Ma’am Darling

by Craig Brown

  After many ups and downs in her career and in her personal life, Dusty Springfield was finally awarded the OBE in the 1999 New Year Honours List. ‘Isn’t that the one they give to cleaners?’ she asked. By now she was dying of cancer, and confined to bed. Permission was given for her OBE to be collected by her manager Vicki Wickham, who presented it to her at the Royal Marsden Hospital, surrounded by a small group of friends.

  Dusty Springfield died on 2 March 1999, the very day she had been due to go to Buckingham Palace. After her death, rumours circulated that she and Princess Margaret had once been an item. This seems improbable, but then again, improbability is no barrier to gossip.*

  * Those with whom Princess Margaret was, at one time or another, rumoured to have had sexual relationships include, in alphabetical order: Barton, Anthony, wine producer; Beatty, Warren, actor and director; Bindon, John, actor and criminal; Douglas, Sharman, daughter of US Ambassador to the Court of St James; Douglas-Home, Robin, pianist and novelist; Edinburgh, Duke of, brother-in-law; Elliott, Dominic, son of the Earl of Minto; Fisher, Eddie, actor and singer; Hutchinson, Leslie ‘Hutch’, singer and pianist; Jagger, Mick, singer; Kaye, Danny, actor and singer; Lichfield, Lord (Patrick), photographer; Llewellyn, Roddy, singer and garden designer; Lonsdale, Norman, businessman; Niven, David, actor; O’Toole, Peter, actor; Sellers, Peter, actor and comedian; Spencer-Churchill, John, landowner; Springfield, Dusty, singer; Townsend, Group Captain Peter, royal equerry; Turner, John, Prime Minister of Canada; Wallace, Billy, son of the wartime Minister for Transport.

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  In 1983, Princess Margaret was invited by her lady-in-waiting, Lady Anne Tennant, to contribute to The Picnic Papers, a collection of reminiscences about memorable picnics. She called her contribution ‘Picnic at Hampton Court’. Barely five hundred words long, it was the only piece of sustained prose she ever wrote for publication.

  She began confidently, with a stab at contemporary sociology. ‘Nearly all picnics in Britain,’ she writes, ‘end up in a layby by the road because, in desperation, no-one can decide where to stop.’ When it came to choosing a location for her own picnic, she was determined to avoid this common trap. ‘I felt that another sort of treat, slightly different and rather more comfortable, was indicated.’

  ‘Indicated’ is a curious word to have chosen, suggesting that someone else was in charge, hovering overhead, pointing her in this or that direction. Of course, when it comes to completing any sentence, it is easy to get boxed in by words that have gone before and to feel corralled into choosing a final word that is somehow not quite right. My guess is that the Princess had been nearing the end of her second sentence – ‘I felt that another sort of treat, slightly different and rather more comfortable, was –’ when she hesitated, not knowing which word to choose next.

  Something rather more comfortable was … Was what? ‘Needed’? ‘Wanted’? ‘Required’? Perhaps she finally chose ‘indicated’ through some subconscious link with the road and the layby in the previous sentence. But she soon got back into her stride. ‘In my opinion,’ she wrote, ‘picnics should always be eaten at table and sitting on a chair.’

  When is a picnic not a picnic? Many would consider the absence of a chair and table key to the definition of a picnic. A picnic is eaten sitting on the ground; the moment a chair or table appears, it turns into something else, something rather grander.

  ‘Accordingly,’ she continued, ‘my picnic, in May 1981, took the form of an outing to Hampton Court.’ There followed a potted history of Hampton Court Palace, after which she revealed that ‘The Queen kindly let me take some friends. The best plan, it seemed to me, was to do some sightseeing and have lunch in the middle. So I got in touch with Sir Oliver Millar, Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures, who delighted in taking us round the recently restored Mantegnas which are housed in their own Orangery.’

