Ina Zweiniger‐Bargielowska. Historical Research. Volume 89, Issue 243. February 2016.

The death, funerals and commemoration of George V and George VI have received relatively little attention. The elaborately staged funerals established new democratic spaces where people could affirm their loyalty and live broadcasts generated nationally shared experiences. New mass media were significant but the funerals also incorporated commemorative rituals established after the First World War including the two‐minute silence and memorial appeals building on the war memorials movement. National philanthropic schemes or living memorials promoted young people’s welfare inspired by both kings’ belief in the physical, moral and social benefits of outdoor recreation. Drawing extensively on unexplored sources, this article argues that royal death affirmed a shared Britishness, which strengthened the monarchy and enhanced social and national cohesion in the era of total war.

In 1936 the lord mayor of London issued a National Memorial Appeal for George V in which he declared that ‘no happier or more beneficent means of perpetuating His memory could be devised’ than establishing recreation grounds for young people. This ‘living memorial’ was thought to represent the late king’s wishes by providing the young with greater opportunity for open air exercise for the ‘benefit of individual well‐being and the general welfare of the nation’. Broadcasting on behalf of the appeal, Stanley Baldwin, the prime minister, envisaged a ‘people’s memorial’ of ‘beautiful fields’ in which the king’s ‘memory might live in the happier and healthy lives’ of future generations. A similar appeal to promote the ‘physical, mental and spiritual needs of young and old people’ was issued by the lord mayor following the death of George VI in 1952. In support of the appeal prime minister Winston Churchill invoked the well‐known image of the king at his camp for boys in ‘jersey and shorts’, ‘gaily leading … [the boys] in the choruses of well‐known songs’. He highlighted the king’s concern about young people’s welfare, not just ‘fun and sports … but their whole outlook and spirit’, in short their ‘upbringing as good citizens’. These appeals raised substantial sums which paid for statues in London, but most of the money was spent on playgrounds, playing fields, recreation centres, youth hostels and youth leadership training.

This article explores the death, funerals and commemoration of George V and George VI, whose reigns spanned the two world wars, revolutions and the advent of mass democracy in Britain. In contrast with the collapse of many monarchies elsewhere in Europe, republicanism had virtually no support in Britain. George V, who became king in 1910, came to terms with universal suffrage and he reached out to the Labour party and trade union leaders. George VI acceded to the throne in inauspicious circumstances following his older brother’s abdication, but by the time of his death the monarchy was even more secure. The rise of new mass media, radio and film generated more immediate access to royal death. The elaborately staged funerals and national memorial appeals established new democratic spaces for public participation, cementing the relationship between the monarchy and the British people. The ceremonial, which built on the precedent of Queen Victoria’s and Edward VII’s funerals in 1901 and 1910 respectively, stood in stark contrast to the small scale of royal funerals in the early nineteenth century and harked back to the ‘Theatre of Death’ before the Civil War.

Andrzej Olechnowicz has called for a ‘close historical investigation’ of the modern monarchy, which despite a growing body of scholarship has not received the attention it deserves. Historical analysis of royal ceremonial and pageantry since the late nineteenth century has focused on coronations and jubilees rather than funerals. Olive Bland provides an overview from the seventeenth to the twentieth centuries, but the most important scholarly account is John Wolffe’s Great Deaths. Wolffe examines the funerals of Queen Victoria and Edward VII in detail, but he only touches on the deaths of George V and George VI. By contrast, there is an extensive literature on the death of Princess Diana in 1997. The princess’s untimely demise was undoubtedly one of relatively few ‘great deaths’ during the twentieth century—that is, deaths of prominent individuals which impinged ‘on the consciousness of the whole nation’. Nevertheless, her status as a divorcee was rather different from that of a sovereign and James Thomas’s study of people’s response demonstrates that the outpouring of grief was less extensive than portrayed by the media at the time.

An analysis of George V’s and George VI’s deaths provides new insight into the modernization of and popular attitudes towards the monarchy in the middle decades of the twentieth century. The ceremonial surrounding the two kings’ deaths included several innovations, namely, a more intimate nationally shared experience with newsreel clips and live radio broadcasts, greater opportunities for public participation and more ambitious national memorial appeals. Changes in technology were clearly significant and the monarchy assiduously embraced the new mass media. Commemorative rituals established in response to mass bereavement during the First World War were just as important. The funerals incorporated key elements of the annual Armistice Day ceremonial such as the two‐minute silence introduced in 1919, which was publicized as a personal request from George V. In November 1920 the king served as chief mourner of the Unknown Warrior and he unveiled the Cenotaph, which was soon surrounded by a ‘mighty bed of blossoms’ with an estimated 100,000 wreaths laid by the general public. The memorial appeals emulated the war memorials movement of the nineteen‐twenties, which combined architectural schemes with utilitarian memorials such as recreation grounds and public facilities. According to Adrian Gregory, these ‘rituals of integration’ brought the country together at a time of extensive mourning and social upheaval; as Jay Winter put it, ‘commemoration was an act of citizenship. To remember was to affirm community’.

In 2014 the commemoration of the First World War received a great deal of attention and there is an extensive historiography on the topic. Recently, Jenny Macleod has highlighted the role of war memorials in revealing the ‘confused and contested nature of national identity in the United Kingdom’ after the First World War. While national war memorials in different parts of the United Kingdom threatened to destabilize a shared sense of Britishness, the funerals and commemoration of the two kings served as forces of integration. Evidence of popular attitudes is inevitably fragmentary, but hundreds of thousands turned out to pay their last respects, the two‐minute silence brought the country to a standstill and Mass‐Observation reports provide insight into individual reactions to George VI’s death.

