by Pamela Hicks
From Sydney we travelled to Tasmania, and from there set sail for Melbourne. We had been told that this city was contemptuous of Sydney’s ‘Americanism’ and that we would find the crowds more restrained and courteous, quite unlike the ‘dreadful rowdy Sydney crowds’. We watched with interest as they tried hard to be reserved but their initial limp waving and embarrassed silence soon gave way to excited cheering that was equal to that in Sydney. We were grateful, however, that they clutched their flags more tightly and didn’t try to wriggle under barriers. There was also the occasional very Australian cry of ‘Good on you, Liz!’ and any number of uninhibited ‘Good on you, Phil’s. Sometimes there was even a ‘Good on you, Pam!’ and that made me feel pretty special.
At the beginning of March we took the royal train through Victoria, where some of the towns were in the grip of an outbreak of polio. The Queen and Prince Philip weren’t able to leave the train, instead standing on the observation deck while the speeches were made. On the way back to Melbourne, we all realised how exhausted we were. As the royal couple sat on the observation deck, waiting for the crowds to disperse, I went to see whether they wanted a drink. I found them sitting forlornly on two golden thrones, a brilliant light shining on them in stark contrast to the pitch darkness all around. They were depressing each other by saying how ghastly the programme in Ceylon was going to be and they refused to be cheered up. But I reflected that it was a good sign they could at least see themselves surviving Australia. The strain of the tour was showing – Philip had recently told me that several times in the night he had woken up to find himself very cold, with his right arm outside the bedclothes, and realised that he had been waving to the crowds in his sleep.
In Brisbane, in the strange heat of the tropics, attending the state reception at Parliament House, we found ourselves in a curious manoeuvre known as ‘perambulations’. Our party formed itself into a long crocodile and we proceeded to wend our way through all the corridors and rooms and along the balconies running round the outside of the building. After completing the somewhat lengthy tour, we found ourselves once more in the chamber, which was still packed with people. Bewilderingly, we then set out again on a second expedition round the buildings, and by the time we had passed through the chamber yet again and were on our third tour I developed the most appalling giggles. Our programme had told us: ‘Perambulations will terminate in the Parliamentary Billiard Room where certain distinguished personages will have assembled for supper’. By the time we eventually turned up in the Billiard Room, however, the distinguished personages had obviously abandoned all hope of us ever arriving. The room was thronged with tailcoats, local uniforms and church dignitaries who were all guzzling ice creams, and our entry passed completely unnoticed. It felt as though we had been doing a sort of stately conga and had come into a room in which the last of the musical chairs had been bagged.
The Queen had decided at the beginning of the tour that, even though she loved a good whirl, dancing would be out of the question. She reasoned that if she did dance she would be devoting a considerable amount of time to one man, whereas if she stuck to talking, she would be able to have a few words with a large number. The good people of Brisbane were distraught, however, heartbroken that she had made this decision, and wherever we went we were surrounded by people asking why the Queen wouldn’t dance. ‘We don’t expect her to dance with us,’ they said, ‘but why doesn’t she dance with the Duke of Edinburgh? It would be so wonderful to see them dance together.’ It was funny what people wanted and how they perceived the Queen. In Sydney someone had said to me, ‘I’ve seen her several times but always sitting in a car. She looked wonderful but it doesn’t really count, does it? I mean, it’s just like seeing her in a picture. I’ve simply got to see her walking.’ When I repeated this to Prince Philip he had told me that as a young cadet at Dartmouth he saw King George V drive by and had been surprised that the King’s face was not flat, like the postage stamps.
I achieved some notoriety of my own while we were in Brisbane. Having been told about the St Lucia Water-Ski Club on the river at Brisbane – one of the few shark-free spots, I was informed – I went along at the first opportunity. It was wonderful to be back on the water, alive to the physical exertions of the sport, but being out of practice I suffered some spectacular crashes, and by lunchtime I did not have the strength to climb out of the water on to the low diving board we were using as a pier. As if these humiliations weren’t enough, the next edition of the Brisbane Telegraph carried a full front-page picture of the tip of my ski and a length of my outstretched arm appearing just above the water. It seemed a rather ignominious way to hit the front pages for the first time, and to make matters worse, I got into terrible trouble with my superiors as it was – apparently – well known that the Brisbane river was a breeding ground for sharks at that time of year.
