Shadows of a Princess

‘Patrick!’ came a breathy voice. ‘I thought you must have fallen down an oil well. Where have you been?’ She giggled expectantly.

This was terrible. Often it was worse if she was nice. Goodwill expenditure was carefully noted in the royal ledger and there was usually a price to be paid sooner or later. Still, it might be worth testing. Should I tell her that new joke about the camel who applied for a sex change? Or would any sign of levity be seen as damning proof that I had been living the life of Riley in the sunshine?

‘Did you hear the one about the camel who—’

‘Patrick! I haven’t time for your smutty jokes now. Have you managed to sort the programme out? Assuming you haven’t been sitting by the pool all day.’

‘Well, there are a few small changes …’ I explained them briefly. The silence on the other end of the line was heavy with disapproval. When I had finished my excuses her voice acquired an ominous tone of reproach.

‘Patrick! All that extra work, and after such a long flight. We’ll be on our knees.’ It always switched to ‘we’ when she was trying to imply that I – or life in general – was being unfair.

‘Yes, Ma’am, but it’s serious stuff – it’s not just something to keep you occupied while the Prince does the grown-up bits – and it’ll give the press something to write about apart from what you’re wearing.’

There was a pause, and then a sigh. ‘So what you’re telling me, Patrick, is: “Shut up, Diana, and do your job.”’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that …’

‘Ha! I know you wouldn’t. All right, Patrick – I’ll do what my male nanny tells me.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Hmm. Male nanny. It could be worse. It was certainly worth a facetious parting shot. ‘Have a nice flight.’

The reply was a violent raspberry.

In the event, of course, everything did work – at least as far as most people could see. The royal VC-10 whistled to an ear-splitting halt precisely on time, raising the curtain on a show essentially as old as diplomacy itself. The stars smiled for the cameras, spoke their lines and performed their routines with the charm and ease the world had come to expect. The machinery we had laboured to set up whirred into action and carried us all along on a conveyor belt of engagements, each a one-act play before an audience as faithful to the script as we were.

Nobody saw the little dramas behind the scenes. Nothing stirred a ripple on the smooth public surface of the tour. There were no cameras to snap the Princess testing her mattress by bouncing on it. Nobody recorded the staff’s impromptu late-night revue, complete with the butler’s impersonation routine that had us crying tears of laughter into our whisky. No outsiders, fortunately, witnessed the other tears and tantrums that inevitably erupted from time to time in our highly strung party far from its home base.

In fact, memorably, it was an outsider – a hysterical military attaché – who caused one of the greatest dramas by threatening a soldier in our team with court martial for insubordination. The poor, choleric colonel did not realize that the offender was a vital part of the royal support system and hence beyond the reach of normal military censure. Later, he recovered sufficiently to try to wheedle an official portrait photo of the Prince and Princess out of me. These trinkets had a remarkable attraction for some people and I could see the attaché’s mantelpiece was not going to be complete without this happy snap. There were real tears in his eyes as I explained that he was not on his Ambassador’s list of those deemed worthy of such recognition.

Disaster always seemed a hair’s-breadth away. Usually the crises were self-inflicted, as with our departure from Bahrein. Until that point the whistle-stop visit for lunch with the ruler had lived up to its expectations as a stress-free interlude between the exertions of Kuwait and the Emirates. Everything had gone smoothly and we returned to the airport to resume our journey in a state approaching euphoria. The accompanying party were already installed back on the VC-10 and I could see their faces pressed against the portholes as they looked down at the departure ceremony at the foot of the aircraft steps.

With a final wave to their host, the Prince and Princess started to climb the steps to the forward door of the aircraft. The remaining members of the party, me included, hurried up our own set of stairs to the doorway further aft (a sensible piece of aeronautical class distinction for which the venerable VC-10 might have been specifically designed). Speed took precedence over dignity, because we knew that slick RAF practice demanded that the engines should be started as soon as the senior VIP passengers were aboard. Any underlings following in their wake had therefore better look sharp or be left behind.

