Her Majesty

by Robert Hardman

  Although the website traffic provides useful data on what interests people, there is still no substitute for the postbag when it comes to finding out what is pleasing or perplexing them enough to write to the Queen. Within hours of the clothing reception, the thank-you messages start arriving. A Fleet Street fashion editor is among the first to get in touch, sending an email via the Press Office: ‘Thank you so much for a wonderful evening. To have the Queen endorse the British fashion and clothing industry is immeasurably valuable.’ Another email arrives from a Yorkshire textile executive: ‘To receive so much time and attention from Her Majesty the Queen was very, very generous. None of the guests I spoke to realised we would have such open access to our hosts.’ He also wants to thank the footmen who had kept him ‘very nicely supplied’ with venison minicottage pies.

  Most people prefer to express their gratitude in the traditional way – on paper. Over the next few days, traditional thank-you letters pour in. Some are formal and typed, some chatty and handwritten. Several are rather touching, remarking how proud a grandfather or a greatgrandmother or a founding father of a particular business would have been to see today’s inheritors invited to drinks with the Sovereign. A surprising number pay tribute to the venison mini-cottage pies (who would have thought that meat pies would prove such a hit with a gathering of fashionistas?). One lady guest wants to thank the Duchess of Grafton, the Queen’s senior Lady-in-Waiting, for befriending her as she stood looking at paintings on her own. The boss of Lancashire fashion house Sunday Best wants to thank the Duchess of Gloucester ‘who was lovely company and made us all feel welcome’. It is often said that the advent of the email has killed off the old art of letter-writing, but not as far as the Palace is concerned.

  ‘The letters go up in number every year,’ says Sonia Bonici, the senior correspondence officer in charge of the Queen’s post. In 2010, the Queen received almost 50,000 letters and cards (a third of them from overseas) and the Diamond Jubilee will multiply that figure many times. Many are messages of goodwill or thanks for a particular event. In 2010, she received more than 2,000 birthday cards and 4,000 Christmas cards from ordinary people. But many more are seeking some sort of help or satisfaction. The internet-fuelled rise in amateur genealogy has prompted a marked increase in letters about family trees. ‘People ask: “Could you find out if my Uncle Jim was related to Queen Victoria?”’ says Bonici. It’s not the Palace’s job to confirm or deny but the team (two full-time, two part-time) will offer advice on researching the internet and the National Archives. ‘We really do try to help,’ says Bonici. ‘We can’t do very much but we try.’

  It’s not an exact science but the Palace has learned that letters to the Queen are a good barometer of the broader concerns of society. The Queen herself takes them very seriously. ‘One feels the buck stops here so to speak,’ she remarked in the 1992 documentary Elizabeth R. ‘I had a letter this morning about something. He said: “I’ve been going round and round in circles but you are the only person who can stop the circle.” I thought that was rather nice.’

  People who might once have baulked at troubling the Sovereign over a personal issue now seem more inclined than ever to pour their hearts out to her. ‘In the old days,’ says Bonici, ‘they might write about one thing: “My roof is leaking” or “Nobody cares”. Now, it’s three or four issues. And the tone has changed.’

  There was a sudden rise in correspondence immediately after the inconclusive 2010 general election result, just as there was after the MPs’ expenses scandal of 2009. ‘We had quite a few letters from people who thought that there would be riots in the streets and they wanted the Queen to take over,’ says Bonici. ‘Following the expenses scandal, people lost their respect for politics and thought: “The Queen doesn’t do that sort of thing.” So, their view was “Let her sort it out.”’ Sometimes, the letters are scathing about the Queen herself. None the less, she likes to see a complete cross section, even if they are critical. In any case, until the 9/11 terrorist attacks, she used to open a lot of her own post. Now it is all processed (except for certain private post, identified by specific codes). But the Queen has seen and heard enough over the years to be almost unshockable. ‘People are entitled to their opinion, even if they’re forceful,’ says Bonici’s deputy correspondence officer, Jenny Vine. Having previously worked for the manager of a top London hotel, she has experienced most facets of the human character. She has well-established procedures for dealing with crank letters but these are rare. ‘Obviously, if they say they’re going to blow up Parliament, then that’s a threat. But if someone writes in and says: “I despair. The Prime Minister’s a plonker,” then that’s an opinion and we would send that up to the Queen.’

  Receiving and sorting the post is done first thing. The next issue is responding. In a few cases, the Queen may suggest a reply herself. Bonici gives the example of a man who recently wrote in asking why the Queen was using a State Bentley to attend a private church service. The Queen returned the letter with a note saying that the service was an official engagement and a suitable reply was promptly drafted. But that sort of micro-management is impossible as a rule. Letters from children and people offering kind remarks are usually passed on to the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting who will draft replies on her behalf. More technical matters will be handled in the Correspondence Office. Everyone gets a reply, usually within a week, but that can depend on the issue. Nothing will stay unanswered for more than a month. ‘People now have a greater expectation of what the Queen can do for them,’ says Bonici. ‘They didn’t used to be so demanding but they often see the Queen as a last resort. So they write in saying: “We’ve tried everywhere. Can we try you because you’re the head of state?” They might have a social services problem or a childcare problem and we always steer them towards the right government department because it is the Queen’s government. We do get lots of letters back saying, “Thanks, it’s been sorted out.”’