The ongoing popularity of the monarchy was not just due to spectacle or cultivation of the mass media but was based on its close relationship with the British people. Royal death provides a lens through which to explore how this relationship evolved in the middle decades of the twentieth century, not just with regard to grand occasions such as funerals but also to the pervasive presence of the monarchy in everyday life. Frank Prochaska has drawn attention to royal philanthropy and the monarchy’s extensive network of patronage in the voluntary sector. This ‘welfare monarchy’, which can be traced back to the early Victorian period, acquired renewed prominence in the wake of the Bolshevik revolution and the collapse of many European monarchies at the end of the First World War. After 1918 the palace adopted a deliberate strategy, as one official put it, to expand the monarchy’s role from that of a ‘mere figurehead’ to a ‘living power for good’ which affected the ‘interests and social well‐being of all classes’. This article extends Prochaska’s concept of the welfare monarchy from hospitals and social services to outdoor recreation and youth organizations. The memorial appeals’ focus on young people’s welfare built on George V’s silver jubilee appeal of 1935 on behalf of youth, which resulted in the creation of the King George’s Jubilee Trust. The living memorials contributed to the monarchy’s aspiration to enhance young people’s well‐being, loyalty and patriotism. Akin to war memorials, the new facilities with their entrances and plaques established sites where the kings’ names became part of the landscape. While most were located in urban areas, small rural schemes and youth hostels linked the monarchy to the pastoral idyll and the rugged beauty of Britain’s wilderness areas.

Drawing on sociological and anthropological approaches, this article is structured around several stages or phases in response to death. These are, first, separation or news of the death; second, transition or liminality, a period of mourning culminating in the funeral; and, finally, reincorporation or adjustment of society to the death. The funeral and commemoration of George VI was closely modelled on that of his father and the article traces the two kings’ deaths through the three stages. The following sections examine initial responses, the spectacle of funerary ceremonial and public participation and, finally, reincorporation in memorials through which George V and George VI symbolically lived on in the landscape and in subsequent generations.

George V died in January 1936 aged seventy from heart failure and George VI died in February 1952 from complications arising from lung cancer at only fifty‐six. The ceremonial surrounding the two kings’ deaths was virtually identical. Indeed, the arrangements for George VI’s funeral and commemoration were deliberately modelled on his father’s. The most important change in 1952 was the need to accommodate ‘greater’ press and B.B.C. requirements, and in addition to live radio broadcasts there was also ‘some provision for television’. These parallels were heightened by the fact that both died at Sandringham, the royal retreat in Norfolk. News of the kings’ deaths was immediately associated with the English rural idyll. Newsreel clips showed footage of Sandringham House and the village parish church, where both kings’ bodies lay in state watched over by workers on the royal estate, followed by a procession in which the coffin was conveyed on a horse‐drawn carriage along rural roads to Wolferton station. This small‐scale intimate setting provided a powerful counterpoint to the grand spectacle of lyings‐in‐state at Westminster Hall and the elaborately staged funeral processions through London and Windsor to the funeral in St. George’s Chapel. George V’s coffin was conveyed on a gun carriage pulled by a naval gun crew. Edward VIII and the royal dukes led the mourners on foot, followed by foreign royalty and heads of state, service chiefs, members of the government and parliament, while Queen Mary and other royal women travelled in a carriage. George VI’s funeral procession replicated this pattern, but the carriage of the queen and queen mother preceded the royal dukes on foot.

These funerals drew on the precedents of 1901 and 1910. Queen Victoria’s funeral—the ‘first full‐scale state funeral’ since the duke of Wellington’s in 1852—‘constituted a decisive departure’ from the small royal funerals of the early nineteenth century. Wolffe details the various stages from her death at Osborne House to the burial at Frogmore, which took the queen’s own instructions as a starting point. The queen objected to a public lying‐in‐state but despite her request for a simple funeral, the procession through London, with massed bands and numerous military and naval detachments, provided a ‘popular demonstration of royal prestige, military power and imperial might’, building on the successful diamond jubilee of 1897. Edward VII’s funeral essentially replicated this pattern, although the structure was rather simpler, partly because the king died at Buckingham Palace and was buried in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. The ‘most significant innovation’, suggested by George V, was the lying‐in‐state at Westminster Hall, which established a new space for public participation. There was a massive response—huge crowds lined the streets during both funerals and there were numerous well‐attended church services throughout the country.

In 1936 and 1952 news of the king’s death initiated a period of mourning, which amounted to a profound national and communal experience. The key opportunities for mass public participation were the lying‐in‐state, the funeral procession, the two‐minute silence and viewing the wreaths outside St. George’s Chapel. These were supplemented by other rituals such as wearing black armbands and special church services attended by large congregations. Initial responses to the news included shock, bewilderment, sadness and a sense of loss. Evidence of people’s reactions to George V’s death is limited but Kingsley Martin maintained that ‘no one … could doubt the almost universal feeling of loss’. Martin was struck by the ‘peculiarly personal character of this emotion’, more akin to the loss of a ‘personal friend or near relative’, with the late king mourned as a ‘“father to us all”’. A correspondent in The Times observed ‘intense grief’ and ‘Many tears shed’ among East Enders. In the words of one mother, ‘“He seemed like one of ourselves”’. Another woman was so distressed by the news that ‘to take her thoughts off her grief she did the family washing … Her husband remarked that she could not have been sadder if it had been a near relation who was passing’.