Sure enough, as we clattered up the last few steps I heard the first of the four Conway jets start to whine into life. Suddenly there was an urgent call from below. ‘Patrick!’ I turned round. At the bottom of the steps one of the local Embassy staff was holding out a suitcase. Had I forgotten something? I racked my brains, ready to blush at the thought of some duty not done.

Then it hit me. The watches! This was the almost mythical bonus that awaited members of royal tour parties visiting certain countries where ancient customs of hospitality had survived into a more material age. The suitcase was filled with gold, cunningly disguised as wristwatches, and each member of the accompanying party, down to the most humble secretary, expected his or her share of the windfall. No wonder their noses had been pressed to the windows as my car drew up. I had almost forgotten the most important piece of luggage of them all.

Quickly I turned and ran back down the steps to the ground. Fervently thanking my guardian angel, I started the return climb to the beckoning doorway, swag secure in my clammy hand. Imagine going down in history as The Equerry Who Forgot The Rolexes…

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the forward door was now firmly closed and a party of soldiers was hurriedly rolling the red carpet back towards the ceremonial dais from which our hosts were waving a final farewell. In my ears the Conways were rising to a crescendo. I did not have a second to spare.

With a final heave, I reached the platform at the top of the steps and thrust the suitcase at a large RAF figure who was blocking the doorway. ‘Quick, take this!’ The figure did not move. What was the matter with the idiot? ‘Hurry up! They’re waiting for us to go!’ I shouted above the steady roar of the jets. I could sense a dozen sets of eyes burning resentfully into my back. This stupid naval officer was delaying everything and spoiling the perfection of their departure ceremony. And what is the problem with our suitcase? Are our gifts unworthy?

The RAF figure was quite oblivious. ‘Has this item been security cleared?’ it asked impassively.

Still standing exposed on the platform, I felt a sudden rush of exasperated anger. ‘Of course it bloody well hasn’t! It’s a gift from the Emir and he’s watching us right now wondering what the f***’s the matter with it!’

‘I don’t care who it’s from,’ said the figure, still blocking the doorway. ‘It’s not coming on this aircraft until it’s been searched. It might be a bomb for all I know.’

‘All right then! You search it!’ I shouted, dropping the case at his feet and pushing past him into the cabin.

To his credit and my shame, he squatted on the platform under the baleful gaze of the Bahreini ruling family and the jubilant scrutiny of the British press corps and searched the suitcase from top to bottom, very thoroughly.

As we made our progress down the Gulf, schizophrenia seemed inevitable. One moment I was standing at the royal elbow, trying to wear an expression appropriate to the business in hand, be it the Emir’s banquet, the centre for children with disabilities, or the display of folk dancing. The next moment I was scurrying around in the false sanctuary of one of our guest palaces, humouring the hairdresser, placating the baggage master or fighting with the unfamiliar shower controls as I hurried to change for the Embassy reception.

With astonishing speed, the engagements painstakingly researched, recced and re-recced came and went. The closely typed pages of outline programmes, detailed programmes, administrative instructions and security orders had their brief moment of frenzied importance and then were forgotten, turned to paper vermicelli in our mobile shredder.

The leading lady did not even appear in the final scenes. She made a suitably stylish departure from Dubai in a borrowed jumbo jet, lent by a solicitous Sheikh. Never one to disappoint a damsel in need, when he heard that her scheduled return flight was delayed, he sent for his pilots three and dispatched her towards London in nothing less than a flying palace.

It was not clear who felt most upset: the Queen’s Flight at not being properly consulted about the use of an unfamiliar aircraft, or me at having to watch the Princess and her homebound team fly away in an aeroplane I would have liked to bore my grandchildren about.

The baggage master and I rattled back to our hotel in the elderly Embassy Land Rover and tortured ourselves with thoughts of the luxuries now being enjoyed by the lucky passengers. We had no trouble agreeing we were much more deserving. This was probably debatable. She had earned her seven hours of airborne fun.

