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When the dread day of my examination came
around (and I remember it vividly to this day) we
were divided into groups of six, each with three
examiners. Our examiners were a very solemn and
poker-faced lot, and did not react with any sign of
interest to my fascinating facts or enjoyment of my
more amusing stories. I was starting to feel
desperate, as I felt that I must be boring them
witless. They asked me to take them to the
Cloisters, and I remembered a rather lovely story
which one of the Marshalls had kindly shared with
me. He had noticed an elderly lady jumping up and
down furiously on the grave of Muzio Clemente
‘the Father of the Pianoforte’. ‘’Madam, what on
earth are you doing?’’ ‘’This is REVENGE for all
the hours of practise I was forced to do as a
child….’’ she replied, continuing to bounce.
I had thought that this was a lovely story, so related
it to the stone-faced examiners, illustrating it by
jumping up and down myself (Forgive me,
Clemente, I was desperate…).
My fellow-examinees, awaiting their turn for
torture, were peeping around the corner to see what
was happening, and were amazed to see me
gyrating in this fashion. They rushed to our chief
tutor, a very august gentleman called Oswald Clark,
begging him to come and see what I was doing and
to tell them what on earth might be happening.
Mr Clark peered into the Cloisters and intoned,
‘’Miss Carmichael appears to be doing a production
number on Clemente!’ At last the examiners broke
and actually got quite a serious fit of giggles, and
my relief can only be imagined….
Well I passed the exam, and have thoroughly
enjoyed taking thousands of groups around the
Abbey. (With the single exception of the time a lady
actually threw up all over Henry V, which is about
as mortifying as it gets!) And every time I take a
tour, I notice something I have not spotted before,
or a group member points out something fresh.
I feel very privileged to have been able to share this
most wonderful of buildings with so many visitors,
and look forward to spending many more happy
hours there.’
Martin spent 13 years in the band of H.M.
Scots Guards which means that he has two
distinct relationships with Westminster
Abbey. If you’ve been reading The Kettle
for a while you might recall that it was
Martin who grew up in a fish & chip shop
where on leave from the Guards his mum
would make him put on his uniform for the
entertainment of their regular customers!
‘It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, it’s dark and it’s cold,
it’s November 1973 and Princess Anne is getting
married in three day’s time in Westminster Abbey.
It’s the day of the final rehearsal. I’m in the Scots
Guards Band changing room getting ready in my
uniform. What a performance! There are 50 of us.
Some have slept on the floor, some have driven in from
their homes and some seem to have spent all night in the
pub. It’s a man’s life. We have moved from Wellington
Barracks while they rebuild it, so we are located in an
old TA centre. They said for 3 years – we ended up
spending over 10 years there. No showers and 4 sinks
between 60 of us. Lovely.
At 3.30am we all walk out and get on the coach.
Uniforms, instruments, music, stands. Senior ranks sit
at the front of the coach – the rest of us struggle to the
back. Clarinets are OK, they are small - tubas, trom-
bones, percussion, timpani – they all have to be stowed
in the luggage area. We are only in Vincent Square –
5 minutes walk from Westminster Abbey, but we have
to go by coach. Driving through the dark streets, we see
the other Guards Bands getting into position along the
Mall and in front of the Abbey. Lots of Horses and the
Mounted Band in front of Parliament – “see, it could
be worse” someone says –“ we could be on the back of
a bloody horse!”
We get to the Abbey and there seem to be hundreds of
people rushing about – all holding clip-boards and
shouting and fussing. The TV people keep getting into
trouble with the Vergers – not that they take any notice.
You get used to this. Westminster Abbey – its just
another job. Sounds cynical but when you spend your
life playing for all of these state occasions you just take
it as normal. Not that we see much – used to say we
were like mushrooms – kept in the dark, brought out
occasionally and covered with manure.
We can’t see the Abbey anyway, it’s so dark and we
taken in the back way. We are taken into a room and
given hot, sweet tea in those awful cups that squash
when you hold them. Lots of people in various states
of fancy uniforms – yeoman warders, gentlemen at
arms, clergy. Quite a few are standing around the doors
having a fag – which makes us want to snigger.
Then we are called forward in to the Abbey. Through
a long passage then in to the Abbey. Blimey, it’s cold
and dark. There are hardly any lights on. We struggle
through with all of our instruments, stands, music –
careful not scuff the shoes or dirty the belt! We end up
high above the Abbey but we can’t really see anything
so we get set up ready to play.
It’s cold so we need to warm up the instruments and our
fingers. You can see the breath turning to smoke in front
of our faces. We start to warm up and get in tune when a
fussy verger shouts from the darkness below – “will the