A red carpet leads to the ceremonial tree-planting, residents at The Grand care centre wear gold paper crowns and wave jubilee flags, God Save the Queen plays...and Her Majesty is hiding under a table.
If you ever wondered how the Queen might behave if she had no inhibitions and no sense of duty – if she could do exactly as she wished – meet Her Mini Maj, Isla Bates, aged three.
Wearing a coat dress of pink tweed (River Island), sparkly kitten heels (Monsoon), a pink wide-brim hat (Cancer Research charity shop) and family pearls (“my nana’s”) –plus a bouffant grey wig over her pigtails which she regularly removes because “it’s itchy” – Isla has recently taken on some of our monarch’s duties.
Armed with a cuddly Corgi called Rufus and a pink unicorn spade – generally carried by her grandad Andrew Fairhurst, 59, walking a respectful three steps behind – she’s spent the weeks ahead of the Platinum Jubilee visiting care homes to dig holes, plant commemorative trees, shake residents’ hands, and tuck into the party food. The latter’s a stipulation.
I’ve joined her on tour and this is her second visit of the day and her 10th tree planting, with plaques carved by the Royal British Legion.
She’s weary after the journey to Nottingham from her home in Wigan, Greater Manchester, yet she solemnly trots down the line – then skips – attentively leaning in to offer her tiny hand to residents.
She listens to their questions with a studious face, solemn nod and a practised smile before racing off and away from anyone who tries to catch her, gleefully grinning under that table. She can’t resist the digging for long, though, even getting stuck in with her hands.
“I’m not so sure the Queen digs her own holes,” says Grandad, as mum Alex Fairhurst, 31, is charged with holding a lump of Blu Tack. What the Queen wants…
Then she’s back, chatting, handshaking and waving – a very special Queen’s wave with her small, cupped hand. “What’s your Corgi called?” she’s asked, over and over. “Rufus,” she chirps. “She’s a girl,” she adds, winging Rufus in a circle by her tail at speed.
“She loves this bit,” says Alex, beaming. “She’s a natural. I said to her ‘If we got you a Queen outfit what would you do?’ and she started waving like that. I don’t know where she got it from!”
She asks Isla: “Why do we do this?” Isla tells her: “To make people smile.”
And what does she like best? “My hat.” Who can blame her, though, if she’s suddenly distracted by a garden gnome, an ornamental butterfly, her own photograph on a cake, a deflated balloon…
“Can you blow this up?” she asks me, thrusting it into my face, adding: “We haven’t had any party food yet,” and taking off her shoes. Her alter-ego would sympathise wholeheartedly.
Isla is clearly enjoying every second of all this every bit as much as the enchanted residents and staff.
The idea for her unique take on the Jubilee festivities came when her gran saw a little girl in the US dressed as the Queen for Halloween. The family are all fans of Her Majesty. Andrew, who served in the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment, laughs: “The Queen’s their boss, I’ve drummed that into them! Isla watches Trooping the Colour too.”
Alex, a recruitment lead for New Care Homes, which operates across Greater Manchester, Merseyside and Nottingham, thought a visit from her outgoing daughter in costume would put a smile on residents’ faces after the isolation of the pandemic.
Wellbeing officer Bridget Peck says: “Visits from children are really important, they bring laughter. Being able to do things like this is what we did pre-pandemic. The fun is coming back into the job, it’s good to have the hubbub.”
During Isla’s first appearance of the day, at Ruddington Manor, resident Anne Holland tells me how she arrived here three years ago with her husband, Douglas. But in April 2020 he died here of Covid, aged 90, having returned from hospital. Anne, 87, caught the virus too. She says: “I miss him terribly. We’d been married 60 years, we had our diamond wedding anniversary here. It can get very lonely at times.”
Anne watched the Queen sit alone at Prince Philip ’s funeral and saw herself.
She describes sitting away from her family with a carer at Douglas’ funeral. “I couldn’t hug them,” she says.
It is no trivialisation of that dark time to say a day like today means a lot. To have a child bring laughter is crucial. “Before Covid we used to have nursery children visit,” Anne says. “They are so innocent and they just accept you.”
Former reception class teacher Jayne Brenan, 58, who has MS, says: “Having children here means normality. It brings a different energy, it’s nice to see the other residents light up when they see her.”
In Isla’s second engagement at The Grand, former chocolatier Freda Bailey, 85, who has dementia, is enamoured. Freda, who used to supply royals, says: “Children keep you going.” She hands a lollipop to Isla who takes it with a grin and passes it to Bridget, official keeper of the sweets. “No licking,” laughs Freda.
“I love days like this,” she adds.
