Petra was a breath-taking climax to our visit. A troop of small Arab ponies and their handlers were waiting for us, and we entered the Petra complex through a cleft in the high walled cliffs, so narrow that two people could not travel abreast. Black shadows and shafts of brilliant sunshine alternated, and then suddenly before us, rearing up to a majestic height were the tall columns of Petra’s Treasury, lost to the world for six hundred years before being rediscovered in 1812. I was told that more than 30,000 people once lived in Petra, but the whole area has never been explored archaeologically. Think how much must be hidden there, what ancient treasures lie beneath the surface. The magic of Petra and most of Jordan is its vivid relationship with Biblical times. The Bedouin tents are still the same as they were thousands of years ago, but now cars and pickups are parked outside them instead of camels. I had resigned myself to the thought that my trekking days were over. Petra was a bonus.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In-Waiting
Sometime in 1990 Queen Elizabeth asked me to lunch at Clarence House: Ruth, Lady Fermoy, the exceedingly elegant maternal grandmother of Princess Diana was also there. In her way she was as much a fashion plate as her granddaughter and was a senior Woman of the Bedchamber. When the meal was over Ruth, Lady Fermoy invited me up to her sitting room. It was all rather mysterious, but she finally got round to the point. To my complete surprise she told me that Queen Elizabeth wanted me as one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, but found it difficult to ask me herself in case I was reluctant. It would have been impossible to say ‘No’ to her face. My answer, however, was an emphatic and immediate ‘Yes’. I had been a widow for nine years and having a job gave me a focus which had been lacking since Denys’ death.
I joined a Household which was legendary for its hospitality, conviviality and wit, but underscored by an inexorable sense of duty. It was the unstuffiest of Courts — the animating spirit of all this was, of course, Queen Elizabeth. It was not in her nature to behave as though her privileged position was a crushing burden. By temperament an enjoyer of life, she entered into everything she did with gusto and expected those close to her to do the same. I can only say that I did my best. She turned even the most tedious occasion into a party and from my own experience I fully agree with the anonymous leader writer at The Times, who once said of her: ‘She lays a foundation stone as though she has discovered a new and delightful way of spending an afternoon.’
She never, however, forgot what she owed to people whose lives were less comfortable, pleasant and interesting than her own. She kept her politics from the public gaze, but no one could say that she leaned towards the Left. Despite this she got on well with many Labour politicians and had a deep concern about social conditions. But I do remember my daughter Annabel having tea with her; and the conversation touching on Tony Blair’s then latest wheeze, ‘Cool Britannia’, prompting Queen Elizabeth to remark wistfully: ‘Poor Britannia. She would have hated being Cool.’
When I was recruited there were two Ladies-in-Waiting with titles, who only turned out for the very grandest of occasions, and eight Women of the Bedchamber. We ‘Women’ did fortnightly periods ‘in-waiting’ and accompanied the boss on her official engagements. Our rather elderly entourage was very well briefed on how to behave before we went out to meet the public — as if we didn’t know — and the Private Secretary would warn us about any potential trouble spots, like tricky stairs and steps. Fortunately when I was ‘in-waiting’ there were no mishaps, and Queen Elizabeth even coped with the twists and turns of the aircraft carrier Ark Royal without any disasters. We were always supplied with the names of everyone we could possibly meet, and what they were interested in, so that there would be no awkward silences. Our handbags contained the little extra necessities of life to make a Royal visit go like clockwork. I did not know the contents of Her Majesty’s handbag, but there was astounded merriment at Clarence House when the satirical magazine Private Eye suggested that she never ventured far without an ironed copy of The Sporting Life, a packet of Marks and Spencer chocolate éclairs, a ready mixed gin and Dubonnet in a hip flask and a large number of £50 notes ‘just in case’.