At last the Queen and Prince Philip were allowed to take a break, to go and see the Great Barrier Reef away from the public gaze. Unfortunately, it appeared that the truly amazing sights were to be seen on the outer reefs, but landing on these was considered too dangerous for the Queen. We were taken off to tiny Sea Forth Island, where Prince Philip swam around with the men in mask and flippers, but the Queen seemed very low. She rarely showed her innermost emotions and was usually so calm and contained. I was worried when I could not even persuade her to explore the island. She cheered up considerably, however, when a boatload of trippers appeared, gesticulating wildly and shouting ‘Have you seen the Queen?!’ Suddenly, the Queen, in slacks, tore down to the beach, pointed to the other side of the island and yelled, ‘She went that way!’ As the boat disappeared round the corner, she jumped up and down on the beach with joy.
It was of course vital that the Queen and Prince Philip stayed well and healthy. By the time we got to Perth at the end of March, the outbreak of polio had become a major headache for the tour organisers. For a while it was even thought that our visit to Western Australia would have to be cancelled because the premier, Mr Hawke, did not want the responsibility of the Queen contracting polio in his state, quite apart from the very real danger of it spreading through large crowds of people and gatherings of children. It was also obvious, however, that if at all possible, the tour must take place. It was decided that we would sleep on board Gothic and food from the ship should be sent up to Government House, where we would eat in a separate party. All functions were to be held out of doors, the children’s rally cancelled and there was to be no handshaking at any time. The latter proviso was very difficult to adhere to, and the Queen soon found herself warmly shaking hands with the Roman Catholic bishop. People had to bob up and down in front of us and I realised just how much the personal contact, that human touch in a handshake, was at the heart of this royal tour and how much it meant to people to be able to say afterwards that they had ‘touched the Queen’s dress’ or ‘the Queen shook my hand’. I was surprised how removed we all felt, and we tried to make up for it by talking that much longer, engaging people in the best way we could.
We left Australia from Fremantle on 1 April 1953. Despite the difficulties of the last part of the tour, this had been a great experience and we had met many interesting people and seen some incredible places. But it was definitely the right time to leave – we were all exhausted after so long, and the press were beginning to have to find new things to say, sniping at us, the original ecstasies overtaken by criticisms. It was a relief to climb back on board Gothic, bound for Ceylon.
One of the marvellous aspects of the tour was experiencing the natural beauty of new surroundings. We crossed turquoise waters via the Cocos Islands, palm-treed and set among the coral reefs. The day after leaving we got into the doldrums – not a breath of wind for hours on end – where the sea became completely smooth. Up on deck one evening, as the sun disappeared below the horizon, an emeraldgreen light spread between the red of the sky and the silver of the sea, and as this light remained for some time after the sun went down, I stood and watched and
reflected on how privileged I was to be in this position. The day before we arrived in Ceylon, the ships stopped engines and I went in the barge with the Queen and Prince Philip to visit HMS Ceylon, which was escorting us on this part of the tour. It was unbearably hot and the Queen was nearly boiled alive, so in spite of her protests I held her parasol over her. ‘I feel like an African queen,’ she said. ‘You are an African queen,’ replied Prince Philip.
As I was about to step into the barge, we spotted a shark cruising around, so I asked the sailor at the bottom of the ladder to hold the parasol while I got in. Conolly came bumbling down the ladder after me and in his anxiety to steady the admiral the sailor dropped the parasol into the sea right on top of the shark. As I knew it would be more than my life was worth to lose it, I was determined to retrieve it, so I waited until the shark had disappeared round the other side of the barge and with the aid of a boathook and a great deal of patience and dexterity, we managed to succeed in getting it back. Of course, I was teased mercilessly, the story of how I fed the Queen’s best parasol to a shark in the Indian Ocean everyone’s favourite subject for some time.
