The Queen's Corgi

Then Julian broke the news: ‘Apparently they’re not able to perform, ma’am.’

‘Really?’ replied the Queen, in a tone of voice that demanded further explanation.

‘No reason was given.’

‘Travel problems?’ she probed.

‘They arrived yesterday. Members of the band have been seen at Braemar, in uniform. I received a text message from their headmistress, Miss Thwaites, a short while ago.’

‘Have you replied?’

‘No, ma’am. Only just got it.’

Her Majesty looked pensive for a few moments before she said, ‘Tell Miss Thwaites that I am greatly looking forward to seeing the St George’s School band perform.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Julian was already fiddling with his phone. If he was in any way surprised by her direction, he wasn’t showing it. I looked across the back seat at Her Majesty curiously. I thought I could detect a certain gleam in her eye.

I had already been to a couple of gatherings in the past and discovered they were quite unlike most other events that the royal family attended. As well as the competitive atmosphere on the sports field, there was an informality about the games, almost a sense of family about them, with the different clans dressed in their respective tartans. As we royal corgis accompanied our family around the grounds that day, there were ceremonies and presentations. But there was also a palpable pride in coming together as Scots, giving the day its special flavour.

After Julian had reminded us of the St George’s School bagpipe band that morning, my main interest had been in their appearance. If, indeed, they were to appear. I wondered why it was they had told him that they couldn’t. And why had Her Majesty responded in that unusual way? I found myself caught up with a sense of growing anticipation.

And so no-one was more interested than I was when it was announced that the massed bands event was about to start. I pricked my one and a half ears up very keenly.

A great phalanx of kilted men carrying pipes and drums was forming on the fields before us. There were literally hundreds of them coming together in tartans of every hue. Many of them were seasoned veterans of the gatherings, having attended this special day, as men and boys, for generations. There was a sprinkling of younger faces. And then I noticed, at the very front, a small pipe band of youngsters. In the front row, at the very centre, there was a noticeable gap.

As the final bands lined up at the back of the massed column, a silence descended. Then there was an announcement that the event would be led by the band of St George’s School, appearing at the specific invitation of Her Majesty the Queen.

Following the announcement, the sense of expectation deepened. Everyone focused on the school group at the head of the parade— in particular, on the space at the centre of the very front row. If this was a theatrical ruse, designed to grab our attention, it was working well. As each second ticked by, the feeling of suspense deepened.

Knowing of the exchange in the car earlier that morning, I wondered if the Queen’s message had propelled the English visitors into an appearance that was about to unrav

el in the most embarrassingly public way.

As the whole Scottish nation waited—or so it felt—and still there was no sign of the school band’s leader, the uncertainty grew to unbearable levels. Until finally there was a movement and from behind the front row, towards the centre, arrived the boy I recognised as Jenkins. From a distance it was hard to see the expression on his face, although there did seem a pallor I didn’t remember from before. Raising the mouthpiece of his pipes to his lips, amid that great silence he stepped forward and began to play solo the first evocative lines of Amazing Grace.

After only two lines of the melody, there was a movement behind him. From the front row stepped another boy who accompanied him for the rest of the verse. He was lanky and bespectacled and I didn’t recognise him at first. It took the Queen herself to jolt my memory as she leaned over to her private secretary, Julian, and asked him, ‘Is that Simpson?’

Checking his program, he nodded.

‘Much taller,’ observed Her Majesty.

After a verse, the soloists were joined by the rest of their band and very soon by all the bands, marching in slow procession.

There are, my fellow subject, few experiences as rousing as the massed bands of Scotland marching across green September fields, in a display of the most ancient sounds and symbols of that rugged Celtic land. All became drawn into the music and spectacle of a ritual that, at a level deeper than words, is a moving reminder of a special heritage.

The bands made their way slowly across the fields and passed where the royal family stood to watch. Compelling as the clansmen were, there was one particular group—in fact, two particular performers—who held Her Majesty’s attention. And focused as they were on the way ahead, both Jenkins and Simpson couldn’t avoid a sideways glance at the royal party and where the Queen watched with a smile.

It was only later, when the massed band recital had come to an end, that the mystery of that morning’s message to Julian was solved. The Queen requested Jenkins and Simpson be brought to the VIP area. Huchens himself ushered them into the royal presence. I noted how both of them bowed and greeted her as Your Majesty, as though they had been practising.

Stepping apart from others in the group, the Queen looked from one to the other of them. Jenkins looked somewhat less pale than he had earlier, but there was still a certain peakiness about his appearance. Simpson bore only a passing resemblance to the boy we had met earlier in the year—a growth spurt had propelled him upwards.

‘It was a great surprise to see not just one of you, but both of you,’ observed Her Majesty.

‘Jenkins has been teaching me the bagpipes,’ explained Simpson, his bass voice cracking sharply into falsetto on the word ‘bagpipes’.

‘It was nice of you, Jenkins, to share your solo.’