It’s been a few years now since we started going to the Royal parades at the Palace. Or ‘Buck House’ as my Dad calls it. He was always the Royalist, and proudly served his Queen and Country in Afghanistan. Took a bullet there too. But he was mostly cheerful, and I never heard him complain about anything.
He’d always make a point of going to London every year, in his bright red tunic and medals, to see the Queen and her Prince ride by in a beautiful carriage. He’d stand to attention and salute. Dad said she waved at him once, but he might have made that bit up!
One by one, we all got drawn in to his world, and travelled with him to London. We’d walk down the Mall, mix with the crowds, and soak in the atmosphere – so different from the quiet place where we live now.
We eventually learned the places to stand for the best view. Dad’s chest always swelled with pride when the soldiers rode past.
Every now and again though, I’d see his eyes glaze over. As much as he likes Elizabeth and Philip, he does miss Victoria and Albert. Dad always thinks of them as ‘his’ Queen and Prince. He’s seen a few come and go since then, but always come back to pay his respects.
Dad says, “Once you wear the Queen’s colours, you’re in for life, and the afterlife!”
This story is inspired by the photo supplied by Al Forbes of Sunday Photo Fiction, 23rd October 2016. For more details click the logo.
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