Coronation Read Online Free Page B

pushing, shoving, thronging, rubbing shoulders through the area of the great square, some trying to reach the stands, others attempting to get closer to the front ranks already packed solid along the route of procession, roped off and kept clear by the police. Everyone was in the grip of Coronation fever and the very density of the packed crowd and its gaiety made it the most thrilling experience the Claggs had ever known. This was what they had come for and they were now a part of it.
    But even more enthralling as they tried, at times almost in vain, to press their way through the throngs in the direction indicated by the bus conductor, was the magic worked by the tickets they possessed, which Will Clagg now held in his hand as he led the way.
    ‘Tickets? This way, sir! Wellington Crescent? Down there, sir. Open up, please, and let these people through. They’re ticket-holders.’
    There were police lines within police lines and lanes roped off and forbidden areas, and others marked ‘Ticket-holders only’, and the talisman pasteboards clutched by Clagg melted them through every barrier, visible and invisible. Never before in their lives had any of them been ‘special’ or deferred to in anything. When there were queues, they queued; when there were ‘Keep Out’ signs, they kept out. And here they were among the favoured. It was heady wine which gave them all the sweetest sensation and made Will Clagg a most proud and happy man.
    ‘Tickets, sir?’ said another constable. ‘Let’s have a look at them. Wellington Crescent, that’s just below there, sir. First on your right. Come round this way, you’ll find it easier going.’
    He led them round the corner of a huge wooden grandstand slanting row upon row to the sky, the front covered with red, white and blue bunting already limp and soaked. Many people were sitting on the narrow wooden planks under blankets or with newspapers over their heads, huddled against the chilly rain.
    Will Clagg experienced an even greater satisfaction. ‘There, see,’ he pointed out, ‘that might be us if it weren’t for Cousin Bert. Out in the wet and cold. In a minute we’ll all be dry and snug.’
    They marched along the rows of stands and for once Granny had nothing unpleasant to contribute. She, too, had succumbed to the flattery of the treatment they had been receiving as well as to the contagion of mounting excitement from the crowds, the flags and the spirit of festival.
    Thus afforded a short cut, they moved along more rapidly until they reached the far side of the square, where once more they found themselves bucking a human tide flowing in the other direction, and again friendly and helpful constables eased their way through until Clagg, looking up at a street-sign posted on the corner house, raised his arm and shouted to them, ‘There! There it is!’ The sign read: ‘Wellington Crescent, S.W.1’ to match the address on the wonderful tickets.
    The Crescent was just what its name implied, a scimitar of a street sweeping up from Wellington Square towards Belgravia, and because of its shape the first dozen or so houses had a view of the traffic circle, or a part of it; though, of course, as one moved further west the angle increased and the area of view diminished.
    ‘Come along then!’ Will Clagg cried, herding and hustling his brood in front of him, noting with satisfaction that the corner house of the Crescent was No. 1, that in its windows on the first and second floors were arranged seats of planking where people were sitting or standing about with their coats off, and some of them appeared to be eating and drinking. ‘Let’s get in out of the wet. We could all do with a bit of breakfast, couldn’t we?’
    They passed Nos. 2 and 3. People holding tickets that appeared to be similar to theirs were passing in through the front doors. In a first-floor window was a whole row of children in party dress, their faces shining with excitement, each clutching either a