  If it looks as though the writer has simply been ignored by a government department, the Palace will sometimes forward the letter on to the relevant office. A royal letterhead can sometimes have a miraculous effect on a Civil Service blockage. But, ultimately, there is little direct action the Palace can take. ‘I’ve only been here since 1998 but I think people’s expectations have changed over the years,’ says Bonici, who ran a gym before joining the Palace.

  She holds up a letter, just in, from a girl who is a fan of the Queen’s granddaughter Zara Phillips and wants the Queen to sponsor her riding lessons. It begins ‘Dear Elizabeth’ and includes a photograph of the girl’s pony. ‘She’s gone to a lot of trouble with that letter. It’s got a nice picture,’ says Bonici. ‘We’d say “Thank you, but the Queen gives her support to a number of charities and cannot support individual projects.”’

  The correspondence team are well aware that whatever they write may end up framed on a wall – or in the local paper. London’s Sherlock Holmes Museum proudly steers visitors to a ‘royal letter’ which turns out to be little more than an official acknowledgement of a letter sent to the Prince of Wales. Jenny Vine has a simple rule: ‘I always try to think: “How would I feel if this ended up on the front page of the Daily Mail?” But people will often read into a reply what they want to read. We might say that it’s not a matter on which we can intervene and they will still write back and say: “Thank you, Your Majesty, for taking such a personal interest in helping me with this case” or something like that.’

  It’s almost a modern variant on ‘touching for the King’s Evil’, the medieval belief that touching the Monarch would cure sufferers of scrofula. But even if writing to the Queen is not going to solve your dispute with your neighbour or the Inland Revenue, it can be reassuring to know that someone has actually taken an interest. ‘We read it all. It’s very important to read it all,’ says Bonici. ‘It might say: “My roof is leaking and the council won’t do anything” and then, right at the end, it might say: “I’m very sad because my husband has just die
d.” And if you haven’t read that bit you don’t know the full story. And it’s very important to know that otherwise the Queen can’t send her condolences.’

  So how has the Queen become this blend of agony aunt and Citizens Advice Bureau? George V was not badgered about street lighting. George VI did not receive letters complaining about his choice of church-going vehicle – and nor, presumably, would he have replied to them if he had. Through the ages, ‘good’ monarchs have been seen as God-given champions of the people, the ultimate ally of the ordinary against the overmighty, listeners to petitioners and so on. But modern Britain is not supposed to believe in all that; it was fine in the days of Elizabeth I but surely it’s not relevant in the reign of Elizabeth II? The modern Briton has more democratic, professional representation than ever – Scots, for example, have their own representatives in three parliaments (Scottish, UK and European) plus their district and community councils. If the Sovereign is so marginalised these days, why are we increasingly keen to make contact with her? Are all these politicians failing to pull their weight? And if the monarchy is just a soap opera, why are the public more vocal than ever in their opinions on the cost, conduct, appearance, importance and performance of the Royal Family? It’s yet another variation on the royal paradox: ‘I don’t care about the monarchy. But here’s what I think …’

  Just as the Court has changed profoundly in every way under this monarch, so, too, has the court of public opinion. But at least there is a very clear dividing line when it comes to public relations. In that regard, the reign of Elizabeth II falls, very simply, into two parts: the Colville years and the post-Colville years.

  Commander Richard Colville remains a fascinating choice as Press Secretary to the Monarch for two reasons. First, he regarded the press as little better than a communicable disease. Second, he remained in the job for more than twenty years. The fact that he lasted so long – only stepping down at retirement age – makes it clear that the Colville approach enjoyed the full endorsement of the Royal Family at the time. The Harroweducated son of an admiral, his entire career had been in the Royal Navy prior to his arrival at the Palace in 1947. The old joke of the day was that George VI had confused the Fleet with Fleet Street. It is more likely that the King was impressed by Colville’s Distinguished Service Cross (the Royal Navy’s equivalent decoration to the Military Cross), awarded in 1943. ‘He had a heart of gold but he was extremely rude [to the press] and was the last person who should have been Press Secretary,’ says a member of the Royal Household from those years. ‘He was much liked by the rest of the Household. But his relations with the press – well, that’s a book on its own.’

  ‘He did the administrative side with terrific efficiency and won the respect of all those he had to deal with in that way,’ says Sir William Heseltine, the man who would succeed him and go on to become the Queen’s Private Secretary. ‘I was very attached to him but his approach to public relations was certainly a very negative one.’

