ON DUTY WITH THE QUEEN
Dickie Arbiter
with Lynne Barrett-Lee
For Victoria, who never once complained
Acknowledgments
For years I steadfastly refused to put pen to paper until my agent Sylvia Tidy-Harris persuaded me otherwise. She convinced me that my life has been one big story and that my time at Buckingham Palace was just one chapter in it, so my thanks to Sylvia for having faith.
Thank you to my literary agent, Andrew Lownie, for seeing the big picture and to Lynne Barrett-Lee for transposing my chat into something readable.
I would also like to thank Blink Publishing and my editor Joel Simons, who sometimes must have been tearing his hair out.
A big thank you to my daughter Victoria and son-in-law Ryan Brown, who between them brushed off all the cobwebs and reminded me of some of life’s episodes I didn’t think important.
Finally to Rosemary, my wife of thirty years, without whom none of this would have been possible.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1 – Into Britannia
Chapter 2 – Hanging Up the Microphone
Chapter 3 – Outward Bound
Chapter 4 – A Bite of the Big Apple
Chapter 5 – The Myth-busting Princess
Chapter 6 – An Iron Curtain Call
Chapter 7 – Breaking News
Chapter 8 – Birthday Boy
Chapter 9 – Heir Raising
Chapter 10 – A Picture Tells a Thousand Words
Chapter 11 – The Annus Horribilis begins
Chapter 12 – Trouble and Strife – Annus Horribilis Part Two
Chapter 13 – Receiving Visitors
Chapter 14 – Smiling for the Cameras
Chapter 15 – Death of a Princess: Diana – The Longest Week
Chapter 16 – The Biggest Global Media Event Ever
Chapter 17 – The Royals Return
Chapter 18 – Farewell to the People’s Princess
Chapter 19 – All Quiet on the SW1 Front
Chapter 20 – Come back, Dickie – we need you!
Chapter 21 – Retirement
Epilogue
Glossary of terms
Index
Plates
Copyright
Prologue
August 1997
A car approached as I walked up the private road towards Kensington Palace.
The driver-side window wound down as the vehicle slowed, and I realised it was Diana. She smiled and waved as she always did before moving on her way. She looked happy. I knew she would be heading back to the South of France imminently. She had just been on holiday there with her boys, but now that they were in Scotland with the rest of the Royal Family, she was planning to return at the invitation of her friend, Dodi Fayed. They were in the midst of a brief summer romance, a simple flirtation at best, but I was glad to know she wouldn’t be by herself for the remainder of the school holidays.
The memory of that neighbourly exchange between the Princess and me some two weeks prior played in my head as I sat, transfixed by the live news images of a car lying twisted and mangled in the depths of a tunnel in Paris. Details were scarce, but at least she was alive. Paul Burrell, Diana’s butler, kept running into our apartment, sobbing, desperate for an update. I had checked in with the office, but as yet they didn’t know anything more than what I was seeing on television.
I turned, startled by the ringing phone. It was just after 3am. It was Penny Russell-Smith, the Buckingham Palace duty press secretary.
‘She’s gone…’ was all she said.
I showered, dressed and left for the office.
CHAPTER 1
Into Britannia
May 1988 – Sydney, Australia
‘If you were approached to join the Palace press office to look after the Prince and Princess of Wales, would you be interested?’
It was Friday 15th April – the eve of my departure for Australia, where I would be covering the Queen’s bicentennial tour for IRN (Independent Radio News) that I received the phone call from Philip Mackie, one of the Queen’s press secretaries, which would radically change my life.
Perhaps it was his distinctive Scottish brogue, difficult to decipher at the best of times. Or maybe what I’d heard him say couldn’t be what he’d actually said. I asked him to repeat the question, and much to my astonishment I had heard him correctly.
To say I was shocked would be putting it mildly, and the conversation took a long time to sink in. But as I finished packing for the tour, I was struck by a profound sense of anticipation. Switching camps, turning from poacher to gamekeeper, seemed like the natural next step in my career.
I was almost 48, and in the market for a change of plan. I was working for LBC News Radio (London Broadcasting Company) which, together with IRN, had a retirement age set at 60. With the date ever looming, I had begun to wonder if I should do something else with the next dozen years of my working life. Should I remain at LBC, doing much the same as I already was? Should I take my talents elsewhere? Do similar work for another broadcaster? Or should I change direction altogether? I didn’t know. I just had the feeling that I ought to be doing something.
This is not to say I didn’t enjoy my current job. I was one of two accredited Court Correspondents to Buckingham Palace, the other being the Press Association’s Tom Corby. As neither the BBC nor ITN had such roles (Sky News didn’t begin to broadcast until 1989), we were the only two Court Correspondents in the UK. It gave me an extraordinary degree of autonomy and privilege, as there was no steadfast criterion to my everyday role that wasn’t self-implemented. If I wasn’t on the beat covering a royal story, there was always a daily visit to the Buckingham Palace press office to clear my in-tray of announcements, investiture lists, and the ‘Wednesday List’ of royal engagements, which also provided an opportunity to chat with whichever press secretaries happened to be in the office at the time.
I also travelled a great deal. As a reporter covering the many varied royal engagements, it came with the territory, though not always to the extent that I would have preferred. That particular year had begun with another visit to Australia, this one undertaken by the Prince and Princess of Wales to celebrate the country’s 200th anniversary. Knowing just how popular the royal double act was, especially then – with speculation rife about the state of their marriage – I had tried hard to persuade IRN to send me with them. Citing budget issues, the answer was an emphatic no. The plan instead was to use coverage from various news agencies. As the royal couple toured, and as I had predicted, British television stations were awash with coverage, and IRN’s decision was proving to be the wrong one.
