Updated: April 17th at 11:57am
It is a grey and dull morning in London. Sombre perhaps. I step out of Temple tube station on the Strand and walk towards the sound of trumpets. The band is preparing for the ceremonial procession of Margaret Thatcher’s remains, from here to St. Paul’s Cathedral. “Are you expecting a lot of people?” I ask a London Underground worker, outside the station. He doesn’t know. This one is going to be unpredictable. Will people turn out? A divisive figure in life, a divisive figure in death.
As I make my way up Arundel St, the RAF troops and Beefeaters are getting into position. I turn the corner onto the courtyard in front of St Clement Danes Church, where the coffin is due to arrive at 10am for a short prayer service.
A police officer closes the road and the crowd builds.
A French backpacker rounds the corner to meet the sight of a hundred beefeaters in red, their enormous fluffy hats soaring above the crowd. “Ooh, je peut un photo,” she shrieks. The full pomp and ceremony of the British establishment is on show today. And it is quite a sight. Every member of the cortege is preened to within an inch of its life. I can see myself in their shoes.
It is moments before the hearse is due to round the corner to be received in the chapel before being brought on horse-drawn carriage to the main event in St. Pauls. There are thousands gathered behind the barriers. Police dogs and bomb squads swarm the area. One official is checking the insides of lamp posts. The Union Jack above the church sits at half-mast.
The man standing next to me says he has come into London especially to “pay his respects to Margaret Thatcher”.
Several bands pass the crowd: beefeaters, RAF officers and others. They play a sombre marching tune. Just after 10am, the bells of the church change to a slower, heavier rhythm. The hearse crawls by the front entrance. Perhaps half the crowd begin to applaud. The clack of a thousand cameras. The coffin, draped in the Union Jack, is carried slowly into the chapel. A helicopter follows its path high up in the sky.
After a few minutes the coffin emerges once again and is placed on the gun carriage, pulled by seven handsome black horses. A woman passes me. She carries a placard that reads, “I am not happy to pay for Thatcher’s funeral”.
Moments later, an RAF officer barks an order to his men. “Slow March!” With that, the cortege, the length of the road, begins to march slowly down Fleet St towards the funeral in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Once again the crowd claps quietly.
Updated: April 17th at 8am
Margaret Thatcher returned to the site of her political career as the remains of the former British Prime Minister arrived in Westminster yesterday afternoon, ahead of a private service which signals the start of the official proceedings.
Just a couple of minutes before 3pm her coffin was brought into the Chapel of St Mary Undercroft, where she spent her last night before today’s ceremonial funeral.
The Chapel of St Mary Undercroft, dating from the 13th century, is a crypt which once lay under St. Stephen’s Chapel. St. Stephen’s fell victim to a fire in 1834 while the intimate vaulted crypt below remained intact.
From 2pm yesterday, a large bank of press photographers, camera crew and onlookers gathered on St. Margaret St, opposite the St. Stephen’s entrance to the Palace of Westminster. Two choppers hovered above the commotion below.
I passed an old man carrying a large painting. He was being interrogated by two police officers. The picture depicts a caricatured Margaret Thatcher in a coffin, being carried by scruffily clothed peasants. “Are you here to respect or not?” asks one of the officers. The Metropolitan Police are hoping for as peaceful a ceremony as possible, in spite of the divisions in opinion on the former Prime Minister.
Moments before the arrival of the hearse, teams of police officers swarmed the area as the road was closed to ensure the safe passage of the Baroness’s remains. The coffin was draped in a Union Jack flag. White flowers lay on top.
Between the bank of photographers and the entrance to the chapel runs St. Margaret’s Rd, a busy thoroughfare worming its way through Westminster. As the coffin was removed from the hearse, a London bus passes, stopping in traffic and blocking the irate paparazzi. Screams of derision are yelled at the unsuspecting driver until he finally moves off and the photographers can resume their snapping. Money is in the best possible view.
Shortly before 4pm two black Jaguars swept into the area in front of the Chapel. Mark and Carol Thatcher, the children of the late Baroness, paused briefly before entering the building.
A private service was held in the chapel for family members, senior members of both houses of parliament, and other former staff who worked under Thatcher during her tenure in Number 10.
Last night, the Speaker’s Chaplain, the Rev Rose Hudson Wilkin kept a vigil through the night in the crypt.
Meanwhile, controversy continues over the scale of the funeral arrangements. The Respect MP, George Galloway, forced a House of Commons debate at 7pm yesterday evening.
April 16th, 3:47pm
There is a smell of cut grass as I emerge from Westminster tube station. Two men in Royal Parks’ uniforms are marching their lawnmowers up and down the length and breadth of Parliament Square.
All around me there are scores of workers, curious tourists, armed guards and politicians scrambling towards the Palace of Westminster.
It is clear that something big is being prepared. Margaret Thatcher would surely have enjoyed the level of industry on display in the run up to her last goodbye.
The ceremonial funeral due to take place tomorrow morning, on a scale unseen since that of Winston Churchill’s in 1965, is costing the British taxpayer around £10 million. However we will not know the final figure until after the event takes place.
They are clearly expecting large crowds to turn up, whether to mourn or to turn their backs on the cortege, as one protest group has vowed to do. There are lines of steel barriers being assembled around the perimeter of the square.
Further invitees to the funeral have confirmed their attendance. Italian PM Mario Monti, German Foreign Minister Guido Westerwelle, and former South African President F.W. de Klerk will all be paying their respects tomorrow.
Meanwhile, the death certificate of Thatcher has been published. Her title appears as “Stateswoman (retired)”.
As I pass the front entrance of the Houses of Parliament some Spanish teenagers smile at the Bobby with his tall hard hat. He poses for a photograph with them; a small but dignified smile on his face. He is used to this.
Three TV camera crews are setting up under gazebos on the lawn by Abingdon St, next to Parliament Square. A man in a long black coat and holding a tall wooden sceptre, is being interviewed.
Another two TV vans are parked adjacent to the Palace itself. Technicians busy themselves with cables. I am reminded of the night before William and Kate’s wedding. I had never seen so many cameras before in my life.
Across the road, the statue of George V peers down over a team of builders assembling a large stage from where a camera crew will capture the cortege as it proceeds. There are five bouquets of flowers at his feet.
A small protest is taking place in the Old Palace Yard. I see a man in full military regalia. I ask him what is going on and he tells me that they are army veterans. They are frustrated with the government. They want better health and disability benefits. A man from UKIP is giving a speech to intermittent applause.
As I move into the centre of Parliament Square itself, I notice the absence of any anti-war protesters. They had set up camp here for years. Gone now. The begonias are in perfect blossom for tomorrow. A group of pigeons pick on a chicken bone.
I pass an enormous statue of Winston Churchill, looking forbiddingly towards the House of Commons, as if to keep his successors on their toes.
Two men are washing the statue of Lord Stanley, the 14th Earl of Derby. One man scrubs soap on his feet as the other hoses him down. By the expression on Derby’s face he is not enjoying his bath. At least he will be in tip top shape for Margaret.
As I walk away from the square I see a yellow sign with bold red letters. It warns me that this road will be closed tomorrow because of the funeral. Then Big Ben strikes Noon. Tomorrow it will be silent, as its bells are muted for the first time since the last funeral on this scale; that of Winston Churchill, forty eight years ago.
