A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II

by Michael Paterson

  The Queen deferred to her husband in the matter of their children’s upbringing. He was head of the family, and she wished him to make the decisions that involved their private rather than their public life. The fact that he could be tough, impatient and demanding was, she felt, necessary. She shared his view, for instance, that Charles was too sensitive, and she therefore made no attempt to protect him against Philip’s often loud disapproval. As a parent, she was different from her own mother and father. There was no question of mollycoddling her offspring with an artificially conjured arcadia. They were sent to school rather than protected behind Palace walls. Since three of her own children were boys and the fourth a tomboy, the atmosphere in which they grew up was in any case entirely unlike that at Royal Lodge. There is truth in the notion that she was a distant parent, but distant does not mean unaffectionate, and it is worth stressing that she was highly attentive within the limits her official life allowed. She greatly enjoyed motherhood. With all her children she had devoted time to them every day (she and Philip always bathed them in the evenings), and she had put back by half an hour her weekly Tuesday evening audience with the Prime Minister because it clashed with their bedtime. She could not, however, afford to make them the highest priority in her life. She was far busier during their growing years than any normal mother, and it was a matter of simple duty with her that her job always came first. This attitude was bred into her and explains why she was willing to go on a six-month Commonwealth tour while her first children were still small. Whatever her personal feelings, they must be subordinate to her position, for she would be letting down millions by not fulfilling her function.

  A thoughtful, sensitive and often timid child, Charles was by now an adolescent, and was in many ways the antithesis of his father, who had sought to instil in him a toughness that was not in his nature. Charles’s response had been to draw closer to his grandmother. The Queen Mother had early noticed in him a shyness reminiscent of her husband, and had always been his ally. In 1962 he went to school at Gordonstoun. Although he knew something of it through his father, the culture shock would have been considerable. A non-academic school whose objective was character-building rather than exam passes, the isolation of its Highland setting was matched by a spartan lifestyle that emphasised adventure training and self-reliance, a quality pursued through cold showers, unheated dormitories and cross-country runs in all weathers. One reason it was chosen for him – and the decision was not made lightly – was that it was thought to represent a classless community, or at any rate one more socially varied than a traditional private school in England would have been.

  It had suited Philip extremely well, developing his qualities of leadership, but it was entirely the wrong place for a boy of Charles’s nature. His father had thought it would increase his toughness. In fact it drove him further into his shell. He was bullied, especially on the sports field where other boys could deliberately tackle him. Instead of being befriended by the socially ambitious, the opposite happened – he was shunned by boys who feared accusations of toadying. As well as this, the school put him in direct comparison with Prince Philip, a contest he could only lose since the ethos favoured his father’s qualities and not his own. He was deeply unhappy, and reluctant to return at the beginning of each term. An important motive for selecting a school many hundreds of miles from Fleet Street was that it offered a greater chance of privacy and normality. Even this was compromised, however, when on a visit to Stornoway he was driven by curious crowds to take refuge in a hotel bar and, at a loss, to order a cherry brandy. The press, which had agreed to leave him in peace during his schooldays, found this too good an opportunity to miss, and represented him as an under-age drinker. The incident clouded his schooldays because – given that he was otherwise left alone by the media – it became the only thing that people knew about him. Even though he had some eventual success at school, becoming ‘Keeper’, or head boy, as his father had done, he left the school without regret and was to send his own sons elsewhere. By the time his brothers followed him to Gordonstoun, conditions had changed. Dormitories were no longer freezing, the regime was less hearty, and in Edward’s time there were even girl pupils. Not being direct heirs to the throne the others suffered less, perhaps, from the attitudes that had bedevilled Charles.

