By Edwin Heath

Royal Jubilees, like butterflies, campions and the sunnier days of Spring, tend to come a trifle late to Orkney – or so it seemed, back then in 1977. 

Not that the native islanders, the Orcadians, would necessarily consider such tardiness a failing: masters of patience that they are. Centuries of practical, commonsense living have endowed them with a sane and wary detachment, an inclination to consider the unfamiliar or the untried from a prudently distant standpoint, whether in time, space, or attitude of mind. Commencing with the treacherous tidal race of the Pentland Firth, and stemming perhaps atavistically from invasionary Viking times, a communal instinct of caution prevails towards what – or who – ever crosses to the islanders’ shores. 

One may well wonder, then, what might be such a people’s attitude to visiting royalty: that tiny band of socially-pinnacled eminences from “doon Sooth”. 

You could, I suppose, go by someone like old Jock: Although personally, I wouldn’t advance him as a yardstick without the firm concurrence of an opinion poll. 

It was just that old Jock and myself happened to be standing (actually we were peering through a window), waiting for the royal ‘ferry-loupers’ to arrive. Jock, who is a good six inches shorter than me, could only just get his nose and eyes above the rather high basement window ledge; but that, certainly, was enough. He had brought a couple of friends along – and, most noble and amiable fellow that he is, he had forfeited the only beer crate there for the ‘wife’ to stand on. All that was needed now was the show. 

It certainly looked like the stage was set for an imminent ‘royal happening’, there outside the Stromness Hotel. Flags fluttered blithely overhead: and, sure enough, like a magnet attracting particles, a crowd was beginning to collect. The little fountain in the square was painted bright silver, and the children … well, to quote Jock directly, “The bloomin’ kids are playin’ aal ower it!” 

Two rows of chairs had been placed in front of the hotel entrance for the “auld folks” to sit on. But as yet the chairs stood empty; the auld folk hung back on the sidelines, hesitant or uncertain of the privilege. Jock, needless to say, had an opinion to express on the matter. “A right pity”, he said to his friends, “to go to aal that bother puttin’ oot chairs wi’ no people to sit in ‘em!” 

Fortunately, however, the Law was there in force. Four of them, to be exact. (“I never seen so many police in Stromness afore!” exclaimed Jock to his friends.) Possibly they were there in such numbers to ‘control’ the crowd: that well-behaved, expectant, almost shy group of onlookers. Yet even these four gallant officers served a purpose – for pretty soon they came up with the idea of approaching the auld folks, and politely inviting them to sit in the chairs provided. These now quickly filled up, resolving the hitherto intractable enigma of two facing rows of empty seats.

Flanking the aforesaid were a number of green wooden flower-pots, whose occupants, Jock assured us, “must ‘ave ‘ad a good waterin’ be the dogs be noo, any rate.” 

There was a pause. Jock looked meaningfully at his watch. 

“No red carpet, I see”, commented one of his friends. 

“Ach no”, agreed Jock, “nothin’ like that”. 

“But there’ll surely be a pipe band, will there no?” 

“A pipe band? Damn no, that would be too much, beuy! They’ll be aal bowin’ their heads’n feet when she goes upstairs, an’ aal that”. 

Outside, the camera-slung crowd fidgeted; while happy, school-free children practised waving their plastic Union Jack flags and rosettes. The royal visitors were already somewhat overdue: and there was still no sign of the helicopter. 

At an unseen signal, the four policemen now coyly slipped white gloves over their hands, vainly attempting to look inconspicuous, and not in the least dainty. A tricky manoeuvre: but Jock had spotted it. “I should ‘ave a pair like that, too!”, he crowed with glee. 

Behind us, the wall-clock ticked steadily away. 

“She’s a whole ten minutes late, a’ready”, commented one of the friends. “Ach, ‘course!”, answered Jock, “Royalty don’t never come on time!” 

“Aye, but she’ll stay a peedie while, will she not?” 

“Ach noo! Jest in ten minutes for a cup of coffee, that’s aal. She’ll be in an’ oot o there like a scalded cat”. 

Jock’s fingers began tapping against the window pane. “Come on, come on!”, he murmured, getting impatient at last. 

But just then the red helicopter flew over. 

“That’s her!” we all exclaimed together, “Ah yes: that’ll be her all right!” “Ay”, confirmed Jock, “it will”. 

There followed a slow five minutes, in which the children jumped up and down excitedly with their flags, but little else happened. The under-manager of the hotel paced nervously outside the entrance. 

“Five to twelve”, one of the friends informed us. Then – “Here she comes!” promised Jock, who had been watching the cameramen. “There’s yer flashbulbs bein’ got ready”.

The children now jumped up and down with increased vigour, still waving their plastic flags. The royal moment was fast approaching. 

“A motorbike escort!”, announced Jock. 

“No cheerin’ very much”, noted one of the friends. 

“Another police escort!” said Jock, “A car, this time”. 

A man got out, smiled around at the crowd, then entered the hotel. 

“The Lord Lieutenant”, explained Jock, who seemed to know just about everybody by sight. 

Then suddenly a blue Rolls slid into view, and stopped soundlessly outside the hotel. “Here she is, beuy!”, said Jock, making the definitive announcement. We all strained our respective visions … and there indeed she was. Seeming quite likeable and unaffected after all, in her turban style hat and stripy grey-brown, unostentatious dress. There was Angus Ogilvy, too, wearing his kilt and looking extremely genial. 

Even so, the crowd hung back: partly through diffidence, partly perhaps through wondering what would happen next. The Princess had a very genuine smile, it was true … one which might charm even the hugest sceptic, by the look of things. 

I glanced at Jock. He was silent, for once. 

The first thing Princess Alexandra did was to go straight over to the ‘auld folks’ in their chairs, and start talking to them and shaking hands. That clinched it. At that, the crowd was won over, its reserve irreparably shattered. Spontaneous applause broke out all round. Jock’s friends made appreciative comments. “A young woman, right enough”, they said. “Well-bred”, they said. “Wavin’ to the crowd, an’ speakin’ to the wives. Ay, an’ look, she’s goin’ ower to the bairns, noo …” 

“Ay”, conceded Jock grudgingly. “She’s havin’ a good look roond, any rate”. Then

“My God!” he exclaimed suddenly. “She’ll be gaan’ straight into the Bar, if they don’t look oot!” 

Of course, we all laughed. It was that kind of day, after all. 

Then, just as the Princess disappeared inside the hotel, Jock began cautiously to confess … “Ay”, he admitted: “A fine woman, right enough. Very friendly. No pride aboot her at aal”. He turned to go, already recovering slightly. 

“Well, that’s her!” he concluded. “We’ve seen her, noo!”

“Yes”, replied the friends, “And very nice too”. 

“Ay”, owned Jock, now strangely magnanimous in defeat. “Ay – very nice indeed.”

Princess Alexandra visited Orkney in 1977