Arriving in Colombo made me instantly homesick for India. The sights, the sounds, the smells seemed so familiar. I had left Delhi five years earlier, but my time there was still very much a part of me. After disembarking to the traditional mournful greeting played on the drums and conch shells, we made our way to the ceremony of welcome passing a large stand reserved for prep school boys that was packed with elderly ladies and gentlemen. Later, when we asked why there were so few boys in their stand, we were told that all the other, more enterprising pupils had sold their places for exorbitant sums of money. The Opening of Parliament in an open-sided memorial hall was torture for the Queen. The coronation dress was very heavy, and when the sun caught all the diamante and metalwork embroidery it became so hot that she was burnt, even through all her stiff petticoats.
I was mesmerised by Ceylon – from the quiet kindness of the people, to the rice fields, the coconut plantations, the large wild mongooses and monkeys and the staggering ‘Fortress in the Sky’, a gigantic flat-topped rock rising over four hundred feet above the surrounding countryside, upon which King Kashyapa in the fifth century had built a fabulous impregnable fortress city covering three acres, complete with gardens and exquisite buildings. Even the disastrously rainy parties, during which guests had to scamper for shelter every time torrential showers threatened to ruin their finery, were manageable. At dusk one evening, as we watched the flying foxes and deep, dark black clouds gather over the Governor’s House, we were diverted by a noise of jingling bells as a beaming Prince Philip arrived with nine elephants he had managed to waylay for the Queen to see.
In Kandy we stayed in the King’s Pavilion, where my father had lived when his HQ was in Ceylon. I remembered all the stories he had told me, and it was such fun to see where it had all happened. As we waved goodbye to our hosts, it was very clear from the hospitality and warmth we had been shown that ‘the Queen of Sri Lanka’ took pride of place in the country and was a valued successor to a monarchy that had existed since 543 BC.
We headed back to England via Aden, Uganda, Malta and Gibraltar. Aden was weirdly beautiful – towering dark grey volcanic rocks splitting the horizon with their peaks as we came into the harbour early one morning. This was the first place in which the Queen had been greeted by groups of black-robed women emitting their shrill, trilling cry of welcome. On the last night aboard Gothic we dined quietly by ourselves and after supper the Queen knighted the captain. Michael had taken him aside and warned him that after she had tapped him on one shoulder he must on no account get up but remain kneeling while she tapped him on the other. He must have thought that this warning was to save him from mortal wounding and that he was going to be struck with the sharp edge of the sword because the Queen said later that she almost had to chase him round the cabin to get him to kneel and that when she raised the sword he flinched and looked at her in considerable alarm.
We left Gothic at 4 a.m. on 28 April, all of us extremely sad. We had been such a united party for the past five months and it seemed wrong to be breaking up so near the end of the tour and Gothic denied the triumphant return home. The newly commissioned royal yacht Britannia had now been completed, and having taken Prince Charles and Princess Anne out to Malta, was coming to Tobruk so that the Queen and Prince Philip could set sail in her.
Having stopped over in Entebbe we flew to El Adem and then drove to Tobruk, where we went straight on board Britannia. Our regrets at leaving Gothic were soon forgotten in the extreme comfort in which we now found ourselves. Several senior members of the household at Buckingham Palace had come out in her and a new equerry replaced Johnny, who had flown home to organise his wedding to Frances Roche (they were to become the parents of Princess Diana). They were good company but inevitably they brought the rather stiff formality of Buckingham Palace with them and the spirit of the family party that had toured the world together was broken. It was a joy for the Queen and Prince Philip to be reunited with their children. At our Sunday church service, Conolly read the prayer for the royal family, ‘We humbly beseech Thee to bless our gracious Queen, Elizabeth the Queen Mother, Philip Duke of Edinburgh, Charles Duke of Cornwall and all the Royal Family.’ When he came to the end Princess Anne’s furious small voice was heard, ‘He hasn’t prayed for me, Mummy’, thereby nearly bringing the service to an end as we all laughed so much.