With the departure of the Princess, her lady-in-waiting, dresser, assistant dresser, hairdresser and detective – and practically all the press – something approaching a holiday mood settled over the remaining party. The last leg of the journey was a private visit by the Prince to another desert kingdom, a male sanctuary where the exclusive club rules of worldwide royalty offered an understanding welcome for a fellow member. Compared to the tensions of the preceding week, even someone feeling as neurotic as I was could afford to relax.

‘Here’s the medicine you ordered,’ said the man from the Embassy as we settled into the last of a series of guest palaces. He handed me a suspiciously heavy dispatch case.

‘I didn’t order any medicine,’ I replied, mystified. Then I heard a muffled chink from inside the box. ‘Ah … yes, of course. Medicine. Thank you!’

Our accompanying doctor was unimpressed. ‘What you lot don’t need is more whisky,’ he grumbled, handing out supplies of pills to help us either sleep or stay awake.

Now alone among the Prince’s staff, I could not escape the feeling that the Princess’s mark was metaphorically stamped on my forehead. Although encouraged to feel part of the team, I was still a guest among guests. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the unbuttoned atmosphere of the male court, where discussion of real political and philosophical issues was possible in an atmosphere reminiscent of the wardrooms I had left behind. I noticed the same cautious deference to the senior officer’s opinion and marvelled again at the intricacies of his domestic arrangements, which could suddenly override almost all other priorities.

In addition, the experience of working briefly in what was later to become a hostile camp was invaluable. In later years, when events suggested that this camp was capable of conspiracy against the Princess, I could reassure myself – and her – that its capacity for cock-up was even greater. The passage of time and further rotations of advisers has not greatly altered that early impression.

The Prince’s office had acquired a rather patchy reputation, not because of incompetence or lack of effort, but because a support organization constantly on the verge of meltdown seemed to be an essential accompaniment to the Prince’s sense of being unfairly burdened. In a revelation gleefully reported by the press, he even once disclosed that he was forced to spend time correcting elementary errors in correspondence originating from his own office. His obvious regret at such a slip was not quite in time to prevent an understandable dent in fragile secretarial morale.

At last we reached the end of the tour. The euphoria was almost tangible as we clambered out of the final motorcade, made our last farewells and headed for the elegant white and blue VC-10 which was waiting to take us home. With a reassuring nod from the top of the steps, the baggage master signalled that all the other passengers and our mountain of luggage were safely aboard.

Taking a deep breath of scented Arabian air, I turned to follow my companions up the ladder. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Prince give his final wave and disappear inside. As expected, the first of the four jets immediately began to whine into life. Remembering Bahrein, I smiled to myself. That fuss with the suitcase seemed a long time ago. I had come a long way since then.

I turned for a last look and saw something fluttering on the bonnet of the Prince’s car. ‘Christ! The Standard!’

I ran back down the stairs and sprinted towards the car. It was my most elementary duty to ensure that we always carried with us the little flag that flew from the royal limousine. To leave it behind was a guarantee of ridicule, or worse. The royal Standard was a coveted object, laden even now with a mystical significance. Thank God I had spotted it.

Seeing me approach, the driver leapt out of the car and started to unscrew the flag from its special attachment. How helpful, I thought. Behind me I could hear the VC-10 getting up steam. Panting, I reached out to take the scrap of multicoloured cloth, a grateful ‘Shucran’ already on my lips. Suddenly it was snatched away. ‘No!’ said the driver, his dark eyes flashing. ‘I keep! Always I keep VIP flag!’

I grabbed a handful of flag and started to pull. ‘Let go!’ I shouted. ‘You can’t keep this one!’

For a ludicrous few moments we tussled over the flag. I had a hysterical vision of it tearing down the middle as the VC-10 taxied away, leaving us to squabble in the gathering dusk. With a final, frantic tug it was mine. I ran back to the aircraft, cursing all collectors. The idling jets shrieked with laughter. It must have made a great cabaret for the invisible audience behind the row of lighted portholes.

Arriving gasping in the cabin, I was met by the chief steward. He was holding a tray on which a large gin and tonic clinked musically. ‘I expect you could do with this, sir,’ he said.

