So what did the Queen – in her much-conflicted roles as sovereign of Britain, sovereign of fifteen other countries and Head of the Commonwealth – really think of her Prime Minister? Despite the presumptions and conjecture of her press secretary and so many others, we still do not know. The Queen Mother’s admiration for Mrs Thatcher was hardly a secret (one of her ‘favourite politicians’, according to her biographer, William Shawcross). There was, though, a patrician ‘wet’ Tory element within the aristocracy who sneered at the shopkeeper’s daughter. The Queen remained predictably, steadfastly, unreadable on the subject of the Prime Minister. It is, perhaps, easier to imagine what the Queen might have thought of her Prime Minister’s modus operandi. ‘What she’d have been most upset about was not British government policy but Margaret Thatcher’s tone, her personal aggression,’ says Sir Malcolm Rifkind, who served all through the Thatcher years and went on to become Foreign Secretary himself. ‘You can’t separate Margaret Thatcher from her style.’
In 1990, just a few months before she left office, to be replaced by John Major, Mrs Thatcher did finally meet the man whose future had shaped so much of her foreign policy. Nelson Mandela had walked out of prison on 11th February 1990, instantly becoming one of the most influential statesmen on Earth, albeit as yet an unelected, unappointed one. His party, the ANC, ceased to be outlawed, and multiparty talks the following year would lead to an interim constitution. After some internecine tribal violence costing thousands of lives, elections would follow in 1994. Mandela could, though, already count on the Commonwealth as a de facto powerbase.
Within days of his release from prison, he made his first international flight to the Zambian capital, Lusaka, seat of the exiled ANC leadership. It was there that he met Commonwealth Secretary-General Sonny Ramphal and his deputy, Emeka Anyaoku. When Commonwealth foreign ministers met in Nigeria shortly afterwards, Mandela was invited to speak. He travelled briefly to London in April, to attend a Wembley stadium concert in his honour, and attended a reception at Sonny Ramphal’s flat, where he thanked Commonwealth staff and key British supporters. He had also wanted to meet Mrs Thatcher, who had invited him to Downing Street, but the ANC leadership blocked the idea. He kept a promise to return to London in July, however, to attend Anyaoku’s inaugural dinner as the new Commonwealth Secretary-General. There were already signs of the new, forward-looking, hatchet-burying Mandela mindset. Asked for a list of dinner companions, he did not want yet another gathering of stalwarts from the old anti-apartheid organisations. He specifically asked Anyaoku to round up a room full of senior British executives and financiers, to whom he could sell the long-term prospects of a future, democratic South Africa. There was another invitation from Mrs Thatcher to visit Downing Street, and this time Mandela was adamant that he would go.
The British Ambassador to South Africa, Sir Robin Renwick, who had come to know Mandela well, briefed Mrs Thatcher ahead of the meeting and implored her to listen. ‘Please remember, he’s waited 27 years to tell you his side of the story,’ he told her. Neither side was ever going to agree on the sanctions issue, but there was much else to discuss and Mrs Thatcher was not short of advice on how Mandela might rebuild the South African economy. The conversation dragged on for so long that the bored media contingent outside ended up chanting the anti-apartheid hit ‘Free Nelson Mandela’. Eventually, he emerged with gracious words for his host. ‘There is no doubt that she is an enemy of apartheid,’ he said. ‘We’ve taken different positions, but there was never any enmity or quarrel whatsoever.’
How Mrs Thatcher must have wished for this sort of dialogue at all those Commonwealth gatherings during the preceding decade. These two giants of post-war politics declared that they could ‘do business’ with each other. There would be no time for that, however. Four months later, after what had by any measure been an exceptional eleven-year premiership, Mrs Thatcher would tender her resignation to the Queen. Following a Conservative leadership challenge by her old foe, Michael Heseltine, she had not won enough votes in the first round of voting to preclude a further vote and decided to stand down, rather than put her MPs’ loyalty to the test. The Queen’s regard for Britain’s first female Prime Minister was reflected in her decision to award her the Order of Merit almost instantly. As Mrs Thatcher bade a tearful farewell to Downing Street, Mandela had not even got started.
