Sewanee Review

Smiling and clearly nervous, Caroline Cheffers steps through the low threshold and down onto the floor of the Malt House. Only on special occasions does she typically draw the bolts on this great and dark room for airing and, if necessary, heating. And now the reason, the special occasion, does emerge immediately behind her: Queen Elizabeth II, serene and regal, pocketbook in the crook of her elbow, steps down as well and makes her way toward the video camera.

Even on the small computer screen, I recognize the passage from which they've just emerged. It seems unlikely. Narrow, dustladen surely, even after a thorough wash, the route is filled with the moldy residue of centuries. It extends between the Malt House and a stone cellar where casks of various ales reside. This is the Bridge Inn's inner and most ancient terrain, a route typically frequented only by staff. Yet Her Majesty is smiling in perfect order, seemingly indifferent to primeval grime. Her predecessor, the original Elizabeth, no doubt exhibited a similar sangfroid. That would have been [End Page 276] some four hundred years ago, when this inn's timbers were already timeworn and weathered.

I'm studying the video from four-thousand miles away and nearly two decades after the Queen paid her call. Friends have long regaled me with stories of the Royal Visit, but it has only just occurred to me that with a little searching online, I might be able to conjure a visual record. As it happens, my wife Wendy and I are about to return to Topsham, the small town in Devon, for another academic year. As so often in such a moment, I'm worried about all that may have changed in my absence. I'm aware, too, of course, of my own trajectory of change and of the memories and stories that go with it.

Clutching her black patent-leather handbag paired with sensible shoes and gloves, the Queen continues to beam as if reviewing a parade. Clearly, she has long understood that every gesture, every wince will be noted. Now the moment arrives for her to approach the bar that stands just inside the main door.

At his post stands Norman Cheffers, Caroline's father, ready to greet his sovereign. White-haired, jovial, and a bit portly, Norman alone of those present actually belongs to Elizabeth's generation. As a token of his fealty, the patriarch presents her with a small brown bottle of ale. Even if the label's not quite visible, I know it features 101 in bold print and a hand-drawn sketch of the old inn. Dark and rich, the special ale has been brewed to hallowed recipe; it also celebrates the century and more his family have served as custodians here. Norman's is the third generation, though family tradition has seen actual management pass from mother to daughter. Too often have the menfolk wandered off to fight their wars or to ply their trades or simply to dawdle. It's Caroline who sees to the day-to-day operations, with her mother Phyllis having passed some years ago.

Norman is beaming, his magnificently bulbous nose rampant. Accepting the tribute, his Queen hefts the bottle appreciatively in [End Page 277] her gloves. She is gracious and deliberate. Yet I sense her momentary conundrum. What is to be done? What if the gift is bobbled? What if it explodes? Her diplomatic mien—her poker face—gives nothing away. Yet as soon as courtesy allows, the monarch conveys her trophy to a discreet adjutant. Elizabeth's teeth remain fixed and visible, her thin, firm lips ever smiling.

If some twenty years earlier, in 1976, my own introduction to English pubs took place right here at the Bridge, so too does this occasion represent the Queen's first official visit to such an establishment. But of course, it's no accident. In the wake of the roiling debacle of Princess Diana's life and sudden death, Buckingham Palace has scripted this event as part of a new initiative. Once again, it has been left to Elizabeth, the...