The news of George VI’s death impinged on people’s normal routine by generating conversations among strangers in the street or on the bus along with announcements at work and during special school assemblies. Individual reactions recorded by Mass‐Observation volunteers suggest an emotional response which was, as Philip Ziegler put it, ‘far stronger and far more personal than it would have been in the case of any other public figure’. It is worth noting that Mass‐Observation was founded in 1937 as an ‘intellectual response to the powerful emotions unleashed by the abdication’ and it continued to take a ‘particular interest’ in the monarchy. The news of the king’s death was ‘such a shock’ for a middle‐aged working‐class woman that her husband poured her a glass of brandy which she ‘really felt [she] could do with’. A forty‐year‐old engineer felt ‘Pretty rough. If anybody is patriotic they’re bound to feel something. I think most people feel something about it’. A young male apprentice was ‘sorry for the King’ and declared ‘I love him very much’, while a middle‐aged waiter was ‘Very upset about it. Felt as though something had gone’. These reactions were echoed by a forty‐year‐old working‐class housewife who felt ‘Rotten. I feel as though it was a personal loss’. For another middle‐aged working‐class housewife the news ‘put a lump in [her] throat’ and a woman working in a department store was ‘most terribly sorry. I feel as shocked as if it was someone belonging to me’. A schoolboy heard during lessons that the king was dead, which ‘shocked us and it was for some minutes that all was quiet’. As the headmaster announced the news ‘in a voice filled with emotion’ during a special assembly later that day a ‘hush descended upon the school, all the coughing and sneezing ceased as this announcement was made’. The headmaster proposed that ‘we will in honour of the King observe a minute silence after which we shall say the Lord’s Prayer as we are all members of one united family’. Subsequently, the head boy proclaimed ‘Long live the Queen’ and the assembly ‘terminated after the organ had played “God save the Queen”’.

The lying‐in‐state at Westminster Hall brought together men, women and children from across the social spectrum. Privileged access was extremely restricted and mourners had no option but to join the queue to view the king’s coffin which was placed on a catafalque surrounded by a guard of honour. In total 809,182 mourners filed past George V’s coffin and 305,806 paid their last respects to George VI at Westminster Hall. These differences can partly be accounted for by the fact that George V’s lying‐in‐state lasted four days (as opposed to three with regard to George VI) and included a weekend. Over 300,000 filed past the king’s coffin on Sunday, 26 January 1936, and the early hours of Monday morning. These figures compare with estimates ranging from 325,000 to 532,000 during Edward VII’s lying‐in‐state in 1910, ‘over half a million’ who paid homage at the tomb of the Unknown Warrior in November 1920 and ‘nearly a third of a million’ who filed past Winston Churchill’s coffin in 1965.

The cold winter weather only served to heighten the sombre spectacle of solemn mourners in lengthy queues. Press and newsreel coverage of the queues vividly conveys the visceral experience of hundreds of thousands standing for hours in snow and rain. The formation of the queue, its length during the day and the last entrants to Westminster Hall in the early hours of the following morning became an expression of national grief. In 1936 The Times reported a queue of two‐and‐a‐half to three miles and waiting times of up to seven hours. In response to the huge crowds, the opening times were extended and the hall was eventually closed between 3.00a.m. and 4.00a.m. While the numbers were lower in 1952, a newsreel clip shows a similar spectacle with queues of up to three miles long and some mourners waiting through the night in snow‐covered streets. The hall remained open until the early hours and, indeed, through the night on the final day, allowing mourners to move on to the funeral processional route. Despite waiting times of up to six hours the Metropolitan Police described people’s behaviour as ‘exemplary, particularly in view of the long wait and the cold weather’.

A Mass‐Observation investigator was part of a group which spent eleven hours in the queue through the night. The group, which consisted of a local council official and his wife (the Mass‐Observer), an older working‐class woman, a sixteen‐year‐old boy and his middle‐aged aunt got to know each other over shared tea and coffee although conversation in the queue generally remained muted. For these mourners, the king’s death was ‘different’. The boy thought he might ‘never see another king buried’ and the middle‐aged woman ‘couldn’t let him go just like he was anyone else’. The council official wanted to ‘say good‐bye to him, just as I would if he was a member of my family’. The older woman agreed, ‘Same as if he was a father, really’. According to The Times, a ‘lasting impression of the scene in the hall was the silence with which thousands of people were reverently passing by the bier’ in 1936. Likewise, Virginia Potter, who paid her last respects to George VI on the final night, was struck by the ‘awe‐inspiring’ scene of ‘hundreds of people slowly filing through that enormous and dimly‐lit hall, and no sound except a quiet shuffling of feet’.

