Since August 1997 she has also sought to remind her people that they are not a nuisance, and serving them is a privilege as well as an obligation. In the speech she made at her 50th wedding anniversary she was at pains to stress this: ‘It is you who have seen us through and helped to make our duty fun. We are deeply grateful to you . . .’
One thing that helped heal the wounds of the recent past was that Diana’s death ended the bickering. Had she lived, the snubs and the sniping and the taking of sides would have gone on for decades. No matter where she had lived or whom she had next married, her royal past would have followed her. The continuing bitterness was a source of anguish and embarrassment for the British people and, whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, it was doing great damage to the monarchy and the country.
* * *
A grief of a different kind visited the Family with the decommissioning of Britannia – on grounds of expense, because the cost of modernisation was too great – in 1997, after it had travelled more than a million miles. There was some criticism that the Family seemed to mourn the Yacht more than the late Princess. One author noticed that: ‘As Her Majesty left the Royal Yacht for the last time, there were tears in her eyes, never seen before. The Queen had allowed her emotions for the old ship to betray her.’ Britannia had become closer to the hearts of the Royal family than any piece of machinery could be expected to do. Linked with her father, because he had approved its design before his death, and launched more or less as she became Queen, they had begun their official careers together. It was associated with numerous holidays and royal honeymoons as well as with official visits. In port it served as a floating embassy, the venue for numerous banquets and receptions. More importantly, it was a sort of seagoing Balmoral – a home in which the Queen could entirely relax because it offered such privacy. With miles of ocean all around her it was safe from the lenses of press photographers. Anyone could be expected to show sadness at leaving such a familiar friend.
* * *
A few months before the end of the 1990s – on 19 June 1999 – the Queen’s youngest son was married. This was an event in stark contrast to the extravagant occasions of the previous decade. Now that every one of his siblings was divorced, it seemed perhaps inappropriate to draw too much attention to Prince Edward’s wedding. It took place at St George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle. The groom, now created Earl of Wessex, arrived on foot with his two brothers from their home in the Upper Ward a few yards away. He wore no uniform, merely a tailcoat. The bride, Sophie Rhys-Jones, a 34-year-old who worked in public relations, likewise had no train, and arrived in a simple but sleek white suit-dress. The guests were brought in by minibus. Apart from the grandness of the building itself, this could have been the wedding of any young middle-class couple of prosperous parentage. One of the guests, the actor Anthony Andrews (who reported that the Queen did the twist at the celebrations afterwards), commented that: ‘You felt that you were part of a family occasion, rather than a state one.’ A reminder that, whatever their problems, the Royal Family are just like us. They get over their difficulties and carry on.
MATRIARCH, 2000–2012
‘I do like happy endings.’
Although the century should not have begun until 1 January 2001, the Government had decided to start the ‘third millennium’ 12 months early, with celebrations beginning on New Year’s Eve, 1999. The Millennium Dome in Greenwich, a colossal indoor space that was to be filled with quasi-educational sideshows, would be the setting for the launch of the new era. Its construction rushed through and its paintwork barely dry when the day arrived, the building was to symbolise the new beginning in national life that Tony Blair’s Labour Government had promised. It proved an apt metaphor for the country’s rulers – disdainful of tradition, dismissive of the past, obsessed with novelty, gimmickry and – in the name of ‘inclusiveness’ – intent on reducing culture to the lowest common denominator. Like so much that was to follow, it would prove tawdry and vapid, and would disappoint millions. On the night, the arena was crowded – though a number of those invited could not get there owing to complications with the rail service. The Queen and Prince Philip, who would not normally have been in London, had agreed to attend. They sat next to the Blairs and, at midnight, were obliged to stand up, join hands and take part in singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. They are not given to demonstrative public behaviour, and pictures of them at that moment reveal a stiff awkwardness. Blair himself recorded in his memoirs that: ‘I don’t know what Prince Philip thought of it all, but I shouldn’t imagine it’s printable. I suspect Her Majesty would have used different language but with the same sentiment.’ Shortly afterwards they escaped to Sandringham.
Perhaps they felt they owed something to Blair. In the days that followed Diana’s death it was conjectured that the public mood would have been hostile enough to have banished the monarchy, had the Prime Minister not been supportive of it. This is nonsense. You cannot undo an entire constitutional system overnight, and no sizeable or influential body of opinion had wanted to. Nevertheless his refusal to endorse the anti-royalist views of some in his government had gone some way to defusing the hysteria of the moment.
A more successful celebration, in August 2000, was that of the Queen Mother’s 100th birthday. The biggest event, in a series of commemorations, was held on Horse Guards Parade. Organised by Major Michael Parker, a military impresario responsible for innumerable tattoos, it involved the charities of which she was patron, the regiments with which she was connected and a wealth of other groups, organisations, representatives – and animals. There were chickens and cattle in the procession that passed in front of Her Majesty, for every aspect of her life was to be reflected. On the day itself – 4 August – there was some amusement when she received from her daughter the customary message of congratulations sent to every centenarian: ‘The Queen is much interested to hear that you are celebrating your one hundredth birthday, and sends you warm congratulations and good wishes.’
