“Hel-lo St George!” After eight hours shivering in the rain Prudence Weddle finally saw what she had been waiting for. Jumping up and down she bellowed at the top of her voice, trying to catch the attention of the man she usually calls Dad, who was dressed in chain mail and a tunic, guiding his team of rowers in red-felt dragon hats, down the Thames.
Defying the drizzle with her were tens of thousands of others, determined to line the riverbanks whatever the weather. Some shared personal connections to the barges and kayaks, rowboats and skiffs. More than a few were diehard fans of the House of Windsor.
But if one thing — other than Union Jack umbrellas — united the many spectators who came to London yesterday, it was their unshakeable belief that somehow spending a damp day eating soggy sandwiches in the rain would reserve them a place in British history.
At the square in front of Old Billingsgate Market the day began as it went on: coldly.
A Mancunian selling Jubilee banners for £2 each outside the Tower of London was kicking himself for not bulk-buying Union Jack umbrellas. “If you find out who the wholesaler is let me know. I’ll be lucky to sell enough of these to make up my train fare home.”
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The rain wasn’t bothering the lads from Enfield, who had been cracking open the cider since 9am. Apart from a few unprintable opinions about the Prince of Wales they were in good spirits. They had nowhere to stay, but were planning to party through the night.
By midday the crowds who had been standing three-deep since early morning, huddling under blankets and umbrellas, were looking at their watches while carefully conserving supplies for the long wait for Her Majesty, whose appearance was still another four hours away. This flotilla seemed to be taking an awful long time to arrive.
“I wish she’d hurry up so we can get the Earl Grey on,” said one mother, whose patience was running out.
The tip of the Shard was by now completely obscured by mist.
Most confronted the challenge with humour and a bit of old-fashioned British grit. Until, that is, a large tourist boat, hosting a private party, took up its mooring by the quayside, blocking the jealously guarded views of hundreds of people. The sight of champagne-swilling partygoers enjoying a hot buffet, and waiter service was the final straw.
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“Boo!” they shouted. The partygoers turned the other way. A chant took hold. “Move that boat! Move that boat!”
“We had a sweeping vista of all the tall ships and the salt boats,” complained Prudence’s mother, Judy. (Like her daughter, and most of the other people The Times met at the quayside, she was a teacher.) “This modern monstrosity has completely obliterated the view.”
Her daughter agreed. “The atmosphere has gone down a bit since they arrived. Until then everyone had been quite chatty, sharing sandwiches, thinking up ways of keeping warm.”
Cheerfully, Prudence reminded herself of the silver lining, with uniquely British logic: “At least now we have something to whinge about, other than the weather. So it will be even memorable.”
Despite their fears that “we are going to catch pneumonia”, the pair seemed to be enjoying themselves.
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“I do feel like there’s a sense of togetherness. You don’t often get that view of society where everyone is so friendly and open,” she said.
“It’s great,” said Prudence. It has allowed everyone to celebrate Britishness. We don’t often do that.”
Emboldened by their unpopularity, the party guests started to wave, pulling on their comedy masks of the Royal Family, which briefly confused the crowd, who were unsure whether to cheer the Royal faces, or boo the warm people wearing them.
Mrs Weddle launched into another chant of “Move that boat!”, which immediately got the crowd going once again.
“If it were sunnier,” she admitted, laughing, “we probably would have been more generous.”
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More boos. A pair of drunken, middle-aged women, who had poured their generously-proportioned figures into tight, Union-Jack-themed Lycra minidresses for the occasion, began winding up the shivering crowds.
“Put it away, love!” someone shouted. Wave back with two fingers, suggested another.
The larger lady pulled on a Kate mask and raised her glass. “You don’t look nuffink like her!”
Raúl Franco, an ebullient Mexican, found it all hilarious. But all he was wearing beneath his cagoule was a T-shirt. He too was getting impatient.
“Dónde está?” he wondered. Where is Her Majesty?
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The wind was getting up. Someone tried and failed to start a chant of “Oggy, oggy, oggy. Oi! Oi! Oi!”
Another group of Mexicans — easily the most cheerful of everyone — performed their own patriotic duty by trying to begin a Mexican wave. It didn’t travel far.
A couple of young Chinese air stewardesses from Hong Kong sat on the steps, sampling their first fish and chips. They watched the crowds with amusement.
“English people must love their government very much,” one said.
The bell boat was now within sight. The Gloriana was soon upon them.
“Queenie! Queenie! Queenie!” chanted a small boy from his father’s shoulders.
“Is that her?” he yelled, with the passing of every boat. No. “Is that her?”
Eventually, it was her. A distant white dot who, though difficult to see clearly through the quickening rain, was probably waving.
By the time that Tower Bridge lifted its bascules the heavens had opened good and proper. The drizzle was beginning to win, with many in the crowds taking it as their cue to go home, get warm and dry off. Among the pedestrians heading to the stations was Andrew Leach, a retired doctor, and his wife Parvin, a GP.
They had negotiated several train connections to get from Sandhurst, Kent, but were ultimately defeated by thorough stewarding, which left every quayside out of bounds.
“Without special passes we couldn’t get in anywhere,” said Dr Leach, raindrops streaming down his nose. “Someone somewhere made a big mistake in restricting access to the river like that.”
So, he was reduced to giving his wife a leg-up from a distant point in the street so that she could catch a glimpse of the Royal barge.
“It was a day for the privileged,” he said, as they made their way back to the railway station.
And even for the privileged it was probably the same as it was for everyone else: wet.