The key figures in the Household were Sir Martin Gilliat, the Private Secretary, an ebullient figure who sometimes took on the role of master of the revels; the less ebullient, but wonderfully organised Sir Alastair Aird, the Comptroller, and the Treasurer, Sir Ralph Anstruther, who was a whiz with figures, down to the last decimal point, and who doled out my very modest expense allowance. Retirement was not an option, except for the young Equerry, always from the Irish Guards, who was seconded to Royal duties for three years.
One of my colleagues, approaching her eightieth birthday, began to drop hints that it was about time for her to go, but before she could breathe another word her employer said: ‘Congratulations! You will find that you feel marvellous after you’re eighty.’ The subject of retirement was never mentioned again. At the time Queen Elizabeth was ninety-eight. It seemed death was the only exit and I sometimes wondered whether my aunt would see me out. She never mentioned dying, only occasionally obliquely referring to someone having ‘gone upstairs’.
An example of an intensely loyal courtier staying in post until the end was Martin Gilliat, a very brave man who had been a Colditz prisoner like my brother John. He had been diagnosed with cancer, but although he was seriously ill Queen Elizabeth threw a party in 1993 to celebrate his eightieth birthday, which ended with the usual nostalgic sing-song round the piano. Afterwards Martin carried on for more than three months, a shadow of his former sparky self but still forcing himself to work from his flat in St James’s Palace. Finally he went into hospital and died three days later. He was much loved and I know Queen Elizabeth deeply mourned the indomitable man who had run both her official and private life for nearly forty years. Shortly afterwards Ruth, Lady Fermoy died of inoperable cancer and the two deaths left her bereft.
There were a number of other people in the Household: the Lord Chamberlain, who when I arrived was the Earl of Dalhousie; a Page of Honour, and two Apothecaries — an antique description for the two highly qualified medical consultants who were on call, one for Clarence House and the other for Royal Lodge. There were three secretaries, described as Lady Clerks; one of them worked for the Comptroller, and one for the Ladies-in-Waiting. The third worked in the office of the Press Secretary, Sir John Griffin. Her duties included fielding media calls, and she had a notice pinned on the wall proclaiming: ‘We don’t leak’. This was in the days when reportage of the Royal Family was running wild and out of control.
The domestic staff was headed by the Housekeeper, and there were also, of course, several footmen, housemaids and chefs. Prominent among this group were the Page of the Backstairs, William Tallon and the Page of the Presence, Reginald Willcock, his close friend. The bouffant-haired Mr Tallon was something of a celebrity with the media, which sensed an outré character among an otherwise faceless band of retainers. Like all perfect royal servants he knew his place, but as his work involved close proximity to one of the most photographed women in the world he found it impossible completely to remain in the shadows.
The media dubbed him ‘Backstairs Billy’ but Queen Elizabeth called him ‘William’. I believe there was genuine affection between Mr Tallon and his employer, and although the upstairs-downstairs rule applied, William and Queen Elizabeth probably met somewhere in the middle. He was her longest serving servant, one of the coterie she regarded as her extended family. Each Christmas she would give him items from a seventy-piece dinner service, and he was close to completing the set when she died. His home, Gate Lodge, at the entrance to Clarence House from the Mall was like a mini Victoria and Albert Museum. It was exquisitely furnished and decorated with gifts from her private collection, and many from long-standing friends of my aunt, as well as from William’s friends in the ballet and theatre world. He was devastated by her death, which occurred on the fifty-first anniversary of the start of his royal service. With other members o
f her personal staff, he walked behind her coffin on its journey from the Queen’s Chapel at St James’s to its lying in state in Westminster Hall, in attendance to the last.
At Clarence House I had a housemaid to look after me, lay my clothes out and pack and unpack for me. She would turn down my bed in the evening and draw the curtains. I could have had breakfast in bed every morning, like some of my more elderly colleagues, but I decided I was not quite old enough for that and anyway couldn’t be bothered with the fuss it entailed. This involved a Page leaving the breakfast tray outside the door, retreating out of sight and then a housemaid knocking and carrying it in. I do now, however, allow myself breakfast in bed when I visit Balmoral and Sandringham, my years meriting this privilege. I knew of course all about curtseying well before I joined the Royal Household. Some people say that they are not curtseying to the individual royal personage, as such, but acknowledging what they represent — the nation. Personally I curtsey to the individual. So curtseying on first seeing Queen Elizabeth in the morning and on saying goodbye or goodnight was perfectly natural as far as I was concerned.
