As she sipped her tea, Vera thought of the day ahead. She was about to set off for the village hall to assist the ladies of the Women’s Institute prepare the grand party tea. Trestle tables were to be lined up on the High Street and Tom Feather had ensured the road would be closed to motor traffic. She and Joseph would be together in the vicarage from half past ten onwards, watching the Coronation on their new television set. She checked the timings in the Radio Times and the route of the royal coach.

Around the country an extra one hundred thousand television sets had been sold so that people could watch the event. Vera glanced at her radio and then at the television set that was destined to become the focus of family entertainment. The world as she knew it was changing.

Meanwhile, in London thirty thousand people had been drenched overnight. Following heavy rain and a drop in temperature, they huddled under blankets and umbrellas in Whitehall and Piccadilly, determined not to miss out on a chance to see the Queen in her coach of burnished gold.

Princess Elizabeth had been proclaimed queen in February 1952, immediately after the death of her father, King George VI, but the British public had had to wait for over a year for her actual Coronation, which had required months of meticulous planning. Now three million people lined the streets of London while in Ragley village Vera checked the quality of her scones.

In the General Stores Elsie Crapper had bought a copy of the Daily Express. There was a reminder that to celebrate the Coronation everyone was allowed an additional pound of sugar and four ounces of margarine.

‘A special day, Elsie,’ said Prudence, as she handed over the extra allowance.

‘It is indeed, Prudence,’ said Elsie, ‘and may I say how distinguished Jeremy looks this morning?’

Jeremy Bear was wearing a Union Jack waistcoat, white trousers and a bowler hat.

‘Thank you, Elsie,’ said Prudence. ‘He’s so excited about watching a television for the first time. Captain Forbes-Kitchener has arranged for one to be set up in the village hall, so we’re closing the store at ten o’clock.’

In Morton Manor Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was clutching the copy of the News Chronicle that had just been delivered.

‘Look at this, Alexandra,’ he said.

The headline read, ‘The Crowning Glory: Everest is climbed. Tremendous news for the Queen’.

‘It says here that Edmund Hillary and his Sherpa guide have climbed Everest.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ said a weary Alexandra.

‘But this is the best of it, my dear,’ and Rupert pointed to the text in bold print. ‘It was conquered by men of British blood and breed.’

‘I thought he was a New Zealander,’ said Alexandra quietly.

‘That’s as good as being British,’ insisted Rupert, becoming red in the face.

Alexandra seemed unconvinced. ‘Surely his little friend is from one of those Gurkha places?’