My first overseas tour had given me a rare opportunity to work directly for the Prince. Although nominally in attendance as his equerry for the entire tour, in fact I had spent most of the time accompanying the Princess on her programme. John Riddell had accompanied the Prince, who had been quite content for me to concentrate on looking after his wife in the same way as if we were in England. On this particular occasion, however, he had agreed to visit the British frigate Hermione currently taking a break from patrolling the Persian Gulf, and it made sense that he should be accompanied that day by an aide in uniform rather than the (very) civilian John.

This engagement had already caused me some amusement. Taking my seat at one of many mahjlis in the Emirates, I found myself next to the Prince’s then polo manager, Ronnie Ferguson. I knew he had flown out to Dubai some days earlier and I was anxious to confirm that the frigate had also arrived safely. ‘Is Hermione here yet?’ I asked in a low whisper, conscious of the royal pleasantries being exchanged close by.

Ronnie started out of his reverie, looking at me with sudden new interest. ‘I say, you’re a quick worker!’

‘What do you mean, Ronnie?’

‘Hermione. You’ve already got some bird lined up here! Very quick work!’

Under bushy brows, his eyes twinkled with admiration. It was painful to have to explain the identity of the distinctly unsexy Hermione with whom I had planned this tryst. The twinkle slowly died and Ronnie lapsed once more into thoughts of polo.

Although the Prince was undoubtedly the senior figure in my royal world, I approached my day with him with few qualms. In all my brief encounters with him since starting the job, he had been friendly but reassuringly distant. Unlike his more volatile wife – who could switch from warm intimacy to frozen exclusion in an instant – he had the air of a man who did not care very much who or what you were so long as you did your job. In this he resembled a certain type of senior naval officer, a species very familiar to me. The Captain’s uniform he wore for the occasion reinforced this comforting impression.

As I sat with him in the back of the car I felt a distinct relief. The essentially female world I inhabited most of the time had its undoubted attractions, but it was a welcome break to be contemplating a day in uncomplicated masculine company in familiar surroundings. I felt as if I had been let out to play.

Hermione and the Prince both did themselves proud, I thought. The elderly ship looked brand new in the morning sun and her welcome was warm, enthusiastic and self-assured. The Prince was in his element, adapting his script instinctively to suit his varied audience of sailors, senior ratings and officers.

His visit was to end with a medal presentation in front of the entire ship’s company and I knew he would be expected to make a short speech. In the car I had felt an attack of panic as I realized I had not drafted anything for him to say. The Princess would have needed a script cleared well in advance, and coaching too.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t drafted anything for you, Sir,’ I said in some trepidation.

The Prince examined the backs of his hands. It was impossible to know what was coming next. ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And he did, completely unrehearsed and much to the delight of the assembled sailors.

A few days later I saw a different side of him.

The halfway point in the tour came and went, and I had my first experience of the phenomenon known as ‘mid-trip dip’. Even the best tour could suffer from an attack of mid-term blues. The initial adrenaline surge wears off; the trip home lies on the other side of a mountain range of difficult engagements. An enervating climate and unsuitable food, bad sleep and bad hangovers combine to dull the reflexes, stunt new thought and confuse the body’s systems.

As our fatigue accumulated, so too did our immunity to anxieties that had seemed overwhelming on day one. Who really cared where we sat on the aeroplane – a matter of supreme importance in some households – so long as everyone was actually on board? And did it really matter that I had run out of a certain type of key ring which the Prince gave as a farewell gift to local staff?

Late one night in Dubai I discovered that it did matter, very much indeed. I had arranged our dozen farewell gifts on a sideboard in the Prince’s quarters, ready for him to hand them to the 12 – theoretically – most deserving officials who had helped with that leg of the tour. (This was the beauty parade for which the tearful colonel had failed to qualify.)

My job was to adjudicate on the list submitted by the Embassy, assemble the recipients and make sure they appeared smartly when I announced them. The size and combination of gifts – mostly signed photos, but also a few small items such as cuff links or purses – had to correspond to the perceived importance of the recipient. A short briefing was required on each so that the appropriate royal platitude could be murmured while the lucky winner bowed and grinned expectantly.