  But where would be the perfect spot for a picnic in Hampton Court? Again, she called in an expert. ‘I asked Professor Jack Plumb, Master of Christ’s College, Cambridge … where we should have our cold collation. He suggested the little Banqueting House overlooking the Thames. This seemed an excellent place for a number of reasons. It wasn’t open to the public then, it was a shelter in case of rain, and, as far as anyone knew, there hadn’t been a jolly there since the time of Frederick, Prince of Wales.’ With both the Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures and the Master of Christ’s College, Cambridge, now on board, the Princess was determined to leave nothing to fate. And, just in case, ‘I took my butler to ensure that everything would be all right.’

  It was all a far cry from a cheese-and-pickle sandwich in the pouring rain. Margaret failed to specify exactly how many guests she entertained, but a series of fuzzy black-and-white photographs in the book shows the large hall equipped with two long tables, one groaning with dishes, the other laid for twenty people or so. One photograph shows the Princess gazing out of a window, her back towards the camera. Five besuited men are gathered around, clasping their hands behind their backs, as men do when they wish to appear worldly.

  ‘We started with smoked salmon mousse, followed by that standby of the English, various cold meats and beautiful and delicious salads. Those with room then had cheeses.’ At the end of their meal, the royal party drank a toast to Frederick, Prince of Wales, before continuing their tour of the palace, taking in the chapel and the royal tennis court, where they watched a game in progress.

  ‘It was altogether a glorious day. The sun was shining on one of its brief appearances that summer, and everyone was happy.’

  The Princess concluded her piece with a recipe for avocado soup. It involved throwing three or four avocado pears into a blender with some chicken consommé and ‘a little dry sherry’, then adding ‘a little dab of double cream’ before serving.

  Her fellow contributors to The Picnic Papers all sprang from the well-to-do end of the world of letters. Harold Acton wrote of a picnic accompanied by Pouilly Fumé at the Ming tombs in Peking; Penelope Chetwode of eating suprème de volaille in Cappadocia; Patrick Leigh Fermor of sitting in the dales of Moldavia eating chicken croquettes, ‘fragrant mititei’ and, ‘by the ladleful, wonderful Black Sea caviar from Valcov’; and the McGillycuddy of the Reeks supped on smoked salmon, lamb in puff pastry and ‘a large supply of Guinness’ in Kerry. Picnics in laybys were nowhere to be seen.

  Shortly after the book’s publication in the spring of 1983, Princess Margaret was the guest of honour at Sir Guy and Lady Holland’s annual concert in their Gloucestershire barn. By chance, also present was one of her catty chroniclers, James Lees-Milne, who had broken ranks with the other contributors, refusing to participate in their spirit of bonhomie. His essay, called ‘I Loathe Picnics’, started with the words ‘I loathe picnics,’ and ended with the words ‘I loathe picnics.’ Lees-Milne was unabashed in his disapproval of the institution: ‘It may be hereditary. My parents also loathed them as much as they disliked each other, and certainly as much as they disliked us.’

  ‘Nearly dying of cold’ in the Gloucestershire barn, Lees-Milne and his wife Alvilde found themselves swept up by their hostess and escorted to a tent. There they were presented to Princess Margaret, who was drinking whisky out of a large tumbler. Lees-Milne had never found her easy company; this occasion was to prove no exception.

  ‘She, possibly distracted by meeting so many people within a small enclosed space, was not gracious and a little brash. Said to me, “Had I known you were a contributor to the Picnic Book, I would not have written my piece.”’

  Lees-Milne was nonplussed. ‘How does one take this sort of remark? I smiled wryly and said, “Oh Ma’am, but I so enjoyed yours.” “Do you like the book?” she asked. “I liked the jacket,” I said untruthfully.

  ‘“I hate picnics,” she said, “but did you like the book?” – this time to A. as much to me. That was as far as our contact went. How I hate meeting royalty. One gets absolutely nowhere.’

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  The artist Maggi Hambling would
probably agree with Lees-Milne’s judgement. Her own meeting with Princess Margaret in the 1980s failed to achieve lift-off.