‘LET’S HAVE HIM’
For the rest of his life, Mandela would retain a special affection for the Commonwealth, always mindful of its key part – and the role of the Queen herself – in the story of modern South Africa. Her first meeting with Mandela would take place the following year, when the Commonwealth leaders gathered in the capital of Zimbabwe, Harare. This would be another important African tour, full of poignant personal memories for her. The last time she had been in Harare, it was called Salisbury and she had been there with her parents in 1947. Now she would be seeing how Zimbabwe had progressed since that turbulent independence process in which she had played such an important role.
But there was a significant stop along the way. During the excitement surrounding Mandela’s release from jail in February 1990, much of the world had overlooked a historic occasion days later in neighbouring Namibia. The former German colony of South-West Africa had been controlled by South Africa since the First World War. As a sparsely populated appendage to one of the most ostracised nations in the world, it had led a lonely existence for many years. In March 1990, after a long and nasty guerrilla war on its northern border, it finally secured full independence. On the very same day, it joined the Commonwealth. The membership had now reached fifty. Though the Queen has never been competitive about numbers (unlike the French-speaking Francophonie), it was still a landmark moment for the Commonwealth and its Head. When the Queen came to the Throne, the Commonwealth had eight members. Now it could celebrate its half-century.
Though Namibia had not formally been part of the British Empire and had rubbed along with a variety of languages for years, its new leadership had been determined to join the English-speaking, Westminster-style ‘club’, and the ‘club’ was happy to oblige. Here, in effect, was a dry run for what might happen shortly in South Africa. The local experience of colonialism under the Germans, and latterly the South Africans, had been brutal at times. As one former diplomat puts it: ‘Namibia became a dumping ground for the worst sort of Afrikaaner.’ If majority black rule could work there, it would send a strong signal to South Africa next door. Britain, in particular, was keen to express its confidence in the Commonwealth’s newest member in time-honoured fashion – with a state visit by the Queen. There was the added advantage of not having any colonial baggage in this former colony. Whereas other Commonwealth countries might still have a historical gripe with the former colonial power, this one looked upon the UK as a beacon of progress. All the bad stuff could be blamed on the Germans.
If Namibia had little knowledge of the Commonwealth, it knew even less about royal visits, but it was keen to learn. Former High Commissioner Sir Francis Richards has fond memories of a no-nonsense solution to the problem of finding a suitable open-topped vehicle from which the Queen could wave to the crowds. ‘They found a Land Rover, took the top off and stuck a sofa on the back,’ he recalls. It did the job perfectly. There was similar presence of mind when the desert wind at Windhoek International Airport threatened to blow away the red carpet, as the Queen’s VC10 was approaching. The Namibians ordered a 25-stone policeman to stand on the far end of it. While that solved the carpet problem, the same wind would cause alarming problems with the royal hemline as the Queen descended the aircraft steps. The German population had been rather bemused by the arrival of the British Queen. The main local paper featured a cartoon showing an Afrikaaner, a German and a Namibian African being greeted by the Queen as she declared – John F. Kennedy-style – ‘Ich bin ein Namibian.’
The overarching theme of the visit was reconciliation. The royal itinerary would include both the former independence battlegrounds in
the north – the revolutionary heartland – and the national agricultural show, focal point of the country’s predominantly white farming community. As Richards recalls, the Germans and Afrikaners were no royalists. ‘They were resentful that Britain was taking such a prominent role in their country but, at the same time, in terms of their safety in Namibia, this was seen as a very helpful development.’ Any lingering doubts about the royal visitor were dispelled when she met the opposition leader, wearing his full cowboy kit, and presented him with the prize for best heifer. Without batting an eyelid, she later picked him out of a reception for 300 people at which he was wearing a suit. ‘It was very impressive,’ says Richards. ‘He was certainly pleased.’
The Queen’s speech at the state banquet was a surprisingly punchy one, her words aimed far beyond Namibia’s borders. Africa, she said, could no longer use apartheid as an excuse for all its problems and had to recognise that ‘autocracy and economic stagnation’ were the greater threat. One year into independence, however, her visit had left an impression that is remembered to this day. ‘It was a boost to Namibia’s sense of identity as it tried to become a proper nation. It meant it was not a duckling being thrown out of the nest,’ says Richards. ‘There were high hopes.’