During George V’s funeral procession ‘unprecedented crowds’ lined the route from Westminster Hall to Paddington station and through Windsor, where an estimated 100,000 had gathered. The crowds in London in 1952 were smaller than in 1936, a fact attributed by a Metropolitan Police commander to a combination of ‘television and the cold weather’. A Mass‐Observer described the scene on the Edgware Road. From Marble Arch to Sussex Gardens, thousands lined both sides of the street with paratroopers and policemen standing guard on the pavement edge. At 10.00a.m. the crowd was eight deep and with a seemingly ‘endless’ flow of people arriving ‘every inch of pavement had more than its fill’, while balconies and windows were also filled with people. The crowd was predominantly working class, women outnumbered men and most were aged between thirty and fifty. When ‘faint strains of music’ became audible at 10.55a.m., all the men spontaneously took off their hats and a ‘hushed silence’ filled the street as the music came nearer. Beginning with contingents from the Royal Air Force the procession advanced and a ‘silence almost terrifying swept down the length of Edgware Road as the gun carriage, carrying the King’s coffin, his orb [and] his sceptre pass[ed] by’ while ‘men and women were standing stiffly to attention’. The silence was broken after the passing of the ‘“personalities”’, when people exchanged comments about how their view had been and whom they had seen.

Only a fraction of the population lined the streets, but live broadcasts offered a close‐up, nationally shared experience. The B.B.C.’s broadcast of the procession and George V’s funeral cemented a ‘more immediate’ contact with the monarchy, which had grown since the introduction of the king’s annual Christmas broadcast in 1932. Nearly three‐quarters of British households had a radio licence in the mid nineteen‐thirties and the B.B.C. structured people’s ‘days of mourning’ as it had done the ‘days of rejoicing’ during the silver jubilee celebrations in 1935. In this ‘time of grief’ normal programming was suspended and ‘more light‐hearted’ broadcasts were replaced by classical music, including a memorial concert. The public was ‘kept in close touch with the various State ceremonies’ and normal programming resumed on the day after the funeral.

George VI’s funeral was televised, although the radio still retained its dominant position and the coronation in 1953 was the first major royal television occasion. Normal programming was again disrupted until the day after the funeral, solemn music replaced lighter programmes, and the ceremonial was broadcast live, culminating in the funeral at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. For one middle‐aged working‐class woman the broadcast was ‘beautiful and very moving’. It made her and her daughter cry and she wished she ‘could have seen it’. At the same time, there were extensive complaints about the disruption of programming in the days before the funeral from all classes. Many considered this as ‘going too far’ and found it ‘depressing’ and ‘terrible’. These expressions of overload were corroborated in a B.B.C. survey which found that 59 per cent disapproved of the alteration in programming, with only 29 per cent in favour. Dissatisfaction was most pronounced among men, the young and working‐class people, pointing towards an erosion of the deference and decorum which appears to have been, at least publicly, unchallenged in 1936. A portent of the rather different relationship between the monarchy and the media in the more recent past was an ‘undignified and unseemly scramble’ by several press photographers who jumped the barrier during the funeral procession to take ‘close‐up’ pictures of the queen’s coach.

An important new element of George V’s funeral ceremonial was the observance of a two‐minute silence, a ritual which had become a central, emotionally charged feature of Armistice Day. Cabinet ministers thought that the precedent of a full ‘day of general mourning’ observed in 1901 and 1910 and consequent loss of wages to ‘great numbers of people who could not take any part themselves in the proceedings of the day, might be unpopular’ and ‘give rise to considerable complaint’. Neville Chamberlain, the chancellor of the exchequer, proposed that the ‘observation of a period of silence as on Armistice Day would be suitable’. This would give ‘as many as possible … their own opportunity of showing their loyalty and respect’. This suggestion was approved by Baldwin, other cabinet ministers and Edward VIII. A full day of mourning during which all public offices, businesses and entertainments were shut was undoubtedly a more extensive interruption of normal routines, but the communal experience of the silence arguably held a greater emotional resonance. The Times reporting on this ‘final act of fellowship and reverence’ which brought the ‘whole world to the King’s graveside’, juxtaposed scenes of traffic at a standstill and hushed, silent crowds in central London with a rural example of a coach driver, conductor and sole passenger on the Surrey Hills observing the silence with ‘bowed heads’, joining the ‘rest of the nation in this solemn and impressive act of homage’. Public squares throughout the country ‘often proved inadequate for the large crowds’ and the observance generated ‘striking scenes’ in Sydney, Ottawa, Toronto and elsewhere. This procedure was followed in 1952 when the queen expressed her ‘wish, that as a mark of respect’, a two‐minute silence should be observed. In a symbolic ‘link’ with the funeral at Windsor, ‘motionless’ crowds gathered for the silence outside Buckingham Palace and St. Paul’s Cathedral, while the Cenotaph served as another ‘focal point of homage’. A crowd of 15,000 gathered in Birmingham, traffic stopped in Belfast and large crowds stood in ‘respectful homage’ in Edinburgh. In Wales the ‘miners throughout the coalfields observed the silence, trams and cages being halted for two minutes’. A man from south London who disrupted the silence by ‘making an unnecessary noise with his feet’, was arrested, charged with ‘insulting and disorderly behaviour calculated to provoke a breach of the peace’ and fined 20s. There is no evidence of disruption in 1936, but the fact that this apparently unique incident was covered by The Times suggests that the silence was virtually universally respected.

