A warm and uplifting novel about a British Indian mother and daughter and their journey across 24 hours queuing to see the Queen lying in state.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Sweta Rana’s Queuing for the Queen, which is out July 6th!
One queue. 250,000 people. Twenty-four life-changing hours.
A young boy wearing a cereal box crown, impatiently dragging his mother behind him. A friendly man in a khaki raincoat, talking about his beloved Leeds United to anyone who will listen. An elderly woman who has lived her life alongside the Queen, and is just hoping she’ll make it to the end of the queue to say goodbye. And among them, a British Indian mother and daughter, driven apart by their differences, embarking on a pilgrimage which neither of them yet know will change their lives forever.
Full of secrets and surprises, this uplifting novel celebrates not only the remarkable woman who defined an era and a country, but also the diverse and unique people she served for so long.
‘Which ones are the Golden Jubilee Bridges?’ asks Harold, frowning. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of them.’
‘The Golden Jubilee Bridges were built in 2002.’
We all turn around. A few places behind us stand a harried-looking woman and, presumably, her son. He looks about nine years old and he’s wearing a cardboard crown, crudely cut out from a cereal box. He’s standing straight, arms stiffly at his sides.
‘The bridges were named in honour of Her Majesty’s fiftieth jubilee,’ the boy continues, his voice squeaky and earnest.
‘Sorry about him,’ calls the woman, her Welsh accent even stronger than her son’s. ‘He’s a bit obsessed with the monarchy.’
‘I’m not obsessed,’ the boy barks back, his cheeks reddening. A few queue-dwellers step aside so the mother and son can walk over to chat to us more easily. The mother gives us all a tired half-smile. ‘I’m Elsie. And this little eejit is Owen.
We came down from Anglesey this morning.’
Owen looks up at us, wide-eyed. As he takes in the mass of new people in front of him, all looking at him, he visibly loses his nerve. ‘Nice to meet you, goodbye,’ he yelps, and moves to hide behind his mother.
‘It’s nice to meet you too, Elsie and Owen,’ Harold says. ‘Owen, I’m ashamed to admit it, but for the life of me I can’t remember the Queen’s birthday.’
Owen’s wide, bright blue eyes peer round from behind his mother.
‘Do you think you could remind me?’
Owen gazes up at his mother. Elsie is a pretty woman, but the faint bags under her eyes and her slightly limp, dull brown hair betray her exhaustion. When she smiles, though, her entire face seems to light up like a firework. She nods at her son.
‘W-well,’ Owen stutters, taking a half-step out from behind his mother. ‘Do you want to know her real birthday, or her official birthday?’
‘Her real one,’ Harold says, as Mum simultaneously speaks: ‘Her official one.’
Owen looks utterly alarmed.
Mum and Harold exchange glances, then speak in unison: ‘Both.’
Owen gives a timid smile. ‘OK. Her real birthday is April the twenty-first.’
‘You mean it was April the twenty-first,’ Colin says gloomily. ‘What?’ he adds sharply, after Denzel’s elbowed him in the ribs.
The fragile beginnings of a smile have evaporated from Owen’s face, replaced with a look of confusion and deep sadness. ‘Oh, right. Um, her real birthday was April the twenty-first.’ He clears his throat and blinks hard. ‘I guess Her Majesty doesn’t get to have birthdays any more.’
‘It’ll always be her birthday,’ Elsie reassures her son gently. ‘Even though she’s gone, the day she was born won’t ever change.’
I turn to catch Mum’s eye. She raises her eyebrows enquiringly.
‘Remember that time Dad forgot Grandma’s birthday?’ I ask her in an undertone.
It was a late afternoon, back when I was a teenager. Dad was lounging about merrily on the couch, singing along to his favourite hits on Magic Radio. He was in the middle of bellowing to Fernando that there was something in the air that night and the stars were bright, when Mum offhandedly asked him what he’d bought his mother for her birthday.
I’ve never in my life seen a man move as fast as my father did in that moment. He bolted from the sofa as if it had electrocuted him, his budding romance with Fernando abandoned forever. Once he’d thrown a coat over his shoulders, he dragged us all out to the local petrol station, to pick up a bottle of Champagne and a cheap keyring, which read ‘MUM’ in glittery pink lettering. Mum suggested the keyring might be a slightly insulting present for an elderly matriarch, but was proved wrong as we witnessed Grandma enthusing over it an hour later. Grandma never did have particularly good taste.
By contrast, Mum has always had beautiful taste. She sticks to classic looks and effective splashes of colour. Today, for example, the jade scarf she keeps insisting I need adds a pop to her black coat, black jeans and grey jumper. She’s also wearing neat black flats, which I don’t think I’ve seen before.
That’s unusual. Mum knows I have a vested interest in shoes, and she always, without fail, asks for my opinion before purchasing any of her own.
‘Did someone give you those shoes?’ I ask. ‘I bought them a couple of months ago.’
Of course. With all this reminiscing and revelling, for a fleeting moment I’d forgotten just how long it’s been since Mum and I last saw each other, let alone had a normal conversation. There was a time when she’d have sent me pictures, with accompanying shoe emojis and question marks. But that was then – once upon a time – and this is now.
Perhaps I’ll never get a message like that from her again.
It feels a bit as if a hard stone has lodged in my heart.
‘The Queen had a pair of custom shoes made for her coronation by Roger Vivier,’ Owen informs us all.
‘Really? I love Roger Vivier,’ Colin says in delight, just as his husband shakes his head and mutters under his breath, ‘Who the hell is Roger Vivier?’