There were certainly high hopes on board the royal VC10 as it flew on to Harare, where large crowds welcomed the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh as they drove through the city centre in an open car. Ahead of the Commonwealth summit, the Queen was formally paying a state visit to Zimbabwe itself. At President Mugabe’s state banquet, she praised him for his ‘wisdom and good judgment’ in the way he had steered his country through to democratic prosperity. These were the days when she and so many others still regarded Mugabe as an exemplary firebrand-turned-founding-father, a man whom other Commonwealth leaders should emulate. ‘Contemporary history is showing us daily that good government and equality of opportunity can overcome differences of race, culture or religion,’ she told her audience.
Among the leaders gathering for the summit, however, there was a strange sense of uncertainty. With Nelson Mandela out of prison, Namibia running free, apartheid in terminal decline, the Berlin Wall dismantled and Mrs Thatcher off the scene – all developments that most of the Commonwealth would surely welcome – these were testing times, nonetheless. If no one was in the Commonwealth spotlight at that moment, where might it fall next? No one wanted to be the new persona non grata. The new Secretary-General, Chief Emeka Anyaoku, wanted this to be the summit where the Commonwealth reaffirmed its democratic principles, even if that might sound uncomfortable to some of its more dubious regimes.
For the first time in living memory, a British Prime Minister appeared to be looking forward to a Commonwealth summit. John Major had attended the previous one, in Malaysia, as Foreign Secretary. Now he was delighted to learn that Robert Mugabe – a fellow cricket enthusiast – had decided to bolt on a charity match for cricketing leaders and Major would even face a few balls himself. He was also looking forward to discussing the subject with the leader of a delegation of summit observers from South Africa’s ANC – Nelson Mandela. The Prime Minister was keen to get South Africa back into the international sporting fold as an important step on the journey to majority rule. Since the ANC was still an exiled non-organisation from a non-Commonwealth nation, Mandela could hardly have a seat at the summit. Yet everyone could see the direction of travel in South Africa. Mandela was a very welcome observer.
As usual, the Queen would hold her audiences and then host the traditional black-tie banquet to get the leaders in a convivial frame of mind, before leaving them to their political hardball. She had brought the Royal Household team, and the marquee on the lawn of State House had been laid out with round tables of ten, thus ensuring that there was no ‘top table’ one-upmanship. As the guests started arriving for the pre-dinner drinks, Chief Anyaoku was informed that Mandela had been spotted at the entrance. ‘He just turned up and got out of this old car,’ recalls Charles Anson, the Queen’s press secretary at the time. Anyaoku immediately tracked down the Queen’s Private Secretary, Robert Fellowes. Mandela was not on the official guest list, as this was simply a dinner for heads of government and their spouses. Nor was he dressed in black tie, but a lounge suit. Yet he was clearly under the impression that he was expected. It was inconceivable that a man of such stature and humility would have decided to gatecrash. So there had obviously either been some confusion or some mischief. It would send out a terrible message if some ‘jobsworth’ official decided to bar entry to the most famous ex-political prisoner of modern times. On the other hand, might not the other major players in the South African story – not least the country’s President, F. W. de Klerk, and the Zulus’ Chief Buthelezi – feel snubbed? A decision was required instantly and only one person could make it.
The Queen had no doubts. ‘Let’s have him,’ she said and deputed Sir Robert Fellowes to find Mandela and bring him into dinner, while quickly rearranging her banquet. As one senior ex-Household figure points out: ‘There is no such thing as protocol. There is only common sense.’ Rearranging an ordinary dinner party can be tricky enough. Rearranging a banquet for fifty prime ministers and presidents, while simultaneously trying to entertain them all to pre-dinner drinks, was an interesting challenge. ‘The Queen really grabbed the situation,’ says Charles Anson. ‘She said that Mandela should be on a table near her, where he could see her and certainly not on the outside of the room. He couldn’t be on her table but had to feel a part of it. Someone – I forget who – simply got kicked off a table in the inner orbit. Then the Queen had a chat with Mandela before and after, over drinks and then coffee.’
