Did the Queen blink?

The late Queen was famous for coping with anything: never complaining, never explaining, imperturbable in any situation of possible embarrassment. Obnoxious heads of state? Boring ambassadors? Those would give her no trouble. Well then: was she ever incommoded by a breach of protocol, a slip in proper procedure or etiquette, or a gaffe of some sort? No doubt she inwardly rolled her eyes; but there would have been no visible sign of that. No, it would have to be something very personal. And I am wondering whether there was in fact one occasion when the mask nearly slipped.

I visited Guildford Cathedral recently, and wandered into the Treasury there. Not immediately seeing that there was a prohibition on taking photos of the Treasury exhibits, I got this shot:

It was the fountain pen she was given to sign something (as Head of the Church of England, presumably) when the Cathedral was consecrated in 1961 (it was a brand-new cathedral, though very long in the building). It's not in the right colour or style. I think she would have hesitated for a micro-second before picking it up and signing her name with it - 'Elizabeth Regina', one supposes.

Why would she hesitate when given this pen? Well, she had her own, a special Parker 51, basically the same fountain pen that I use. She was a Parker fan. She was shortly going to honour Parker with 'By Royal Appointment' status. But this turquoise-coloured object with gold embellishments was surely a Sheaffer. 

If you are old enough, or have become a fountain pen enthusiast, you will know that by 1961 Parker and Sheaffer had established themselves in the public eye as the two major pen makers. Each company had its fierce supporters, rather like rival sports teams do. There were many other other makers, of course, and if you were a young scholar the well-known value-for-money names of Conway-Stewart and Platignum will ring bells. But owning a Parker or a Sheaffer fountain pen (with a gold nib) was the thing to aspire to. Both had status. Both made excellent pens. But I think it was true to say that Parker definitely had the edge in the UK. 

Most youngsters were given their first proper fountain pen by their proud parents, or perhaps a doting aunt or uncle, and there was no personal choosing involved. That's how it was with me. Fountain pens were always expensive, way beyond a schoolboy or schoolgirl's financial reach, and were never casually bought. They were Birthday or Christmas presents, or possibly a reward for passing your eleven-plus examination. Whatever you got, you tended to stick with it. Most 'proper' pens worked well and faithfully and were easy to get on with, so the match of pen to person was usually a happy one. And more often than not, if you started with (say) a Parker, your next pen when older would be another Parker, and you would become a champion of the brand, irrationally defending the virtues of all Parker pens to the death. The same with Sheaffer ownership. It was all actually very divisive, and very tribal. I have little doubt that in the school staff room, the teachers held similarly partisan views on the right pen to use, and who knows, careers might depend on one's preference. If you favoured Parker, and so did the Head, well, say no more.

It was a completely different world; which pen you used mattered. Rather like which tie, if you were a man. 

And then, as ballpoints improved - stopped leaking and could write a smooth continuous line - and became objects of desire (mistakenly, I craved a fancy Papermate at one point) the Fountain Pen Wars abated, and the Parker-Sheaffer rivalry didn't matter any more. By 1970, only those who remained very keen on using a fountain pen - individualists all - were using them in everyday situations. My Dad did. I did too. But 98% of the population did not, nor did they care. And so it still is. 

But in 1961 the Queen and her entourage, and professional people generally (including, surely, the architect who had designed the new Guildford Cathedral, Edward Maufe, later knighted) would have been daily fountain-pen users, and would have championed the brand they had had a long acquaintanceship with, whether it was Parker, Sheaffer, Waterman, Lamy, Montblanc or whatever. 

As I said above, The Queen was loyal to Parker. It was unthinkable to use another make of pen. 

But she had to use the Sheaffer in the photograph. How so? What went wrong? Who blundered?

I imagine that late on the very morning of the Consecration ceremony it occurred to some lowly young cleric in the Diocesan Office - as he set out the charter, or book, that the Queen was going to sign - that the entire shebang might come to a shuddering halt if no pen were available. All in front of the Bishop and a sea of invited guests! The Consecration was a culminating moment - interrupted by the war, the Cathedral had (so far) taken 25 years to get to a state where it could be used as a place of worship, the symbol of the city's regeneration. The signing part of the ceremony had to go right. There must be no kerfuffle. 

He must have run to the Dean with that awful vision. There was no time for careful deliberation. It was a crisis. Instantly fishing out a tenner from his own pocket, the Dean despatched the lowly cleric to the city centre, pedalling furiously downhill on the cathedral bicycle, to procure a suitable writing instrument. The Dean, had he thought of it, could have specified a Parker, but he had no time to think. The lowly cleric (though of good family) had been raised on Sheaffer, and so it was a Sheaffer he bought at W H Smith. 

No doubt he told the girl behind the pen counter (all stationers had a pen counter in those days) that it was for an important lady and must look nice. She guessed - alas, mistakenly! - that he meant his mother, or his aunt. So he returned, pedalling heroically uphill, with a pen that was very suitable for a lady who liked pretty frilly things, but it wasn't fit for a Queen engaged in an extremely important duty - and especially not a Queen who favoured a Parker 51 in burgundy red, and who, in any case - for she was famously well-organised - would have had that personal Parker 51 in her bag. 

The Dean must have blenched when he saw the purchase. But with minutes to go, there was no time to remedy the situation. No time even to warn the Bishop. Oh dear, heads might roll! 

His own career might be over.

The Consecration begins. The Dean, with his secret knowledge of impending disaster, is sweating. He looks ill, in fact. 

The critical moment arrives. It is time for the Queen to sign. You can picture it. The massed congregation, craning to see; the entire top clergy of the Diocese and indeed of Southern England - including the Archbishop of Canterbury - with everyone in full regalia, crooks, mitres, the lot; and of course the Queen, Prince Philip, and Princess Margaret, and all their attendants. The photographers. 

'Would your Majesty sign here, please?'

Before the Queen can open her bag for her own pen, the lowly cleric steps forward, dishevelled and red-faced, and presents her with the turquoise-coloured Sheaffer with gold embellishments. A micro-second passes. The Dean stares in fascinated horror. But the Queen does not blink. She gives no sign of anything out of the ordinary. She picks up the pen. Does the cap pull off, or unscrew? An even chance. She guesses correctly. But it's an open nib, not a hooded one. And the whole feel and balance of the pen is strange and unfamiliar. But nevertheless, she writes a beautiful signature. 

The moment passes. The Dean breathes again. 

Later, the Bishop brings the matter up, and the Dean confesses that he and the lowly cleric both panicked unnecessarily. And now there's £10 wasted. 'Oh well,' says the Bishop. 'I don't think anybody noticed, except of course, the Queen.'

The pen has found its way into the Cathedral Treasury. The Dean became a bishop. Nobody knows what happened to the lowly young cleric.