It was lovely for me to hear of all the children’s adventures staying with ‘Uncle Dickie and Aunt Edwina’ in Malta. They brought me a letter from my mother telling me that poor little Neola had died from kidney failure. I was very sad because I had expected to be back with him in Malta in a couple of weeks’ time. They wanted to hear about the mischief he had caused, so I told them the story of the time their mother had been staying with us at Broadlands. ‘Pammy,’ she said, ‘I am quite fond of Neola and I don’t mind him coming into my bedroom. I don’t even mind him opening my box of chocolates. But must he take a bite out of every single one of them?’
We were joined at sea by the Mediterranean Fleet, two hundred miles from Malta. Fifteen ships now joined the four frigates already escorting us, including my father on board his flagship, the cruiser Glasgow. With perfect timing, all the ships fired a royal salute, wheeling inwards and steaming past Britannia, the ships’ companies lining the decks and giving three cheers and the big ships parading guards and bands. They passed by us at no more than half a cable’s distance, throwing Britannia about with their swell and giving Conolly apoplexy. As the ships followed within one and a half cables – less than three hundred metres – of each other, their bows tore through the white foam of the wake of the ship ahead. It was magnificent and thrilling to watch, and from then on, whenever anything spectacular was done, it was known as ‘doing a Dickie’.
The ‘great man’ himself transferred to Britannia by jackstay to Report the Fleet to the Sovereign, and following the Queen’s invitation my father remained on board. Of course he took charge of everything, and within the space of a few minutes he had assumed the roles of private secretary, press secretary, equerry, lady-in-waiting, Master of the Household and nurse. After lunch he had us hopping about watching three of the Mediterranean Fleet submarines diving; jet aircraft flying off HMS Eagle; a fly-past of Avengers and Skyraiders, as well as Shackletons from RAF Luqa. My father stayed in the guest cabin opposite mine, which had an adjoining sitting room in which Charles had been doing his lessons. He had to move his books and remarked to me very solemnly, ‘Uncle Dickie is a nuisance.’
When we reached Malta, Britannia steamed up between the lines of her escorting ships, accompanied above by noisy helicopters. We reduced speed and just outside the Grand Harbour breakwater we were met by my father’s big barge. As it heaved up and down in rough water, my mother leapt on board in her usual nimble style. Talking had to wait as we were instantly caught up in the whirl of a fly-past of jets. Then all the ships i
n harbour, the naval shore establishments and the saluting batteries fired a royal salute and, passing the breakwater, Britannia was escorted to her berth by landing craft. The noise was deafening – cheering from the packed crowds, the ringing of church bells, the klaxon of ships’ sirens, all drowned out by the noise of firecrackers, which even by Maltese standards were phenomenal and fearsome.
It felt so good to be back in Malta, to see my parents and be surrounded by familiar things at Admiralty House. The Queen, Prince Philip and Alice dined that night with us before going on to a ball at the Phoenicia. At last the Queen was able to dance. I felt even happier for her the next day as she and Prince Philip were able to snatch a small opportunity to act as normal parents and take the children for a drive around the island in their small car.
There were still official engagements to attend in Malta, so I remained on board Britannia. The Maltese nobility were in their element at the state ball, where they danced their famous Maltija in powdered wigs and eighteenth-century costumes. It was so windy that the Queen and I were nearly blown off the flight deck of the aircraft carrier Eagle, and the archbishop got so cold during the final brilliant firework display that my mother had to wrap her striped silk stole around him. We sailed out of Malta to a terrific sendoff from the crowd, people cheering and waving from every possible vantage point. I went up on deck to watch us come into Gibraltar harbour, to gaze at the massive outline of the Rock and to remind myself that this was another part of the tour. Being back in Malta with my parents had given me a false feeling that the tour was over. My spirits were lifted when we went to see the apes – fifty of them guarded by the Army, no doubt because of the saying that when the apes leave the Rock the British will leave too. We fed them peanuts as the press photographers pressed themselves against the apes’ sleeping cages with their cameras poking through the bars. No one made any jokes.
