Victoria, great and glorious, firm and free. Ever victorious may she be. In white letters on a red ground. With a portrait of the Queen above, flanked by Union Jacks.
The waggon, which had been held up by the crowd in the square long enough for Harry to read this patriotic inscription where it hung over the façade of the railway station, suddenly jolted forward. The packed children were thrown against each other, the well-brushed curls, the starched drill suits and muslin dresses tossed like flowers in a breeze, screams of delighted laughter filled the air. The fifteen thousand Annotsfield Sunday School scholars were on their way in procession to celebrate the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in the new park. (“Why Diamond?” wondered Harry, but not with sufficient interest to put the question into words.) On his breast a Jubilee badge, a round tin medallion bearing the Queen’s picture, hung from a bow of red white and blue ribbon. Church bells were ringing, older children on foot around the waggons were singing. Now they were lined up on grass in front of a platform decked with flags; the Mayor, in a cocked hat and red robes and a big gold chain, was making a speech; at the back in the middle of the row sat Grandpa, resplendent in his best silk hat. The Mayor was delighted, he said, that in Annotsfield on this wonderful day the sun was shining upon them, and he hoped it would be the same for the great celebrations now being held in London. This was the first time it had occurred to Harry that weather might be different in English places at the same time; he was awestruck by the thought and missed much of the Mayor’s speech, rejoining it at the peroration. “May the sun continue to shine upon Her Majesty, and Her throne continue to set an example to the world, for many years to come. God Save the Queen!” The band played; then everyone cried Hip Hip Hooray.
Now the crowd of children was breaking up and dispersing; his mother came towards him looking very pretty; the white hat perched on her piled-up light brown hair was trimmed with red white and blue ribbons and she wore three flowers of the same colours pinned in the bosom of her best heliotrope dress.
“Come over here, Harry; don’t you want to go in for the races?” cried his father.
“He’s too young, Fred,” pleaded his mother, as Harry hung back.
She took his hand and led him to the side of the roped-off space where Sunday School officials were marshalling the seven-year-olds for sports and games. Harry gazed, fascinated; they were tying couples of boys together with handkerchiefs round a leg of each. One heat of the three-legged race was run; some children tumbled on the grass, the antics of others as they strove to synchronise the movements of their arms and legs made the watching grown-ups laugh and clap. Suddenly Harry snatched his hand from his mother’s and ran across the grass.
“That’s right, Harry,” said his father, pleased.
He knelt and tied Harry firmly to another boy. Harry looked up from the knots and found it was Charlie Shaw from the house next to his grandfather’s. Charlie was thin and taller than Harry; he had wavy dark hair, an oval face broad at the temples, sparkling hazel eyes and a clear delicate skin which coloured easily. The two boys exchanged a look and felt friendly. Harry had no idea how to run a three-legged race but intended to do it as well as the other competitors and possibly rather better.
“I think this is the way,” said Charlie in a light quick tone, passing his arm round Harry’s waist.
Harry gripped him in the same way, firmly. Charlie’s thin body was quivering with joyous anticipation. The starter fired the pistol.
“Come on!” cried Charlie eagerly.
The boys ran expertly down the course, Charlie setting a quick pace. There was a moment when Charlie stumbled and almost fell, but Harry’s grip held him upright. They reached the end of the course almost before the rest had started. They won the heat and presently the whole race, and sat on the grass together, surrounded by their delighted families, triumphantly drinking ginger-beer from a brown stone bottle. In the distance some older children performed drill with long white wands.
Now it was twilight and Harry stood in front of the Town Hall, which was festooned with coloured fairy lights spelling: God Save Our Queen: 1837–1897. He was footsore, for Charlie had scorned the slow delays of the children’s waggon, but completely happy— or rather, he would be completely happy as soon as the monster bonfire was lighted. A councillor whom his father identified as the chairman of the gas committee came out with a long rod lighted at one end and handed it to his wife, who helped by her husband timidly inserted it into the mass of logs and twigs and thus ignited the fire. At first the results were disappointing, only occasional gleams of fire within being seen; then suddenly a red tongue leaped up, the crowd cheered; soon the bonfire was a blazing mass throwing out sparks and smoke and long red flames, so hot that the crowd to leeward had to run from it. In its flickering light the banners on the warehouses at the other side of the square were clearly visible: Long Live Our Noble Queen, read Morcar: Victoria, the Greatest Queen on Earth.