* * *
For the Royal Family, as for the rest of the world, the new century effectively began on 11 September 2001. They were at Balmoral, and will have followed the events on television, as did countless others. Among the dead there were many subjects of the Queen, and she will have shared in full the general sense of shock and grief. The events of that day heralded the advent of a new age of international terror just as the old era of more local terrorism was ending. With the Good Friday Agreement, peace had largely returned to Ulster and it was hoped that the Omagh bomb – which ripped through a pretty market town in the summer of 1998, becoming one of the worst atrocities in Ulster’s history – was the bloody climax to a campaign of violence that had achieved nothing. Now those who protected the Queen, and the public, had to look for danger from a new direction. The British were long used to anti-terrorist precautions. By now they were scarcely shocked, or surprised, by the number of policemen carrying sidearms, or even machine guns, in the streets.
Amid the climate of fearful disbelief that followed the attacks of 11 September, there were some symbolic gestures the monarch could make. She authorised, on the day of mourning, the playing of ‘The Star-spangled Banner’ during the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. In attendance were Prince Andrew and the US Ambassador, while outside the railings were numbers of expatriate Americans, perhaps enabled to feel linked with home. The Queen visited New York, went to Ground Zero, attended a commemorative service, and awarded the city’s dynamic mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, the KBE for his leadership during the crisis. As so often, she could seem a personification of stability, continuity and normality, even outside her own realms.
These realms were gearing up to mark her Golden Jubilee in the summer of 2002. This time more than ever, in view of the drubbing the Royal Family’s reputation had endured in the previous decade, official opinion was hesitant about the scale of celebrations. Would a large event be too ambitious? Would the Mall look embarrassingly empty if not enough people turned ou
t? It seems to be customary to ‘fly a kite’ in these circumstances: the Palace makes it known, several months ahead, that the celebrations for a Royal event will be modest. It then waits for public reaction. As disappointment and complaint grow louder, the preparations expand accordingly. In this case, it was obvious during the spring that momentum was building, and it was decided that there would be a four-day commemoration, spread over a weekend at the end of May and beginning of June. There would be a procession to St Paul’s, a thanksgiving service, a balcony appearance, fireworks – all the things that people hope for and expect.
Just as the festivities were being planned, the Family was struck by tragedy. Princess Margaret had been an increasingly shadowy presence in public life since the traumas of the 1970s. She had been the first of the Royals to lose dignity as a result of scandal, and her standing had never really recovered. Her health had also been failing. She had suffered bronchitis and laryngitis. A smoker, like her father, she had – like him – undergone a lung operation. In 1998 she had a stroke. She subsequently, and badly, scalded her feet in a bath. She had a second stroke. By the time she was seen on the occasion of the Queen Mother’s 100th birthday she was a pitiable figure, confined to a wheelchair, expressionless and apparently speechless, her eyes hidden by sunglasses. She was in great pain, and confided to a friend that she longed ‘to join Papa’. On 9 February – three days after the anniversary of his own death – she did. Following a third stroke she was taken to hospital, where she died. Confirming her reputation as the most unconventional member of the Family, she had asked to be cremated at the Slough municipal crematorium, the nearest such facility to Windsor. It was a gesture of defiant individualism, a final act of rebellion against a position in life that had so signally failed to bring her happiness.
The Queen Mother, too, was visibly declining. She refused to be defeated by age or infirmity, insisting on entertaining guests or making visits despite having to walk, slowly and painfully, with sticks. She seemed to keep going entirely by willpower, but then this had always been her defining quality. It had enabled her to lead the monarchy’s fight-back after the Abdication, to transform her shy husband into a hugely popular King, and to be a mother to the nation during the Second World War. Hitler had called her ‘the most dangerous woman in Europe’. Among less biased observers – and her former subjects – her popularity was limitless, as was the love they had for her. In 2001 her great-grandson William had called on her before going off to university. ‘Any good parties, be sure and let me know!’ she had allegedly told him. This was among her last recorded statements. It was cherished by the public as evidence of a sparkling sense of fun that combined with an unquenchable, uncrushable spirit. But this could not compensate for physical frailty. Her last days were spent at Royal Lodge, the home in Windsor that she and her husband had first occupied in the 1920s. Aware that time was running out, she punctiliously spent her days in thanking those who had been her friends, or had looked after her, over the years. It was a charming, touching way for anyone to leave the world. Her last moments came on Easter Saturday, in the afternoon. The Queen, who had been riding in the Park, went at once to her bedside and was there when she died.
These events marked the end of an age in a way that nothing had done since the King himself had died 50 years earlier. The Queen was now the only survivor of the tightly bound unit her father had dubbed ‘we four’. Although he had died at 56, the Queen has otherwise been extremely fortunate in that those closest to her have lived long. Her sister was 71, her mother was 101. Her husband has reached 90 without seriously slowing down. To those who are so blessed, losses perhaps seem keener. Her Majesty received immense public sympathy, and there was widespread grief. A million people stood in the streets to see the Queen Mother’s coffin pass, or waited for up to nine hours to view her coffin in Westminster Hall. Throughout the troubled 1990s, monarchists had been well aware that the death of the Queen Mother would focus public affection once more on the virtues of royalty – would provide the most effective counter-blow against the tide of criticism and trivialisation – and there had been a certain guilty impatience for this moment to come. It had fulfilled their expectations. ‘These are times,’ wrote the Guardian’s Jonathan Friedland, ‘when republicans should walk humbly.’