A final occasion for large‐scale participation was the viewing of wreaths sent by thousands of organizations, communities and members of the public from across the U.K. and throughout the empire. The wreaths were on display outside St. George’s Chapel, Windsor. Lengthy queues were part of the spectacle and the ‘Big Pilgrimage to the Castle’ attracted between 30,000 and 50,000 on the day after George V’s funeral. The turnout on the weekend after George VI’s funeral was dramatically larger and the Metropolitan Police estimated that 226,000 came to view the wreaths. The floral tributes included grand wreaths and humble bouquets which covered all the available space. The press reported three‐mile‐long queues of people patiently waiting in cold wind and rain. In view of the crowds, the castle grounds were kept open until 10.00p.m. with the wreaths on display under floodlighting. While flowers had become an important part of mourning rituals since the mid nineteenth century, in terms of sheer scale these scenes where reminiscent of the wreaths placed at the Cenotaph in 1920, when lengthy queues of ‘pilgrims’ came to view grand displays of exotic blooms placed next to simple bunches. These communal rituals provided an exceptional opportunity for hundreds of thousands and, indeed, millions actively to affirm their loyalty. The unprecedented response was supplemented by extensive media coverage uniting the ‘imagined community’ of the nation in mourning for the king, although there were a few discordant voices in 1952.

In the wake of the funeral, attention shifted to commemoration. A national philanthropic scheme or living memorial was a new departure in 1936. Of course there had been earlier royal commemorative philanthropic schemes, most notably King Edward’s Hospital Fund for London (the King’s Fund), which was originally launched by the prince of Wales on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee in 1897. This fund in support of London hospitals was the principal beneficiary of Edward VII’s coronation appeal and a ‘Combined Hospitals Appeal’ in the early nineteen‐twenties. The death of Prince Albert in 1861 brought about a ‘cult’ of commemoration in subsequent decades with numerous schemes ranging from statues and monuments to schools, almshouses and hospitals. Queen Victoria’s jubilees and death precipitated an outpouring of philanthropy with a myriad of projects throughout Britain and the empire. Edward VII appointed a committee which decided that the ‘National Memorial’ to Queen Victoria should be ‘architectural and not utilitarian, and should be in London’. A public meeting at the Mansion House subsequently resolved to raise money for a statue of the queen outside Buckingham Palace. In the wake of Edward VII’s death, prime minister H. H. Asquith summed up the government’s deliberations about the ‘best method’ of commemoration in a letter to the lord mayor of London. In view of different proposals in ‘many parts of the country’, it was thought that the ‘object in view would best be secured by local rather than national memorials’ and Asquith urged the lord mayor to take the ‘initiative in carrying out the project of a London memorial’. The lord mayor’s appeal, which raised £45,300, ultimately resulted in the erection of an equestrian statue outside the Athenaeum Club and the construction of Shadwell Park. Thus, what was new in 1936 was the idea of a nationally co‐ordinated philanthropic scheme to benefit people throughout the U.K. as the principal memorial to George V.

During the initial discussions there was general agreement to erect a statue and Baldwin weighed up the question as to whether the ‘wider project should take the form of a permanent architectural scheme or, alternatively, a scheme of philanthropic utility’. In the prime minister’s view ‘public opinion would tend rather more nowadays to something philanthropic’. Following consultation with Edward VIII, an informal meeting to discuss procedure was attended by Baldwin, senior ministers, the leader of the opposition Clement Attlee and the lord mayor. The duke of York (later George VI) and Sir Clive Wigram, who represented Edward VIII, were also present. This meeting agreed that the lord mayor ‘should constitute a National Committee to consider forms of memorial’. The lord mayor convened a meeting at the Mansion House in March 1936, in the presence of Attlee, Ramsay MacDonald and the archbishop of Canterbury, which brought together mayors and representatives of local authorities and the trade union movement. The meeting, described as ‘large’ and ‘very representative’, decided to issue an appeal for a statue and a philanthropic scheme ‘to benefit the whole country’, inviting suggestions as to its ‘specific character’. These would be evaluated by a ‘General Committee and appropriate Sub‐Committees’ responsible for interpreting, in Attlee’s words, the ‘wishes of the nation’. There was a long list of suggestions for the philanthropic scheme, including funding for hospitals, medical treatments and help for the disabled or unemployed; playing fields were not particularly prominent.

However, in the initial discussions playing fields or an extension of the work of the King George’s Jubilee Trust (K.G.J.T.) were mentioned frequently as a possible object of a philanthropic scheme ‘in keeping with the late King’s wishes’. This suggestion has to be understood in connection with George V’s silver jubilee appeal on behalf of youth in 1935. In his jubilee broadcast he declared that, ‘it is to the young that the future belongs’ and he expressed the wish that the silver jubilee appeal would help young people in ‘body, mind and character to become useful citizens’. The proposal of a ‘National Fund … for the provision of facilities for physical culture and other training for youths’ in celebration of the silver jubilee by Wigram, George V’s private secretary, was greeted with initial hostility among some cabinet ministers. In a joint letter the home secretary Sir John Gilmour and the minister of labour objected because the initiative could be construed as ‘Fascist in its inception and that it followed the lines adopted in Germany’. ‘[P]hysical training’ was ‘merely a palliative for unemployment’ and the suggested scheme ‘would come very near the fringe of the political arena’. The ministers felt ‘strongly’ that this was an idea ‘with which the Royal Family should certainly not connect themselves’. Instead, they suggested emulating King Edward’s Hospital Fund and raising money for ‘some such object as medical research’. Following further meetings with Wigram, the prime minister Ramsay MacDonald and Baldwin, these objections were overcome and Gilmour subsequently thanked Wigram for ‘explaining the position’ which helped to ‘clear away a good many misconceptions and misunderstandings’. He was now in full accord with the proposal to proceed with the appeal and he hoped that it would be met with a ‘widespread and generous response’.

