YOUNG LOVE:Hereditary power is not a good thing, but it's a lot better than it used to be a few decades ago, writes MAEVE BINCHY
WELL, EVERYONE mellows a bit in 40 years. The edges blur. You see more innocence and hope and harmless lunacy than arrogance and triumphalism. It was a day when two people got married and two billion other people watched them. It was day when millions dressed up, got over-excited and partied to celebrate young love.
And it wasn’t all in England. A man from Eircom who came to sort out the broken-down broadband said that every house he had visited was glued to a television. It was on in the bank and the customers dawdled so that they could see more.
The streets and shops in Dalkey were emptier than on any other Friday. There were many households where ladies gathered, each wearing a hat and carrying a bottle. And why not? It was not a question of wanting to be English, nothing to do with losing our identity, changing our allegiance. It was all about watching a big, glittery show. A well choreographed parade. With fine horses and gold carriages and flags and marching bands. If that’s how you look at it then it’s a morning well spent.
The best bit is that we know the cast. The Duke of Edinburgh, who always looks irritated and as if he’s on the verge of imploding, looked just the same. But he is going to be 90 next birthday. He has a silly sort of sword, which would be handy to lean on, but he never uses it even though it’s hanging from his waist. He walks upright on his own. Queen Elizabeth is 85 and well able to climb into a glass coach and leap out of it without assistance. These are sturdy people; Ruritania doesn’t seem to have affected their stamina.
It was so different watching a royal wedding from my own home. For years, I have been going to Westminster Abbey or St Paul’s Cathedral and climbing almighty scaffolding to get to a seat on the top of a specially constructed press section. I was at Prince William’s parents’ wedding and his aunt Anne’s and his uncle Andrew’s. Not a good fairy at the feast, I fear I brought them no luck. All three marriages ended in divorce.
In a way I wish I had been in London. I miss the magic of the English losing all their reserve, their fear of having a conversation with you in case you might go home with them. Street parties are so much the opposite of the British way of life, which is based on people keeping themselves to themselves. And yet when they did sit down they loved the chance to get to know their neighbours. I remember with great affection those parties at trestle tables with beer and cider and something roasted on a spit.
But hey, what do I know really? Everything’s changed since I started being a royal wedding watcher in 1973. For William and Kate’s wedding the guests arrived in buses as if they were going to a football match. Years back it was a long line of Bentleys. There was constant reference to the fact that the couple had lived together already for some years. At the time of Diana’s wedding her uncle had to tell the world that she was a virgin. At those long ago marriages Elton John and his partner David would not have been ushered politely into the Abbey. Nor would there have been a rake of red hats – one token Catholic would have covered it.
Of course it’s not perfect. Hereditary power is never a good thing. But it’s a lot better in a few decades than it used to be. Yes, they still made her change her name to Catherine. They didn’t invite poor Fergie, who would have loved a day out. They left Tony Blair off the list. Tony who saved their bacon when Diana died.
But in the end, the bride was beautiful, the groom was handsome, the little pages and flower girls were adorable. It all went like clockwork. The somewhat tarnished image of royalty was forgotten for a day anyway.
Woody Allen always has a useful phrase. And when asked in a movie whether he was mellow, he replied “I’m so mellow I’m almost rotten”.
I know what he means. It’s not a bad place to be.