I knew that my aunt hated stiff formality and that nothing pleased her more than if a Lady-in-Waiting made a mistake, or arrived in the wrong place or at the wrong time. I was able to oblige her early in my service, when she made an early-evening visit to the British Library. My first mistake was to wear a hat — hats I later learned were only appropriate for daytime engagements — and was ordered by Martin Gilliat to take it off and lose it. ‘No hats in the evening,’ he said. Then on the way in the car Queen Elizabeth asked me if her hair combs were firmly in place. I lifted my arm to push one in, forgetting I had my handbag on my arm. The bag shot forward and hit her hard on the back of her head. She was angelic enough not to mind. After quite a long time making conversation, I lost her among the crowd, forgetting the very first principle of a Lady-in-Waiting’s role — always to keep an eye on the boss. She had simply disappeared and I was told that she had gone. I rushed from the room and down the stairs to an empty hall and a bored-looking commissionaire. I thought that this was the end of my ‘in-waiting’ career and then I heard a lift descending. Out stepped Queen Elizabeth and Martin, having been to inspect some other department on an upper floor. They hadn’t even missed me and I resisted the temptation to say: ‘Oh! There you are.’ After that salutary experience I never again let her out of my sight.
Official engagements never started before the sun was well and truly up and were conducted at a leisurely pace. Queen Elizabeth liked to give full value, and so they often ran late, which didn’t bother her at all, although some members of the Household accompanying her occasionally got twitchy. She had an inherent magic and I have seen even the most die-hard republicans melt when she directed the full beam of her blue-eyed charm at them. Her engagements had a sense of the theatre and I remember a royal observer telling me: ‘When she steps out of her car it’s like curtain up.’ She certainly always gave a flawless performance, although I believe it went much deeper than that, because she genuinely liked people of all sorts and conditions. Therefore I have to disagree with the columnist who wrote about her thespian talents on her ninetieth birthday, saying: ‘Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother is ninety today. No other actress need apply.’ But what she did have was the gift of making people believe that they were the only person in the world she wanted to talk to at that given moment. And she had a wonderful sign-off line. It went something like this: ‘Well, I’d love to stand here talking all day, but I really must get on,’ as if she had to get home and put the joint in the oven. People were enchanted by this mix of cosiness and glamorous royalty.
It was Thelma Furness, the society beauty of the 1930s, and girlfriend of the then Prince of Wales, who once remarked of Queen Elizabeth, who was then Duchess of York: ‘If ever I was reduced to living in a bungalow in Bognor, the person I would most like to have living next door to me would be Elizabeth of York.’ Quite. Princess Diana also had this gift for scattering star dust, although in a much more overt way. But Queen Elizabeth was compassionate too, although she did not brim over with it before the crowds. She was not one for the binding up of wounds in public. A no-nonsense woman, she did not admit to illness, unless totally unavoidable, and regarded aspirin as a dangerous drug. Her idea for the curing of a bad cold was a bracing walk in a stiff breeze across rugged terrain. It invariably worked! But in her youth and her early years of marriage, she often suffered from a debilitating cough and bad chest.