  Unlike her brother, Anne had needed no grandmotherly support. She had inherited her uncomplicated, no-nonsense nature direct from Philip with virtually no modification. She would grow up to be extrovert, practical and blunt, sharing his habit of snapping at reporters, if not his intelligent interest in science and technology. She was sent to Benenden, a traditional girls’ school in Kent. Confident and outgoing, she thrived in the sociable atmosphere, and became popular. With no academic ambitions, she developed instead what was to be her lifelong passion for riding and eventing. She honed her skills in this while at the school, and went on to combine them successfully with the duties her position required.

  The Queen was naturally interested in her children’s progress, and proud of their achievements, but she believed her husband knew best as regards their upbringing and she was not noticeably sympathetic towards Charles. She is, in any case, a self-contained personality who does not believe in being demonstrative. It is part of what she is and what has made her so enormously successful as a monarch. As her children had grown up and attracted comment or behaved in ways that were unfortunate, she preferred to avoid confrontation and was inclined to let them alone, not ‘micro-managing’ their lives as her own mother had done. She will, to this day, hear no criticism of them and this is especially true of Andrew, the one of whom she is fondest.

  The Queen’s official life continued to be busy. Among her visitors were the Kennedys. Both the charismatic young President and his wife had previous connections with the Royal Family. His father had been American Ambassador – if not a very successful one – just before the war, and his mother and sisters had been presented at Court. Mrs Kennedy, formerly a photojournalist, had been sent to cover the Coronation for American newspapers. They were in London for a family christening – Jackie’s sister lived there – and were on the return journey to Washington from Paris, where she had received a tumultuous welcome and a great deal of media coverage. This adulation now spilled over to London, where immense crowds gathered to catch a glimpse of her. The Kennedys were invited to dinner by the Queen and, although civilities were exchanged, it is unlikely that Her Majesty was as taken with the First Lady as Parisians had been. The Queen did not wish to have her thunder stolen by a woman who – the mere spouse of a Head of State – was attracting too much publicity. Mrs Kennedy also represented a Hollywood type of glamour that has always been anathema to the Queen. A few years afterward, when the notion of a television programme on royal palaces was first mooted, it was suggested that Her Majesty conduct the audience through the different rooms herself. The Queen, referring to a televised tour of the White House which the President’s wife had previously hosted, snapped ‘I’m not Jackie Kennedy.’ Nevertheless the assassination in Dallas sent shock waves through the United Kingdom, and the Queen gave permission for flags to be flown at half-mast across London, while her Guardsmen wore black armbands on their uniforms. She was later to dedicate a permanent memorial – an acre of ground at Runnymede – to the President’s memory and to share the occasion with his widow and children.

  In domestic affairs, Britain underwent a significant change when in 1964 the Conservative Government was narrowly beaten in the general election, and for the first time since her accession she found herself dealing with a Labour Prime Minister. Harold Wilson was a decade older than the Queen, a Yorkshireman who, as was commonplace in his Party, made a virtue of his impoverished background (he once had to apologise to the Commons for exaggerating it). A former Oxford economics don, he had little in common with Her Majesty. Every one of the men who had previously attended weekly audiences with her – Churchill, Eden, Macmillan, Douglas-Home – had come from a hinterland of aristocrac
y, public school and familiarity with the pastimes of royalty. Wilson was a new departure, yet he found the meetings a pleasure. The Queen, it seemed, enjoyed a change as much as anyone else. She was curious about his background and his politics, which were understandably different to those of many who surrounded her. She knew a great deal about his party and about the Commons, so they could ‘talk shop’ without difficulty. With his teaching experience he was gifted at explaining things, he had a good sense of humour and an agreeable manner. Their genuine rapport was demonstrated by the fact that his audiences often overran the customary 20–30 minutes. He was delighted to hear that she looked forward to these visits. He, in turn, greatly enjoyed staying with her at Balmoral. His memories were not to be the negative reaction of a socialist politician to a shooting-and-fishing country estate or the pitfalls of observing upper-class etiquette, but of the informality and friendliness of the Queen. Accustomed to seeing her at audiences or state occasions, he was enchanted to find her cooking, washing dishes and driving herself about, and to find that he fitted in after all. Although she would one day answer the question of who was her favourite among her premiers with the words: ‘Winston, of course. It was always so much fun,’ Wilson undoubtedly loomed very large in her affections. In April 1976 she and Prince Philip were to attend his retirement dinner at Number Ten, a gesture she had not made for any Prime Minister but Churchill.

