So much has already been said and I do not intend to repeat it much, but I do want to say that it is a sad day for all of us. It is tragic news, bringing to an end a remarkable career spanning 70 years, endless Prime Ministers and endless Leaders of the Opposition, too.
For those 70 years, Her Majesty carried out her duties with charm, humility—not often mentioned, but real humility—and also endless humour. She was quite remarkable in a way. She learned that from someone whom we have not mentioned today, her father, who in his own way was someone who never expected to be the monarch and who suffered a very significant problem, a speech impediment, yet showed her that it was possible to rise above the challenge and to deliver one’s service to one’s country at an incredible time. There is no question but that she learned that service and duty at the knees of her father as he overcame his own difficulties and put his country and their service first. That is something that is quite often forgotten.
A couple of things come to mind. So often, we have taken Her Majesty for granted. We expect her to be there. In the same way, whenever anything good or bad happens in our country, the crowds gather at Buckingham Palace. Whether she was there or not, they gathered; it was almost as though they could touch the railings and draw from them some sort of succour, support or mystical help. There they were again, last night, in pouring rain outside Buckingham Palace.
In all of that, we often forgot that she was also a human being with her own family issues and problems. I remember particularly that period when two of her sons faced marriage break-ups that were widely reported in the newspapers and the media, with everybody speculating in public about all that was going on. I wonder how many in this House could ever have borne something like that—such a tragedy for their mother—in such a public domain. Then, to top it all, Windsor Castle burned down, a place she loved deeply and felt responsible for. In a way, nobody seemed to take her into consideration until, approaching a speech—with a cold, interestingly—she said that that year had been her annus horribilis. I think that the public stopped. We all paused and realised that we had forgotten that we actually owed her as much duty and service as she had shown us without complaint. I thought that that was a remarkable moment, when the country came back from where it was to recognise that duty and service.
The other moment was when Diana, Princess of Wales, tragically died in that terrible car accident. Again, everybody gathered outside Buckingham Palace and demanded that the Queen should come. It got more and more shrill, with the newspapers banging on about how she had to come back. But there she was in Balmoral, trying to do what almost any grandmother would want to do—to put her arms around her grandchildren, comfort them and protect them from what she knew
was going to descend upon them. Finally, when she came down, I came to the realisation that, actually, it was not that the British public were angry that she was not there; it was that they needed her there to be able to show their own emotion, because she was the focus for all of that. When she came, everybody cheered and applauded—she was there, and they could now grieve properly, because she was the focus for that grief.
Of course, we all have anecdotes. When I ceased being leader of the Conservative party—it happens quite a lot, so I think the Queen was pretty used to it—she kindly asked me to take leave of her officially. I thought that was pretty kind—nobody else wanted me to, so it was decent of her to do that. When I came to the palace, and I was ushered into her small personal sitting room, I was struck by two or three things. One was the two-bar electric fire, which had around it a very strange piece of cardboard in the shape of flames and coloured with yellow and red crayons—I suspect by some somebody in the palace. It surrounded the fire, and I thought that was peculiarly dangerous; notwithstanding that, I am sure it had a purpose. The other thing was the Tupperware radio sitting next to her. I had not seen one since my parents smashed their last one. She very sweetly asked me how I was, being clearly sympathetic about what had happened. I just shrugged and said, “Well, Ma’am, nobody died and I’m still here,” whereupon she roared with laughter. The funny thing was that she then paused and looked at me, not sure whether I had actually made a joke. I laughed too, and then she laughed again—whether at me or with me, I could not figure out. That was something to relish.
The other anecdote I want to share with the House is slightly different. I was in a Privy Council meeting, and for some reason we were offered drinks at the end. It did not happen very often, so I took full advantage and ordered a whisky. The Queen came round to talk to us, and when she came to me, I, like everybody else, was as nervous as anything, but I stumbled through. Then I said, “I’ve just been reading some stuff about one of Churchill’s speeches”—I had suddenly recalled something he had said in 1941. President Roosevelt had sent a note over with the person he had just defeated in his third election, and Churchill said that, in it, he had written in his own hand a verse from Longfellow. Now, remember that in 1941 we did not know whether we would survive. Churchill had read the verse out, and I started to speak it. As I did, she started speaking it as well. I just want to share it with the House:
“sail on, O Ship of State!
Sail on, O Union, strong and great!
Humanity with all its fears,
With all the hopes of future years,
Is hanging breathless on thy fate!”
She said it perfectly. She then smiled slightly, and I detected a little dampness in her eye. Then she moved on. It suddenly struck me that that was exactly her. She was the ship of state. We looked to her for everything good, and in difficult times. She loved the Union with a passion, and she loved Scotland, I think, probably most of all. That is who she was—she was that ship of state, and somehow too often we took her for granted, but she never complained, and she always gave us service.
Now, for that union of hearts, if the House will indulge me, I want to quote WH Auden with a few changes:
“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”
She was our North, our South, our East and West,
Our working week and our Sunday rest,
Our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song.
We thought that love would last forever: we were wrong.
May God bless her and keep her, and hold her in our hands, and may we bless the royal family. God save the King.