Splendor on the Grass

Tea with the Queen is light on pomp, heavy on circumstance

It is one of the splendid rites of the English summer: the Queen's garden party at Buckingham Palace. On a sun-kissed July afternoon last week, 8,000 guests came to tea with Her Majesty. Among those invited was TIME London Bureau Chief Bonnie Angelo. Her report:

At the Queen's yearly series of three garden fetes, blueblooded palace regulars literally rub elbows with ruddy-faced first-timers from towns across the country. The accents differ, but the purpose is the same --to walk among the royals. Well, almost walk. More like squirming into position to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth II in sapphire blue between the broad brims of ladies' hats and the fierce gleaming halberds of the yeomen of the guard, the gaudy-bloomered Beefeaters.

The more determined, throwing dignity to the wind, climb on chairs for an unimpeded view of the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Edinburgh, plus a royal flush of five other dukes, duchesses and princesses. In one way or another, all the luminaries are related to Queen Victoria, who launched these occasions in 1868, calling them "breakfasts." Hers were palace society events. Today they are more democratic, mixing ordinary folk who have served country or community with diplomats in flowing robes and exotic headgear, clerics in scarlet and purple, military heroes listing to port under the weight of their medals.

The day had begun a month earlier when the postman delivered--one hoped with proper awe--a 6-in. by 8-in. ivory envelope with the discreet royal seal.

The magical card read:

"The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by Her Majesty to invite ..."--somehow suggesting that he is not keen to have this guest but must obey orders.

There followed a flurry of shopping.

The Queen's garden parties very likely provide the profit margin for Britain's milliners and for Moss Bros, venerable suppliers of hired formal wear for male Cinderellas. Moss Bros furnish about 1,000 outfits for each party; proper gray morning suits and toppers rent for $34, and mere business suits are $19 (vests extra) for the occasional guest who does not have matching trousers and jacket to his name.

On the afternoon of the party, bib-and-tuckered guests are queuing at three entrances more than an hour before entrance time, eager as horses at the starting gate. An enterprising street photographer works the line where the palace provides a backdrop. "Let's have a picture for the grandchildren," he coaxes. No one succumbs. "We all want one," observes a lady mayoress from the Midlands, "but of course we all say we don't."

At 3:15 the throng is admitted. Neither scarlet-tunicked guards in bearskin hats nor palace security agents question whether one is indeed the name inscribed on the colored admittance card. That is surprising since only a few seasons back London's "King of Touts," known as Fat

Stan to his fellow bookies around the football stadiums, disclosed that he had acquired a pack of the coveted invitations and was scalping them at $800 each.

As guests cross the broad terrace to the crushed-velvet lawn of bent, meadow and rye grass, they face a crucial decision: to head straight for the green-and-white striped refreshment tent, to claim one of the limited number of tables or to stake out a position along the royals' walkabout route. Two out of three is the best even a sprinter can hope for.

Refreshments are by Lyons, rather down-market caterers who produce more than 100,000 morsels ranging from simple buttered bread to frosted chocolate cakes that accompany tea (pour your own milk) or iced coffee (no ice). Experienced guests use the duplex technique of placing larger items over smaller, thus concealing the true dimensions of the load. During the afternoon, dozens of tea plates and spoons will be slipped into handbags as souvenirs. All done with gentility. Nell Jolliffe, who was awarded the Royal Victorian medal last month for her 58 years of dishing tea at garden parties, shared an insider's nugget: the royals have a special teapot and different tea from the serviceable Indian leaf poured for the rest.

Moving in separate routes, the royals do not actually mingle with the guests but stroll as individual islands in deferential open space. Gentlemen in morning suits --definitely not Moss Bros--with red carnations as a mark of authority preposition selected guests for a chat with the Queen. After curtsies and bows, generally in need of practice, the honored guests find that their sovereign puts them at ease; soon they are chatting away as merrily as with a neighbor over the back fence.

She questions them with interest, reacts spontaneously, laughs easily--then moves away, leaving them with a memory to last a lifetime. The Duke of Edinburgh concentrates on older faces. Prince Charles works the younger set; young ladies all but swoon in his wake.

After an hour, the royals leave the crowd for tea in their crown-topped pavilion. At last, guests begin to wander about the 39 sylvan acres in the heart of London and marvel at the elegance of the splendidly carpeted "cloakroom" facilities. By the curving lake they search for the celebrated flamingos, and in the scalpel-trimmed rose garden compare the Queen's blooms with their own in Surrey.

At 6 p.m., the royals repair to the palace, discreetly signaling to their lingering guests that the idyll has ended. Some leave as they came, in chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royces and Daimlers; others head homeward by tube or bus. In 1870 the Times of London wrote, "The day was one of which every particular is worthy to be treasured in memory." And it still is.

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