  Because the Queen is the pinnacle of the social structure, and has a lifestyle and tastes that reflect those of the senior aristocracy, it might be assumed that she is conservative in politics. She is without doubt socially conservative – yet she never betrays a flicker of party favouritism and she enjoyed her contact with Labour premiers and Cabinet ministers. Why? Because she is genuinely apolitical and therefore does not hold against them their views or their party loyalties. Secondly, because she admires – and is interested to meet – people who have risen through the ranks of politics. They offer a perspective that she finds refreshing, and offer a point of contact with a world she cannot enter. Thirdly, she perhaps takes quiet satisfaction in knowing how well she can get on with people from outside the class into which she was born, but then her grandfather had a very good rapport with Ramsay MacDonald, the first Labour premier, so there is a family precedent. Since she would hate revolution or serious social upheaval, she may also enjoy the knowledge that she can gently woo left-wing firebrands nearer the middle ground. This has been well known in the Labour Party for generations. Richard Crossman, once Minister of Education, wrote that: ‘The nearer the Queen they get the more the working-class members of Cabinet love her and she loves them.’ She worked with her first labour Government skilfully and well.

  She had more trouble, in fact, with the Commonwealth. In May 1961 South Africa, scene of her 21st birthday, became a republic and was forced to leave the organisation because of its racial policy. Its neighbour, Rhodesia, declared itself unilaterally independent four years later in order to maintain white minority rule. In Quebec, there were loud rumblings in favour of separation from the Canadian Federation and therefore from the Queen, who was to visit the province in 1964. It was stated in the press on both sides of the Atlantic that there was a plot to assassinate her and that this would be ‘a second Dallas’. She herself displayed the usual combination of courage and fatalism, letting it be known that: ‘I am not worried about the visit. We are quite relaxed.’ In the event she could afford to be, for the security operation was massive and any potential troublemakers were controlled very carefully. She encountered nothing more serious than a few displays of deliberate rudeness.

  Throughout the 1960s the British Empire was being wound up throughout Africa and the West Indies. Independence ceremonies that looked much the same when seen on Pathe newsreels – with the lowering of the Union Flag at midnight and the raising of the new national one – became so common that the press began to lose interest. Each occasion was attended by some member of the Family, and even cousins were roped in to help (The Duke of Kent: British Guiana; his wife, the Duchess: Uganda). The alternative to British rule was not severance of all ties but the choice of maintaining cultural links, even in the case of a sovereign state, through membership of the Commonwealth (now called the Commonwealth of Nations rather than the British Commonwealth). There were distinct advantages, such as priority access to overseas aid from the United Kingdom, but there was also the kudos of contact with the Queen. She regularly attended the conference for Commonwealth Heads of Government. She recognised them, held meetings with them, chatted informally at social gatherings, remembered the names of their wives, had her picture taken with them. Images of them with Royalty and with other leaders naturally enhanced their prestige at home. They were also able to ‘network’ among themselves. The Premiers of small and uninfluential countries met on equal terms with those of large and powerful ones. It was, as it still is, a statesman’s club that attracts the envy of many outside. Were it not for the personal interest of the British monarch, it might well have met less regularly and died of neglect before it had had the chance to mature and increase. In the decades that followed she would go further in her attachment: the Conference would no longer be held invariably in Britain but in different venues throughout the world. No matter where it was, she and the Duke would attend it regularly.