When I was not trailing round after her coping with the overflow of bouquets and keeping conversation going along VIP line ups, I spent a lot of my time at Clarence House responding to letters. Queen Elizabeth had a huge post, and every letter had to have a response, even if written by some poor person who was mildly deranged. There were quite a few of those, and also from people passionate about various causes, and from children. We tried to be as helpful and kind as we could, but sadly, and very often, there was nothing we could do and the only course of action was politely to tell the writer that we had referred their problem to the appropriate government department. Queen Elizabeth also had an Aladdin’s cave of gifts — a big cupboard of china and other bibelots — which could be dipped into, gift wrapped and sent with a letter. Normally the recipients were charities, particularly those local to Windsor; Ballater, near Balmoral, and in County Durham, where the Bowes family came from. The 9th Earl of Strathmore had married Mary Eleanor Bowes in 1767, the only child and heiress of George Bowes of Streatlam Castle, a rich industrialist. As part of the marriage settlement, he had to take her surname, Bowes, as his own. In her youth, my aunt preferred to be known as Elizabeth Lyon. She did not, however, forsake her north-east connection.
What I expected to be my finest hour arrived when one of the real ‘Ladies’ went sick and I was commanded to attend a State Banquet in honour of the King of Malaysia. Queen Elizabeth lent me a tiara and I felt distinctly grand. The Queen and the state visitors were led in by David Airlie, the Lord Chamberlain, carrying his silver wand and walking backwards. The banquet is the highlight of any state visit. It is a time for an exchange of compliments and coded messages about foreign policy, spelt out by host and guest, against a glittering backdrop of gold and silver gilt plate, candelabra, crystal and massed flowers. The guest list generally numbers 150, and includes all the members of the Royal Family who can be mustered; the Archbishop of Canterbury; the Prime Minister; other members of the Cabinet; representatives of foreign powers who are friendly to the state visitor; industrialists; figures from the arts and sometimes a favourite entertainer or sports person. As a matter of Royal protocol, Queen Elizabeth always had the Archbishop of Canterbury on her right — at every single state banquet. The four-course meal always has a musical accompaniment, played by a regimental band, useful for filling conversational gaps. President Mugabe of Zimbabwe, to mention just one of the more controversial guests the Queen has had to entertain over the years, was serenaded with a selection which included the best of Half a Sixpence; ‘If I Ruled the World’ and something called ‘Jumping Bean’. The Director of Music gets a whisky and soda when it is all over.
I wonder if those invited to these occasions realise the amount of work and planning which goes into them. Damask tablecloths, some of them more than a century old, are brought out to cover the side serving tables. Every place setting is measured with a ruler, because no butler worth his salt wants to get to the end of the table with say, four settings left and nowhere to put them. Late in the afternoon, the Queen, who expects perfection of these occasions, carries out a personal inspection of the tables. Well, there I was amidst all this splendour, sitting next to a man whose firm was supplying a new sewage system to Malaysia. He insisted on passing on every possible detail. It was not a conversation of memorable enjoyment, but of course the food and wine were excellent and to an extent I was able to anaesthetise myself from waste flows and piping in Kuala Lumpur. And it was nice to leave the table at the end and not be
faced with the washing-up, because below stairs a massive clear-up operation was beginning. The 500 crystal glasses; the Minton china; the Sèvres or the Meissen-ware; the cutlery were all being washed by hand and stored away, ready for the next time. But, as the Queen says of these occasions and her State visitors: ‘We hope to give them a nice time to remember.’
Queen Elizabeth took every opportunity to have lunch al fresco. The Clarence House garden has two large plane trees under which tables could be placed. She called this green enclave her salon verte. These lunches were jolly occasions, but there is no truth in the story that towards the end of the meal she would order the tables to be moved close to the wall separating the garden from the Mall, so that she could eavesdrop on the conversations of the passers-by on the other side, in case they said anything complimentary or otherwise about her. This is a good story, and part of the mythology surrounding her, but moving the tables to such a strategic listening post would have been a physical impossibility because a very large flower bed is in the way. Lunch inside when there were no visitors was held in a corner of the drawing room, and the Lady-in-Waiting would join her. There were always two gentlemen of the Household in attendance to even the numbers. Queen Elizabeth liked to do us well. The chef produced excellent food and the wine was of the best. The meal was always followed by cheeses and then fresh fruit and lastly coffee. She did not at all mind people smoking, saying it reminded her of her husband, her father and her brothers, who all smoked.
The Final Curtsey Page 12