The prince of Wales inaugurated the Jubilee Trust Fund appeal in March 1935, announcing that ‘nothing would give the King and Queen so much pleasure as a National Thankoffering devoted to the welfare of the rising generation’. This appeal, which raised over £1 million, resulted in the creation of the K.G.J.T. which was chaired by the duke of York. The trust allocated grants to existing youth organizations to expand facilities for physical recreation, games and camping to promote young people’s physical, moral and mental development. The K.G.J.T. continued to benefit from commemorative fundraisers such as the official souvenir programmes of the coronation of George VI in 1937, the wedding of Princess Elizabeth in 1947 and Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953.

The duke of York, a keen advocate of outdoor recreation, had established his annual Duke of York Camp, which brought together young industrial workers and public school boys in 1921. He served as president of the National Playing Fields Association (N.P.F.A.) from its inception in 1925 until his accession in 1936. The N.P.F.A., which brought together representatives from sports governing bodies, youth, welfare and public health organizations, trade unions and local authorities, campaigned for more playing fields and playgrounds. The prince of Wales supported the association’s fundraising efforts, while George V donated land and became patron in 1933.

The King George memorial fund executive committee chaired by Lord Macmillan, included the archbishop of Canterbury, Wigram, Attlee, the president of the T.U.C. and Sir Campbell Stuart, treasurer of the K.G.J.T. This role put Stuart in ‘close touch’ with the wishes of Edward VIII, the duke of York and Queen Mary. The philanthropic sub‐committee explored several options including youth hostels, medical research and playing fields. Stuart also spoke with Lord Derby, chairman of the N.P.F.A., and these conversations suggested that playing fields would ‘find most favour’. Reporting on the philanthropic sub‐committee’s recommendations on either ‘King George National Playing Fields’ or a fund for medical research, Stuart ‘advocated’ the former and also read a letter by Derby in support of playing fields. This recommendation was approved ‘unanimously’ by the executive committee and subsequently endorsed by the general committee. Attlee and representatives of the N.P.F.A. were appointed to ‘prepare a detailed Scheme for carrying out the Playing Fields proposal’. The N.P.F.A. welcomed this decision with the ‘greatest pleasure’ and the association pledged its ‘wholehearted support’ both in the ‘appeal to the Nation’ and with the provision of technical advice on the acquisition of the fields. Thus, by the nineteen‐thirties youth organizations and outdoor recreation, rather than hospitals, had become the principal beneficiary of royal commemorative philanthropic schemes.

In June 1936 the lord mayor launched the appeal to commemorate the king ‘by an inspiring monument at the very heart of the Empire’ and by establishing playing fields and playgrounds for young people and children throughout the country. He maintained that the ‘need for open spaces to which young people and children can resort for exercise and games, safe from the perils of the streets, cannot be exaggerated’. These ‘centres of health and happiness’ would be called King George’s Fields and distinguished by a commemorative entrance or gate. The appeal was carefully orchestrated with the prime minister’s broadcast, cited at the beginning, and subsequent broadcasts by Macmillan and Derby, who made a ‘special appeal to the women of this country’. The ‘four Services of the Crown’ issued a ‘joint appeal’ on behalf of the memorial, signed by the service heads, a practice which built on a joint appeal for the K.G.J.T. the previous year. The appeal was closed on the anniversary of the king’s death with broadcasts by Derby and Lord Dawson, the king’s physician, who asked for donations as part of the ‘odd shillings & pence’ scheme in the final phase of the appeal. The appeal raised over £584,000.

The memorial appeal for George VI followed this precedent. Prompted by correspondence from the queen’s private secretary, a memo to Winston Churchill explained the procedure adopted in 1936. Churchill convened a meeting to discuss the memorial attended by the lord mayor, several ministers and Attlee. The duke of Edinburgh and the duke of Gloucester, chairman of the K.G.J.T., represented the queen. The duke of Edinburgh related the queen’s wish for a statue in London and a philanthropic scheme, which ‘might well bear some relationship to the work of industrial welfare, boys camps, etc. in which the late King was especially interested’. The lord mayor agreed to draft a resolution on the ‘lines of that carried’ in 1936 for consideration by a representative meeting at the Mansion House. The meeting, attended by mayors, religious leaders, and representatives of industry, trade unions and voluntary organizations, approved the resolution and a philanthropic scheme sub‐committee invited suggestions.

This committee received 200 suggestions, ranging from proposals concerned with ‘Youth’ such as camps, clubs, playing fields and training schemes, to those for ‘Old People’ such as housing and non‐residential clubs, as well as medical and nursing projects and schemes encouraging closer relations within the Commonwealth. A few schemes received further consideration, but camps on the ‘principle of the Duke of York’s Camps’ were rejected because they could only be used for a few weeks a year. Instead, the committee supported ‘National Recreation Centres’, which provided training for youth leaders, and ‘Aid for Old People’ because it was ‘generally felt that the Appeal should not be exclusively for the young, for whom much is already done’. This recommendation, which reflected the ‘unanimous opinion of a widely representative body’, was approved by the executive committee. The queen also approved of the suggestion but ‘expressed the wish that emphasis should be laid on benefits for Young people’. The memorial appeal on behalf of the ‘physical, mental and spiritual needs of young and old people’ used very similar language to that in 1936. Following the precedent of Baldwin in 1936 Churchill broadcast on behalf of the appeal. The parallels between the two appeals are reinforced by a second combined services appeal, which closely followed the wording of 1936. The appeal was extensively publicized in the press, religious leaders signed an open letter, the general secretary of the T.U.C. sent a circular to all affiliated organizations and British Pathé issued a ‘King George VI Appeal Trailer’. It raised over £1.7m.

