Witnessing Britain’s grief as an immigrant, I have surprised myself

My grandmother called me and lightly poked fun at the naff pomp of it all – and my first instinct was to defend it, writes Marie Le Conte

I’ve been here for 13 years and I have no idea how I feel about this country anymore (Getty)

A lot of people have money set aside for retirement or a deposit, or even for future holidays. I don’t. What I had, for many years, was half a grand set aside for when the Queen died.

I moved here in 2009; around 18 months later, Kate and William got married. It was unbearable. I’d always known I wasn’t a royalist – few French people are – but that wedding really tipped me over the edge. It felt unavoidable, suffocating, absurd.

A few months after it – finally, mercifully – ended, I told myself I had to start saving up. The Queen would die at some point and I just couldn’t be in the country for it. I needed to have a pot of money in my account that would allow me to leg it to the airport and not look back for at least a week.

I didn’t think of it as particularly offensive; you can move to a country and love it very much but still be baffled by some of its customs. It’s a bit like a relationship; if I were to fall in love with someone who loves beetroot tomorrow, that would not magically make me start to love beetroot.

The Queen died last week and I am writing this from my desk in Soho, where I sit every Monday. I’ll forever remember where I was a few days earlier, when Nadhim Zahawi passed a little note to the front benches and everyone could feel that something was wrong. I’ll forever remember how I felt that day: curious, then anxious, then sad and angry that I would have to cancel some important evening plans, then… well.

I’m not sure how I felt when the news did come out. It wasn’t grief, but it wasn’t nothing either; like being weighed down by the sadness of those around you. It didn’t even occur to me to throw three dresses in a bag and run to Gatwick. Instead, I went home and watched a documentary about her reign, alone, in the dark.

Friday was odd as well; I’d taken the day off for unrelated reasons and so had accidentally given myself a three-day mourning weekend. It’s funny how life works out sometimes. I still don’t really know how I feel about the Queen dying, but I know that I am feeling something.

Last week marked the 13th anniversary of the day I moved to Britain, and it feels oddly fitting. You have no idea who you are at 13 and yet you spend a lot of time thinking about the person you may or may not be, the person you may or may not become.

To keep up to speed with all the latest opinions and comment, sign up to our free weekly Voices Dispatches newsletter by clicking here

I’ve been here for 13 years and I have no idea how I feel about this country anymore. My grandmother called me yesterday and lightly poked fun at the naff pomp of it all – and my first instinct was to defend it. They’ve just lost a monarch, I wanted to tell her; you can’t understand. Just leave them be.

That doesn’t mean I will never poke fun at the silliness of Brits with her; it’s one of our favourite pastimes, and I’m only human. I just didn’t have it in me to join in on this, because it’d touched me too.

Still, I wonder if King Charles will have the same effect on future generations of immigrants. It really did feel like a part of Britain died on Thursday, and you didn’t have to be a royalist or to have been born here to recognise that. It felt like the beginning of the end. I’m glad I was here to witness it.