  In Colville’s eyes, all publicity was bad publicity. As he famously declared on one royal tour: ‘I am not what you North Americans would call a public relations officer.’ His basic rule was that any royal activity not specifically described in the Court Circular was not to be filmed, photographed or even discussed. This was an era of respectful, pliant media coverage. But Colville contrived to irritate the most supportive commentators. When the King, Queen and Princess Margaret were due to tour Australia in 1949 (a trip that would be cancelled due to the King’s health), the Australian Consolidated Press submitted a list of harmless questions about royal likes and dislikes. Amid all the excitement, these were entirely understandable and legitimate questions. After all, had the tour gone ahead it would have been Australia’s first sighting of a reigning monarch. The Palace’s terse response? ‘No information.’ Colville did, however, permit his deputy, Diana Lyttleton, to answer a question about Princess Margaret’s favourite dance tempos. ‘All kinds of dances, waltzes, reels and modern steps,’ came the reply. Even by the standards of the day, it was mind-numbing stuff.

  This sort of grudging, nose-holding approach to the media was acceptable during the last years of George VI. Post-war Fleet Street could be relied on to censor itself on most royal matters. The nearest thing to a royal scandal were the jottings of the former royal governess, Marion Crawford. Having entered royal service in 1932, ‘Crawfie’ was devoted to Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret for eighteen years, once tracking down a runaway Margaret during an air raid. She believed in opening their eyes to the wider world with rigorous, modern lessons and even trips on public transport. But after marrying Major George Buthlay a couple of months before the marriage of Princess Elizabeth in 1947, Crawfie decided to retire. The Royal Family provided her with a charming grace and favour home at Kensington Palace but Buthlay was a financial chancer. He kept urging his wife to seek more royal favours and belittled her for not securing a damehood or being appointed as a Lady-in-Waiting. Eventually, Crawfie was persuaded to write a lucrative memoir for an American publisher, at which point the Royal Family severed all contacts. Her sugary observations bordered on adoration – ‘Lilibet’, she revealed, was ‘an enchanting child with the loveliest hair and skin’. Nor was she the first inside the inner circle to write about it. Even Queen Mary’s Lady-in-Waiting, Lady Airlie, had written a memoir. But Crawfie’s disclosures of life in the royal nursery were seen as a betrayal. Her short-lived career as a royal commentator collapsed after she wrote a gushing account of the Queen at the 1955 Trooping the Colour for Woman’s Own magazine. The article had gone to print before the parade was cancelled due to a rail strike. Crawfie’s credibility was blown. She moved to Aberdeen with her husband and died, a widow, in 1988. There were reports of an earlier suicide attempt. No royal flowers were sent to her funeral.

  But ‘doing a Crawfie’ remains part of the royal vocabulary. Perhaps it was the neuralgic royal reaction to the harmless blabberings of the tragic ex-governess which shaped Commander Colville’s outlook on royal reporting. He was adamant that no event, however innocuous, should be treated as a public matter unless it was clearly defined for public consumption. If the media had hoped for a lighter touch and a fresh outlook (perhaps, even a fresh Press Secretary) after the accession of the Queen, they were in for a disappointment. In this area, the Queen was at one with her late father. The dispute over television coverage of the Coronation was a case in point. The Queen, her Press Secretary and the Prime Minister were opposed to letting the cameras in. The organising committee, chaired by Prince Philip, duly vetoed the idea, citing various technical problems without actually bothering to consult the BBC. A press campaign on behalf of the great excluded masses, backed by a large number of MPs, forced a rethink. But there was no change in royal attitudes to the media. A BBC controller was reprimanded by Colville for daring to suggest that the Royal Family had been pleased with the coverage of George VI’s funeral. The Director General of the BBC, Sir William Hayley, promptly issued an edict banning the Radio Times from even speculating about royal opinions on broadcasting.

  As the Queen was preparing to embark on her great 1953–4 world tour, Colville was laying down the law around the world. The Government of New Zealand was briskly informed that there would be no prospect of an official state photograph of the Queen being taken during the tour. No matter that she was their Queen, too, and that it would be the Queen’s first visit to New Zealand. No matter that she would be there for several weeks. ‘I am sure that the Queen will not wish to have such a photograph taken,’ Colville wrote to officials in Wellington. ‘Since Her Majesty will have been subjected to quite sufficient photography daily, I do not think we should add further sessions.’ Australia’s state broadcaster, ABC, was given the bizarre instruction that it was not to broadcast any of the Queen’s speeches to non-Australian ears. So, while the rest of the world would read the Queen’s speeches in the papers, they would be not be allowed to see or hear them. ‘It is not Her Majesty’s or His Royal Highness�
��s wish that any of their speeches should be beamed to such places as North America, Europe, etc.,’ Colville wrote to Oliver Hogue, the Australian government official in charge of the media.

  ‘Richard Colville had an old-fashioned aristocratic way of dealing with people,’ recalls Sir William Heseltine. ‘He insisted on calling people by their surnames but reporters in Fleet Street were not really very enamoured of being called “Smith” or “Jones” in authoritarian tones. One of the things that started Bellisario [Ray Bellisario was the original royal paparazzo] down the road to his deep antipathy to the organisation was Richard’s handling of him.’