The money raised financed statues in London, whose location and design were subject to considerable debate. The main concern regarding George V’s memorial was spending ‘too large a sum on a statue to the detriment of the playing fields which were in effect the real memorial’. The statue near Westminster Abbey, which cost just over £25,000, was finally unveiled by George VI in 1947. George VI’s statue in Carlton Gardens on the Mall cost £56,600 which, adjusted for inflation, was a comparable amount. The minister of works initially objected to this site because access would undermine the architectural coherence of the Mall, but it was favoured by the queen who unveiled the statue in 1955. These architectural schemes accounted for only a fraction of the money raised, most of which was transferred to the memorial foundations which are discussed in the final section.

The King George’s Fields Foundation, which had £557,000 at its disposal, was established in November 1936. Attlee chaired its administrative council until he became prime minister in 1945. The foundation’s object was to establish playing fields for the ‘use and enjoyment of the people’ throughout the country. A ‘playing field’ was defined as ‘any open space used for the purpose of outdoor games, sports and pastimes’. Pitches for games were central but many fields included children’s playgrounds as well as bowling greens and landscaped areas for older people. They were to be called ‘King George’s Field’ and distinguished by entrances with heraldic panels in commemoration of the late king. A condition ‘intrinsic to the conception of a National Memorial’ was ‘security of tenure of the land’ and its ‘dedication for permanent preservation’. The foundation worked closely with the N.P.F.A. The earl of Cavan, the N.P.F.A.’s chairman, served as a trustee, its secretary was also deputy secretary of the N.P.F.A., and both organizations operated from the same, later adjacent, premises. The N.P.F.A. evaluated grant applications and it advised on the design and layout of the fields. Following the association’s practice, grants covered up to one‐fifth of the total cost, with the remainder raised locally.

Considerable attention was paid to the design of the entrances. The initial proposal of a ‘large degree of uniformity’ was rejected after consultation with the royal fine arts commission, which argued that each entrance should be ‘designed for its own position’. The heraldic panels, which were made from either stone or bronze, functioned as an ‘identical device’ of the national memorial with their inscription of the king’s name and designation of the fields. Promoters of schemes were informed that the foundation rejected a ‘uniform type of Entrance’. Designs were influenced by the size of a particular field and the foundation ‘insist[ed] on “appropriateness” as a governing factor in every design’ with the ‘most careful consideration … given to local conditions’. The entrances should ‘be expressions of the best craftsmanship in the most suitable local materials’. Large fields used local stone or brick and small fields had wooden gates of English oak. There were also plaques mounted on stone walls, such as an entrance through a kissing‐gate in Somerset and another preserving an old stone style in Wales. These entrances invoked the pastoral idyll represented in the images of Sandringham and rural Norfolk following the announcement of George V’s death. This appreciation of the vernacular with entrances in keeping with the locality is reminiscent of the war memorials movement. War memorials similarly drew on an established architectural repertoire and examples include rural memorials which were marked by plaques on stone walls or mounted into rock. Thus, the commemoration of the king, like that of the war dead, became interwoven with the landscape.

By 1939 462 schemes had been approved but only a few had been completed and the foundation’s work was suspended for the duration of the war. The foundation resumed its activities in 1945 when new applications were considered, and most King George’s Fields were constructed in the nineteen‐fifties and nineteen‐sixties. The foundation continued to work closely with the N.P.F.A. Prince Philip, who became president of the association in 1948, opened many of the fields. For example, in 1952 the prince opened the first section of King George’s Field Stepney, later renamed Mile End Park, whose main entrance consisted of impressive wrought iron memorial gates hung on stone pillars based on nineteen‐thirties designs. This scheme was the most expensive project sponsored by the foundation which decided in 1946 to expand East Enders’ access to open space where ‘claims’ for ‘more playing‐fields were outstanding’. Reconstruction of the area, which had been bombed during the war, provided a ‘unique opportunity of doing something really worth while [sic]’. Working closely with the London County Council, the foundation allocated a grant of £75,000 toward the acquisition of a sixty‐five‐acre site with a total cost of £1 million. Other fields were opened by Queen Elizabeth II, the queen mother and other members of the royal family, perpetuating the commemoration of George V with entrances underlining the architectural continuity between the inter‐war and early post‐war years and that of the monarchy in the early years of the new reign.