  ‘In 1986, Aids was a fashionable charity to support and a small select evening reception for the well-heeled was held at the Royal Academy,’ she recalls. ‘The organiser, Colin Tweedie, was of lamp-post height and he appeared from nowhere, picked me up by the scruff of the neck and said, “You’re the sort of person she [Princess Margaret] should meet.” He then propelled a well-oiled me into a small gallery and introduced us. Ignorant, in those days, of the correct pronunciation of ma’am, I called her Marg – a cross between Margaret and Marm. Ignorant also of the protocol that one does not open the conversation, I immediately did, by asking her why she was surrounded by “all these feminists”. Through scarcely parted lips, she replied that they were her ladies in waiting, who immediately looked alarmed.

  ‘Prior to the encounter, reckoning that the event counted as a private party, I had lit a cigarette only to be instantly manhandled by several guards. However, once in The Presence, most satisfactorily they could only seethe in silence as I joined the Princess in chain-smoking. I realised that as long as I was with her, their hands were tied.

  ‘I proceeded to ask Marg if she was watching The Singing Detective and she replied, “Is that the one about the man with the skin disease? We don’t like it.”

  ‘I then told her, without drawing breath except to smoke, that she was making a huge mistake, that it was the best thing on television for years, that Michael Gambon was giving a sensational performance, and that Dennis Potter was a genius. My theme did not vary, as I described every detail of the series.

  ‘The face remained as if carved in stone (rather like that of Tim Henman’s father at Wimbledon) for the next twenty minutes before another subject replaced me, and I had to bid Marg good night.’

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  The story of the Royal Family in the 1990s involved a lot of going off the rails. The marriages of three of the Queen’s four children – Charles, Anne and Andrew – hit the rocks, amidst a series of scandals reminiscent of a particularly fruity Carry On film. This had the effect of making Princess Margaret, now in her sixties, appear almost strait-laced by comparison. Moreover, her own two children, David and Sarah, had both embarked on enduring marriages; they were now widely regarded as more accomplished and personable than their Windsor cousins. The media spotlight had moved on. ‘They all leave me alone these days,’ she told a visitor. ‘They’ve got other fish to fry.’

  In 1994, when Margaret was sixty-four, a rackety journalist called Noel Botham published Margaret: The Untold Story, a book containing two love letters written by Margaret to her lover Robin Douglas-Home in the spring of 1967. Their authenticity was inarguable: the Princess’s handwriting was reproduced in facsimile.

  Douglas-Home, the nephew of the former prime minister, had committed suicide in October 1968, eighteen months after the brief affair had come to an end. A lounge lizard, he had first entered Princess Margaret’s orbit while playing piano at fashionable nightclubs in the late 1950s. After a brief, unhappy marriage to the eighteen-year-old model Sandra Paul,* he had returned to the piano stool in 1966, this time at a restaurant called The Society, his modest salary supplemented by a fast-flowing stream of champagne cocktails.

  He was one of the men Margaret would invite for dinner from time to time, partly to stave off the boredom and loneliness caused by Lord Snowdon’s protracted absences, and partly to make him jealous. Their affair lasted barely a month before Snowdon got wind of it, and brought it to a halt.

  ‘Darling Robin,’ began her first letter, written on Valentine’s Day 1967, when she was thirty-six:

  Thank you for a perfect weekend …

  Thank you for the care and trouble you took to make everything delicious, which restored one’s heart.

  Thank you for the concert, the pleasure of which will remain in the mind for ever, and in a way shocked one into sensibility again.

  Thank you for the music, which mended the nerve ends.

  Thank you for making me live again …

  The second, written a fortnight later, was in response to an emotional outburst from Douglas-Home after Margaret had been forced by Snowdon to swear on the Bible that she had been faithful. It is a heartfelt mixture of love, fear and faith.

  Darling,

  I have never had a letter like it. I don’t suppose one like it has ever been written. The beauty in it, and the poetry lifted my heart again.

  Then came two nights of complete attack on – the affair of the heart – denied, as said, on the Bible, my only consolation being that that revered book was not there to lay my hand on.

  I think all the time of you. I was so happy when I heard your voice again … This is to be a bleak time for love. I am only encouraged by the knowledge that I am secure in yours and I would do anything, as you know, to make you happy and not hurt you.