‘Your Majesty, you’re looking well, taking account of your tight schedule,’ he told her at one point.
‘Tomorrow, I’m going to see sixteen people. I may not look so good tomorrow!’ the Queen replied. According to those present, their conversations were largely devoted to the healing power of sport. There was no question that they got along famously. ‘There was a very agreeable chemistry between the two of them, absolutely no doubt about that,’ says Anyaoku.
‘He had a big presence,’ says a member of the royal party. ‘There was a sort of stateliness about him. He had beautiful manners. You knew you were in the presence of someone – and he had a great sense of humour.’ Even now, no one is entirely sure who told Mandela to turn up, though many suspect it was the Zimbabwean leader and summit host, Robert Mugabe. While the Queen is never normally keen on unexpected guests, she was delighted by this one. It would be the start of a remarkable friendship.
BACK TO THE CAPE
On 9th May 1994, Nelson Mandela became the first President of a new, democratic South Africa. Within a month, to the delight of the Queen, one of his first executive acts was to return his country to the place it had vacated back in the early days of apartheid. ‘South Africa coming back into the Commonwealth was, for me, but, more importantly, for the Queen, a moment of supreme joy,’ says Sir Sonny Ramphal. Nor had it always been a foregone conclusion, as the former Secretary-General explains: ‘I confess that I had harboured concerns at an earlier stage. I had asked myself whether after this terrible struggle, after this horrible experience of apartheid, black South Africa would want anything to do with the Commonwealth. I talked to Oliver Tambo, who held the ANC [presidency] for Nelson Mandela while he was in prison. I asked him: “Oliver, when this is all over, will South Africa be in the Commonwealth?” He looked at me quizzically and he said: “Sonny, black South Africa never left the Commonwealth”. For me it was a tremendous relief. That would have been the kind of relief that the Queen would have felt when she heard it from Mandela.’
In Mandela’s view, it had been the apartheid regime that had cut the Commonwealth link after the 1960 vote to abolish the South African Crown. While South Africans were certainly not about to reinstate the Queen, they were very happy to be back in the ‘club’. After all, the Commonwealth Games were coming up in a matter of weeks. The web o
f Commonwealth connections had already been growing by the day. In anticipation of his victory, Mandela had been asking for Commonwealth assistance with everything from re-training the police to tax inspectors. The elections had been monitored by the largest team of Commonwealth observers ever assembled. Technically, the other member states had to be consulted to approve any new membership, but Emeka Anyaoku did not have to try very hard. On 1st June, he went to give the result to the Queen. ‘She was delighted,’ he recalls, ‘but she’d already heard the news.’ The Commonwealth had beaten the UN, too. It would be another three weeks before South Africa was readmitted to the General Assembly of the United Nations.
The following month there was a service of thanksgiving at Westminster Abbey – at which Archbishop Tutu danced for joy – and a big party at Marlborough House, where a shebeen band was playing in the garden. The Queen and the Prince of Wales were among the guests, as talk turned to her future travel plans. The time had come, surely, for her to make her first return to South Africa since her twenty-first birthday. Mandela was delighted. As he wrote – formally – to the Queen on 8th August 1994: ‘Madam, I was delighted to hear that You are considering visiting South Africa in March 1995. You will be most welcome.’ On that occasion, he signed it with a modest: ‘N. R. Mandela.’
As with her trip to Namibia in 1991, this was fast work by royal standards. The new South Africa would be less than a year old and yet it was already getting a state visit. Indeed, it turns out that it might not have happened until much later, were it not for the Queen herself. Here was a fledgling democracy that had seen terrible violence in the run-up to the 1994 elections. According to Emeka Anyaoku, 14,000 South Africans were killed between 1990 and 1994, more than twice the number who were killed in the apartheid era. Sir Robert Woodard, the former Flag Officer Royal Yachts and captain of Britannia at that time, recalls that Douglas Hurd had serious reservations about the Queen travelling to South Africa so soon. ‘The Foreign Secretary was worried and the Queen overruled him,’ says Woodard. ‘She said: “Mr Mandela is getting advice from lots of people but no one’s actually giving him any help. He needs physical assistance and he needs a show”. She was going to give him one.’
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