When the foundation was wound up in 1965, its grants had resulted in the construction of 471 playing fields, covering 4,200 acres. There was considerable diversity in the size of the fields. They were typically between two and ten acres, but the fields included larger sites of around fifty acres, a handful covered over 100 acres and a few were small children’s playgrounds of half an acre. Most were located in population centres, but there were also rural schemes throughout the U.K. The total capital value in land, layout and equipment was over £4 million, with most of the additional funding provided by local authorities. This figure ‘in financial terms’ was the ‘real measure of the country’s response’. The final report acknowledged the contribution of subscribers to the memorial appeal, donations of land and the voluntary work by many organizations which ‘in one way or another helped to establish a “King George’s Field” in their town or village’. The ‘permanent value’ of the fields ‘in human terms’ depended on the way they were used, but the memorial had succeeded in its aim to establish new recreational facilities in many places where these had been ‘previously lacking’. The N.P.F.A. took on the responsibility of overseeing the fields in 1965. Renamed Fields in Trust in 2007, the association continues to campaign for playing fields.

The King George VI Foundation, which had £1.64 million at its disposal, was charged to provide for the ‘physical, mental and spiritual needs of young and old people’. In contrast with the earlier focus on playing fields, the foundation announced its decision to distribute grants to several rather different schemes in spring 1954. One‐third of the money was to be spent on old people, mostly in the form of establishing non‐residential clubs. The remainder was allocated to the needs of youth by funding training schemes for youth leaders and facilities such as recreation centres and youth hostels. Noting that discussion as to the objects of the philanthropic scheme had ranged ‘widely and inconclusively for some months’, The Times acknowledged that the foundation could ‘scarcely hope to associate the King’s name with some unique and long‐enduring institution’. The editorial accepted that the policy was ‘undoubtedly a competent plan for spreading a substantial sum of money so as to do good over a wide area’, but also lamented that ‘As a means of crystallizing the nation’s deep feeling for a beloved personality it may seem a little prosaic. Strokes of imagination can, perhaps, be hardly expected of committees’.

This response was not shared by the recipients. The largest scheme was a King George VI Leadership Training Memorial which ultimately allocated £564,000 to over thirty established youth organizations to endow bursaries for youth leadership training. This memorial had been recommended ‘unanimously’ by the Standing Conference of National Voluntary Youth Organisations, which represented most major bodies of this kind. The conference envisaged a scheme which should ‘not be so vague that a precise association with the King George VI Memorial becomes impossible’ and which should ‘in some way reflect an interest or activity’ of the king himself. Noting his ‘outstanding qualities of character’ and consistent interest in youth and outdoor recreation, the conference advocated a scheme to ‘assist in the development of qualities of character and leadership among young people’ in their leisure time and, thereby, ‘help to perpetuate these characteristics in each generation’. The ultimate aim was to ‘associate the name of His late Majesty in the minds of each generation with opportunities for leadership and service’. The foundation embraced this proposal as a ‘specially suitable and worthy memorial’, which would be the ‘principal object for support … in the field of youth’.

The second largest beneficiary with £400,000 was the Central Council of Physical Recreation, a national umbrella of the governing bodies of sports, recreational and youth organizations. The council, which was launched in 1935, campaigned for an expansion of fitness organizers and offered training courses for instructors. It had received the patronage of George V and George VI; the queen took over her father’s role and Prince Philip served as president from 1951. In its grant application, the council had suggested that there was ‘no more appropriate memorial’ than the expansion of existing outdoor training and recreation centres and a new facility in Snowdonia National Park. These centres were used to train coaches and youth leaders as well as to provide facilities for youth groups. The Youth Hostels Association received a grant of over £160,000 towards financing five King George VI Memorial Hostels located respectively in London, the Lake District, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. Finally, the foundation provided £50,000 to fund the pilot of the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, which was launched by Prince Philip in 1956. This award was yet another royal philanthropic initiative which offered a challenge to young people to develop their physical fitness, cultivate a hobby and participate in service projects. Another element of the award was an expedition in ‘wild country’ which exposed the young to rural beauty spots. The George VI Memorial was undoubtedly less visible than the King George’s Fields, but both philanthropic schemes shared a belief in the physical, moral and social benefits of outdoor recreation.

The popularity of the monarchy in the middle decades of the twentieth century is hardly in doubt, but an examination of the funerals and commemoration of George V and George VI sheds new light on the relationship between the monarchy and the British people. There were remarkable parallels between the two king’s deaths. Both died in Sandringham and the funeral and commemoration of George VI was closely modelled on that of his father. The impressively staged rituals surrounding the deaths were not only an occasion for spectacular media coverage, but also provided new democratic spaces for people publicly to affirm their loyalty. The massive turnout at the lyings‐in‐state, funeral processions and to view the wreaths, along with the staging of the two‐minute silence which generated a virtually universal response, involved millions of people. Evidence of individual responses points towards a profound emotional reaction. The national memorial appeals and the philanthropic schemes provided further opportunities for public participation. The only comparable events were mourning rituals and commemoration of the dead in the two world wars. Indeed, these episodes of mourning were closely intertwined. The king served as the nation’s chief mourner and new rituals in the wake of George V’s death drew on Armistice Day and the war memorials movement. Royal death, thus, affirmed a shared sense of Britishness which strengthened the monarchy and enhanced social and national cohesion.

The kings’ commemoration extended beyond architectural schemes or local initiatives. The national philanthropic foundations were a new departure, which used donations from the general public to benefit future generations throughout the U.K. The objects of the foundations were inspired by both kings’ belief in the wider benefits of sport and outdoor recreation. New playing fields, recreation centres, youth hostels and leadership training not only provided opportunities for young people to keep fit, but also to build character and to instil patriotism and loyalty—in short to foster good citizenship. Through the living memorials George V and George VI symbolically lived on in subsequent generations.