We were the only ones on that side of the road and he made us promise to stay there until he returned afterwards to take us safely back across.

A little while later, a cheer went up and everyone began waving flags. Oh the shame of it all. My one and only chance to see the Royal Family and I was wearing Wellington boots. I stood on the fence and waved madly and hoped she wouldn’t see the ugly things adorning my feet. The cars went past slowly, I saw a lady wearing a coat and hat turn to look in our direction. She saw us and smiled and waved and we politely waved back..

Then they were gone. I looked down the road…where was the carriage? Where was the Queen?
The policeman came back to get us and asked if I had seen Her Majesty, and I shook my head. “I don’t think so”, I said.

I never really knew whether I saw the Queen or not that day. At least I was spared the ultimate indignity of curtsying in my Wellington boots.

Lovely story, memories of a young girl & her desire to see The Queen. Enjoyed every moment reading this. I could visualise every moment, especially the excitement of the moment & then the frustration at not being able to get your special clothes & finally doubt as to whether you had seen the Queen or not. Her Majesty was regularly seen in Wellington boots too. Thanks for sharing this with us.

 

[Tristeagan]

So beautifully written

I visualised that whole story.

But I want more.

Did you find out if Mrs Robinson was at home.

Was she paid to mind you.

What happened when you got back home.

This story you should send to the Palace.

Thank so much for sharing this with us.

Thank you Suzanne Rose. I love your curiosity. I can only tell you that we went back to Mrs Robertson's afterwards and waited for mum to collect us as usual. My younger siblings were quite excited about their day and told our horrified parents all about it. I had to admit I had taken them with me and why, so had to face the consequences of being irresponsible and lectures on the possible outcomes. It certainly wasn't anything like the day I had been planning and dreaming of. I recall sobbing in my bedroom but have no idea if I was sent there as punishment or had gone to grieve alone.
Children in those days where not privy to the affairs of adults but I suspect there were consequences as we were never minded by Mrs Robertson again.

 

[Pommyoz]

I was born in Pembury, Kent, and visit England on a regular basis (Covid except).
I thoroughly enjoyed your memoirs of seeing the Queen, yes you did see her Majesty, I can assure you.
Thank you for sharing this special time.

 

[Ezzy]

Thank you Suzanne Rose. I love your curiosity. I can only tell you that we went back to Mrs Robertson's afterwards and waited for mum to collect us as usual. My younger siblings were quite excited about their day and told our horrified parents all about it. I had to admit I had taken them with me and why, so had to face the consequences of being irresponsible and lectures on the possible outcomes. It certainly wasn't anything like the day I had been planning and dreaming of. I recall sobbing in my bedroom but have no idea if I was sent there as punishment or had gone to grieve alone.
Children in those days where not privy to the affairs of adults but I suspect there were consequences as we were never minded by Mrs Robertson again.

Unlike Mrs Robertson who left you all unattended outside, l believe your actions were responsible. Had she acted properly in her Carer's role you may not have needed to take the action you did. Matters may have been worse if you had left your siblings behind & something bad happened to one of them. Bless you for the wisdom shown at such an early age l say.

 

[Tristeagan]

I'm glad you got out to have a look and the kind policeman helped you. Please don't think that all Scots are like Mrs Robertson, I, for one, would have gladly taken you all out to see. I would not have locked you out in the garden on your own all day either, that was disgraceful.

I have met so many lovely Scots since then and you are one them. Thank you so much.

 

[Suzanne rose]

Thank you Suzanne Rose. I love your curiosity. I can only tell you that we went back to Mrs Robertson's afterwards and waited for mum to collect us as usual. My younger siblings were quite excited about their day and told our horrified parents all about it. I had to admit I had taken them with me and why, so had to face the consequences of being irresponsible and lectures on the possible outcomes. It certainly wasn't anything like the day I had been planning and dreaming of. I recall sobbing in my bedroom but have no idea if I was sent there as punishment or had gone to grieve alone.
Children in those days where not privy to the affairs of adults but I suspect there were consequences as we were never minded by Mrs Robertson again.

I think things happen for a reason and by you taking your siblings with you may have opened your parents eyes to Mrs Robinson.

I'm thinking she left you alone maybe every day and came back at lunch time.

Your siblings were lucky to have you.

Thank you so much for sharing. I truly loved this story.

 

[Suzanne rose]

I think we could write a book of short stories of all our adventures.

 

[Ezzy]

I think we could write a book of short stories of all our adventures.

Perhaps some we are not proud of too? Certainly lots of what were then serious but are now funny. Enjoy reading your comments here, together with others of course.

 

[Suzanne rose]

Perhaps some we are not proud of too? Certainly lots of what were then serious but are now funny. Enjoy reading your comments here, together with others of course.

Oh I'm proud of the good the bad and the ugly. It makes us who we are today