  I am hampered by thoughts and hearts being divided at this moment when a real effort must be made on my side to make the marriage work.

  I feel I can do this, curiously enough, more convincingly with this happiness of security in you, and feeling of being upheld by you, than without

  My brain wireless must have been tuned in quite well, for I felt your presence very strongly. I do hope that by being ‘très sage’ that we can keep the precious memories safe. They are more precious to me than perhaps you think. I, too, would love to unlimit the limitedness, but I see no possibility of this happening.

  What I don’t want us to do is to yearn and long, and eat our hearts out wanting something that is forbidden.

  We must make the most of this wonder that has happened to us to do particularly wonderful things … so that people will marvel at them and they won’t know why we are doing such excellent things in such a special way.

  No one will know, only us with our secret source of inspiration. I shall try and speak to you as much as possible but I am in fear of him and I don’t know what lengths he won’t go to, jealous as he is, to find out what I am up to, and your movements, too.

  … Our love has the passionate scent of new mown grass and lilies about it.

  Not many people are lucky enough to have known any love like this. I feel so happy that it has happened to me.

  … Promise you will never give up, that you will go on encouraging me to make the marriage a success, and that given a good and safe chance, I will try and come back to you one day.

  I daren’t at the moment.

  You are good and loyal, think that I am, too, whatever I may seem to do or say.

  All my love my darling,

  M

  Had these letters entered the public domain at the time they were penned, Margaret would have been vilified as the scarlet woman, and Tony sanctified as her poor, long-suffering victim. But over the course of twenty-seven years, the mood and mores of the country had moved on. In contrast to the more sordid philanderings of the younger generation, this seemed passionate and loving, and more like the stuff of true romance. Margaret, long seen by the British public as difficult and dissolute, would now be welcomed back into her former, youthful role as the Unhappy Princess, or the Princess Unlucky in Love.

  * Who remains married to her fourth husband, Michael Howard, leader of the Conservative Party 2003–2005.

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  On New Year’s Day 1996, the novelist Robert Harris and his wife Gill went for lunch at a friend’s house in Wiltshire. Princess Margaret was expected, but soon after the arrival of the Harrises, at 12.30 sharp, their host was telephoned with the news that the royal party was just setting off. It was an hour before they appeared. Harris made a note of the event.

  Eventually they arrived – HRH, Janie Stevens (with whom she was staying near Abingdon) and the rest of their house party: Jack Plumb, Kenneth Rose, an Irishman called Ned Ryan, and a rather ferocious old trout, Lady Penn, who turned out to have once been Kim Philby’s secretary in MI6. The Princess complained loudly about how far she had h
ad to come. (‘I thought the journey would never end. Where on earth are we?’) The eleven of us were split between two tables with myself on HRH’s right. She was friendlier but dimmer than I’d expected. It was a year after the publication of Enigma.* She said she’d been taken to Bletchley by a friend who had worked there (‘a perfectly ghastly place’). I asked her what she was reading at the moment, and she replied, rather grandly, ‘Hancock,’ as one might say ‘Joyce’ or ‘Proust’. I racked my brains as to who this might be – surely she couldn’t be reading old Tony Hancock scripts? – but it turned out to be Graham, author of Fingerprints of the Gods. We talked of the weather (they had had snow at Sandringham over Christmas the previous week), holidays (‘by the end of July one is simply gasping’), and the Caribbean (she mentioned BWIA – British West Indian Airways – and claimed the initials stood for ‘But Will It Arrive?’). She was perfectly civil to me but thoughtlessly rude to the waitresses: she drew back in theatrical horror at the sight of the main course of lamb and later waved the so-called ‘autumn pudding’ away saying ‘Oh God, no, take it away – summer pudding is bad enough.’ As we were leaving, our host gave her his copy of Enigma and I had to sign it to her. She watched me, beady-eyed. I have always had an awkward grip and she said: ‘Oh, look, the poor man holds a pen exactly like I do.’