It was without doubt the worst part of any tour. The list of things that could go wrong was endless. Even if the Embassy could produce their proposals on time – and it was required at a stage in the proceedings when they were already under enormous pressure – its composition was fraught with protocol poison as jealous officials vied to be included. We were strict to the point of meanness about the number of recipients allowed and I often felt there was scant justice in the compromises that resulted.

Even if we had remembered to bring the right number of gifts from London – and for a long tour like the Gulf it could take several large cases to carry them and all their likely permutations – the Waleses were always liable to impose last-minute changes to the choice of photograph, the design of cuff link or the style of purse. In its most virulent form, this wish to control unimportant minutiae could grow to exclude all other considerations. It was as if this was the only part of our employers’ lives with which they could directly tinker, and goodness, how they relished it.

The result was a tension bordering on suppressed hysteria as prizegiving time approached. It was always shoehorned into a passage of frenetic activity in the programme – shortly before departure – and the logistic planning required to ensure the appearance of effortless efficiency was more appropriate, I felt, for the Nobel Prize itself. The tension was shared in full by our royal employers, who were sometimes unable to resist the temptation to be sharply pernickety with those responsible for any shortcoming. That night in Dubai, the responsible person was undoubtedly me.

The Prince had recently chosen a new style of key ring to give to drivers. Only a limited number had been available before we left, but enough, we thought, to cope with the expected demand. Just to be on the safe side we had brought a number of the old pattern as well. Fate – or the Prince’s enthusiasm for his new design – now caused us to break into our reserve stock of the older version.

I was congratulating myself on my foresight in bringing this spare supply as I completed my preparations for the imminent ceremony. It was perhaps unrealistic of me to expect royal recognition for my prudent planning. In fact, self-congratulation was usually followed very quickly by nemesis, but I had not expected it to arrive quite so quickly.

My ears rang to the sound of princely disappointment. Why was he not being allowed to give out the new key ring he had chosen? The rebuke was addressed to an unfair world, but all available eyes turned inexorably in my direction. Disaster – never banished, only postponed – stared me in the face with a look that had been vaporizing erring equerries for a thousand years.

In my pristine white buckskin shoes, my toes wriggled in embarrassment. I squirmed. But I managed to stare back. Beneath my shame a vague sense of injustice stirred as I mentally scanned my endless list of responsibilities. All this fuss because of a key ring? Calling on distant naval experience, I fixed an expression of vague contrition on my face and simultaneously raised a quizzical eyebrow. Insolence, like beauty, is firmly in the eye of the beholder and I held my breath, awaiting the final thunderbolt, the prelude to dismissal, disgrace and – probably – public execution.

It never came. The storm passed as suddenly as it had blown up. With a smile the Prince redirected the reproach to himself. I was preserved to sin again in the future. Relief washed over me, but not before I had registered two important points: (1) always bring lots of spare gifts (or ‘gizzits’ in the jargon) to cater for sudden outbreaks of royal largesse; and (2) remember Princes get tired as well.

Like insolence and beauty, humour is also in the eye or ear of the beholder. Recovering from my experience with the gifts, I was tempted to try to be funny with the Prince on our return to England. The results were not encouraging, as I shall describe. This taught me another lesson: the Prince’s ability – which he undoubtedly has – to enjoy certain types of joke is not to be taken as an encouragement to display your own scintillating wit. That was my experience, anyway.

That aside, I had liked my first experience of working with him. It was not just the reassuring familiarity of having a male boss again: there was a humour and a warmth behind the acquired remoteness which I felt was waiting to be released, if only I had the time and guts – not to mention the presumption – to try to unlock it.

It was true, I had also detected an occasional brooding menace. Like his famous charm, it was only revealed fleetingly to me, an outsider. It jostled in his face with self-pity and other, more uplifting emotions, but it was there nevertheless, in a vengeful look or anger explosively expressed.