Despite this national mourning, the Jubilee went ahead as envisaged. Her Majesty made tours of Commonwealth countries, and visited the four parts of the United Kingdom. On 4 June 2002, she travelled with her husband to St Paul’s in the Coronation Coach. Over a million waited along the route, on a damp and overcast morning, to see her. As always, the British cherish these occasions. They love to revel in the feeling that their ceremonial is more ancient, more elaborate, better planned and prepared and better performed than any other public occasions, anywhere. They are not only there to glimpse, or acclaim, the sovereign; they are also congratulating themselves on how well their country celebrates. The Queen set off from the Palace dressed in sky blue. When she returned, hours later, the weather had changed and so had she, for she was now in pink. As she stood on the Palace balcony she could see that, beyond the Victoria Memorial, the Mall was a solid mass of people all the way to the distant Admiralty Arch. A sea of miniature Union Flags flapped and waved like a multi-coloured blizzard; larger banners, of Scotland, England and Wales, were draped on shoulders or lamp posts, or flourished exuberantly. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, sung over and over again, was loud enough for the words to be audible inside the Palace. The Queen responded to cheering with repeated, gentle waves of her black-gloved hand and a smile that indicated quiet, modest but genuine pleasure. The possibility of looking down at the populace and feeling the force of mass affection is something only a highly popular Head of State can know. Even though she does this once a year on her official birthday, the scene that day must surely have been one of the great experiences of her life.
In the sky, far to the east, there were distant specks that grew bigger as the seconds passed. Aircraft in tight formation aligned on the Mall. Now the sound of them caused the crowd to look up. The Red Arrows, the RAF’s aerobatic team, shot over their heads with a reverberating roar, leaving a hanging trail of red, white and blue smoke. Ahead of them, the scream of its engines so loud that it drowned even the noise from the thousands below, was the sleek white shape of Concorde. Its sharp nose lifted gracefully as it peeled off and climbed towards the stratosphere. Hundreds of thousands gasped, and then cheered.
The Golden Jubilee was a very different experience from the ceremonial events of 1977. The procession that had followed Her Majesty back to the Palace – she and Prince Philip had returned standing up in an open Land Rover – included more than the bands and marching dignitaries that onlookers expected, and the atmosphere was noticeably more informal and light-hearted, more like that of a student rag-procession than a state occasion. The public took away memories of elaborate West Indian carnival costumes, pumping rock music, VC winners travelling in a vintage car, and a giant pony-tailed ‘caring dad’ with infant strapped to his chest. Another change since the 1970s was that members of the Royal Family (though not the monarch herself) had come out of the Palace the evening before the celebrations to meet some of those who were sitting all night on the kerbsides. Since the 100th-birthday celebrations for the Queen Mother, it seems there has been a hint of quirky eccentricity in the planning of popular Royal occasions. The notion of a rock musician, Brian May, playing ‘God Save the Queen’ on electric guitar on the roof of the Palace that evening (there was a concert for the public in the gardens) was a gesture that captured the imagination of millions around the world, and showed that for all its perceived irrelevance to the ‘modern world’, Royalty can harness elements of mass-culture for its own purposes.
However impressed Her Majesty was by Concorde’s tribute – and she apparently loved it – she will have felt nothing but relief when, the year after her Jubilee, its flights ended. By accident of circumstance the United Kingdom’s biggest and busiest ai
rport is within a few miles of Windsor Castle. An extremely old joke has it that a tourist asks why the Castle was built so close to the airport. While the location may be convenient for travel both for the Queen and for her visitors, there is no doubt that it is more a blight than a blessing. Since the development of the jet engine in the 1950s the Castle’s occupants have had to accustom to an increasing level of noise-pollution from aircraft departing and landing, and in this they share the experience of millions of citizens who live to the west of London. On the two occasions each day that Concorde came in to land, seeming to hover over the town of Windsor like some malevolent bird of prey, the noise of its engines was deafening – virtually loud enough to drown out a brass band.
There have been other celebrations since the Golden Jubilee, and it appears that Royal hospitality, always impressive, is gaining an element of imagination too. Already the Queen and Prince Philip had had the notion of celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary with a garden party for other couples who had ‘tied the knot’ in the year 1947. Even more charming was the Queen’s 80th birthday celebration. This, too, was held in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, but the guests were 2,000 children – as well as a host of characters from children’s literature and television. A specially written play was put on with a cast of celebrities, entitled The Queen’s Handbag. In the story, this most famous of Royal accessories is stolen, but is restored to her at the end. ‘Oh good,’ said Her Majesty, who was also watching the performance. ‘I do like happy endings.’
A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II Page 22