  In spite of international upheaval and official duty, the public continued to see – or wish to see – the Royals as a mirror-image of themselves. The popular press had become steadily more intrusive, and the Palace had realised that aloofness was not the answer when dealing with this. Better to accommodate them where possible, and thus have some influence over what they published. Public relations took a significant step forward when, in 1965, William Heseltine was appointed Assistant Press Secretary. An Australian – and thus free from accusations that his background or attitudes were stereotypically aloof – he managed the balancing trick of being respected by both the monarch (who found him invaluable) and the media. He was gently and tactfully to persuade the Family that some greater accommodation of general curiosity would help them. In the new climate of media relations that he built, the Queen granted permission for television networks to visit her homes. This was not something she would willingly have done – she is a jealous guardian of her privacy – but two others within her circle helped convince her that the notion would delight the public. One was Lord Mountbatten, a man with little to learn about the art of self-promotion. The other was his son-in-law, the film-maker Lord Brabourne. Mountbatten had just taken part in a series about his life that was shown on national television. It was widely watched, and he was very pleased with it. He felt that the royal homes of Britain would not only make gripping television but would give a hint of the life of the monarch in a way that would intrigue her subjects. Although reluctant, Her Majesty agreed.

  The series Royal Palaces of Britain was produced in 1966 by both television networks, BBC and ITV, together. This was a look at six residences, and was shown on Christmas Day that year. The programmes proved, as expected, immensely popular. It really created a sense of privilege that, as the publicity material announced: ‘By kind permission of the Queen, cameras [are] allowed to enter into the private apartments of Britain’s Royal Palaces for the first time.’ It enabled her subjects to look behind the scenes at buildings they knew well by sight, and allowed incidental glances at the tastes of the Royal Family. The success of this venture soon gave birth to a bolder idea – a further documentary, this time not about the buildings but their inhabitants.

  The result was not seen for a further three years. Simply titled Royal Family, although the press was to nickname it Corgi and Beth, it used a formula that was to be repeated often in both books and exhibitions – that of following the Queen for a year in order to record the activities that were typical of her life and work. Several scenes assumed special interest, and stayed in the collective memory. One showed the Family cooking in the open air at Balmoral (Prince Philip, it transpired, had designed the b
arbecue equipment himself, and presided over it with his usual air of command). Another depicted the Queen visiting a local shop to buy sweets for Prince Edward. The exchange of money, and pleasantries, looked natural enough – although, of course, an entire camera crew had had to squeeze into the small premises, too, and it was later claimed that because the Queen carries no money, one of them had had to lend her the necessary coinage.

  The film took 75 days to shoot, and the result was vivid, informative and illuminating. Most who saw it were fascinated by these unprecedented glimpses of the private moments of such a public family, though there was also a surprising amount of hand-wringing by traditionalists, who felt that the monarchy was diminished by showing them on holiday looking much like anyone’s next-door neighbours. Once again, there was astonishment at how, when relaxing, they could seem so ordinary. Viewers were also impressed to see something of the mechanics of how the Household was run, how hard the Queen worked and what she did all day. The programme was shown twice – once by each network – during the month of June 1969, and was watched by something like two-thirds of all Britons. Those sitting enthralled by their television sets included, apparently, a professional house-breaker, who wrote anonymously to the producers that he had stayed at home from work in order to watch. The programme was sold to 140 countries and earned £120,000 in profits, which were divided between the Queen and the BBC. Her Majesty agreed to donate her share to the Society of Film and Television Arts.

  Royal Family greatly increased public interest in the monarchy. It was a most effective riposte to Mr Muggeridge’s claim. It also, however, set a new standard for intrusiveness. Having had such a privileged look at the private lives of the Queen and her family, the public was to regard such intimacy not as a rare, once-and-for-all glimpse but as normal, and a right. By showing – or suggesting – that the Royals were like everyone else it helped to trivialise them, and was regarded by some within the Family as a disaster. It is significant that the film has remained locked in the Royal Archives ever since. The Queen owns the copyright, and it cannot be shown without her express permission, which is not forthcoming. Although excerpts are occasionally screened the programme in its entirety has, for the present at least, vanished.