The company’s obligation to the network was to do exactly what it had failed to do – provide coverage of a major news story. So when I broached the subject of going on the Queen’s own bicentennial tour in April and May, I got an immediate thumbs-up. I’m sure the decision had more than a little to do with the fact that between the two tours LBC/IRN had been taken over…by an Australian media group.
The flight time from London Heathrow to Perth was 18 hours. While I’d normally use the time to read or catch up on sleep, I couldn’t seem to settle well to either. I don’t believe there was a moment during the entire flight when I didn’t think about the previous night’s conversation. And yet, I couldn’t discuss it. I was sworn to secrecy, so I did the only thing I could – pushed it to the back of my mind and concentrated on th
e job at hand.
Today, around-the-clock news is the norm, but back in the 1980s, it was still quite unusual. Even then IRN was a 24-hour news service with a voracious appetite for material. The job was made all the more challenging given that we were working long before the days of the internet, and were only on the cusp of the mobile phone revolution.
We touched down in Perth on Saturday, 16th April. It was my first visit to Australia, and I was looking forward to the upcoming tour itinerary. Perth was beautiful, with golden beaches and a way of life that put me in mind of my days spent in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) as a young man. That said, it was somewhat parochial back in those days. They still had liquor laws that forbade drinking on Sundays unless one was a guest at a hotel.
Happily for us journalists, with three days to spare at the hotel before the royal couple arrived, we were able to play as well as work. First impressions always count, and mine were overwhelmingly positive. I found the Australians friendly and very hospitable to us ‘Poms’. I also took the opportunity to look up some old friends from Rhodesia, who had emigrated to the city back in the early 1980s.
Within ten days, the formal approach regarding the job offer to which Philip Mackie had alluded finally came through, during an official reception aboard the Royal Yacht Britannia. It was coming to the end of the Australian summer, but I was still feeling the heat. I was dressed in full black-tie regalia, ready for the reception that Her Majesty the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were hosting that evening, giving them a chance to mingle with Sydney’s great and good. There was only one unwritten rule with which everyone complied, that nothing said by the royal couple would be quoted, repeated or reported.
It would be my first time in the yacht, which was an honour in itself, but as I hurried down to meet the mini-bus that would pick me up from my hotel, I was much more preoccupied with the thought of another honour that might just be coming my way.
As the bus approached the port, I could see the yacht tied up to the quay, the Sydney Harbour Bridge forming a majestic backdrop. No picture could ever do it justice. The yacht was small, but no less magnificent. Floodlit, she was dressed with bunting, the flag of the Lord High Admiral (the Queen) on the foremast, the Royal Standard on mainmast and the Union flag on the mizzenmast. One doesn’t go on board the Royal Yacht Britannia, one goes in it. Sounds counter-intuitive, but as I had learned two years previously while covering a royal visit to China, Royal Yacht Britannia was one of the Queen’s official residences, which meant that it was treated as a palace, rather than as a ship. She was a spectacular presence, steeped in a rich personal history.
The Queen relished her time in Britannia. Though the ship was being used in an official capacity for the tour, countless family holidays had also been spent aboard over the years. The yacht provided a sanctuary, a place where the family could spend quality time together without the burden of being on parade. At the start of many a summer break, the Windsors would cruise the Western Isles of Scotland, mooring to picnic on remote beaches, free from prying eyes. As children in 1954, Prince Charles and his sister, Princess Anne, sailed in Britannia on her maiden voyage to Grand Harbour, Malta, where they were to meet their parents following the Queen and Prince Philip’s six-month tour of the Commonwealth. Charles and his bride would later honeymoon aboard in 1981. She was first and foremost a family home, which is no doubt why the Queen was seen to shed a tear when the ship was decommissioned in 1997. With 44 years of happy memories, it was as though she was losing a lifelong friend.
Britannia was to be the royals’ home for the rest of the tour, and she had sailed to meet the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh upon their arrival in Sydney. Now I was one of the lucky members of the press to be invited aboard. I pinched myself as I reached the top of the gangway. I was boarding one of the world’s most famous yachts in one of the world’s most iconic harbours to discuss a job working for the British Royal Family. I hoped my dad was up there somewhere, looking down. Having fled Berlin in the early 1930s to escape the Nazis before the outbreak of the Second World War, I always felt his presence, and I knew that he would be immensely proud.
Robin Janvrin, the press secretary, approached me with something of a twinkle in his eye. I liked Robin. He looked much younger than his 42 years, had a boyish smile and a dry sense of humor. He was ex-Royal Navy and ex-Foreign Office, so fitted the royal household mould perfectly… which, on paper, I certainly did not.
He pulled me into what I would eventually come to know as the press secretary’s cabin for a meeting along with Private Secretary Sir William Heseltine. I had known Bill for a number of years, though I had only known Robin for 18 months, as he had joined the press office in the autumn of 1987.
Bill asked if I was interested in taking over from Philip Mackie upon his retirement, and whether I had any questions. I had none.
‘Yes, I’m interested.’
‘Great,’ he replied. ‘Get in touch with Robin once you’re back in London and he will talk you through the nuts and bolts.’
That was it. It appeared the job was mine. We hadn’t discussed terms. In fact, we hadn’t discussed anything, but that didn’t matter to me one jot. An offer like that only comes along once in a lifetime. It was validation of my professionalism as a journalist to have been asked. Needless to say, the remainder of that particular reception was a blur.
The three-week tour took in a large chunk of the country. We visited Perth, Geraldton, and Kalgoorlie in Western Australia, and Hobart and Launceston in Tasmania. We then traveled to Geelong in Victoria (where Prince Charles went to school in 1965) before moving on to Longreach in Queensland, where Qantas, Australia’s national airline, as well as the country’s flying doctor service were born. While we were there, the Queen opened the Stockman’s Hall of Fame and Outback Heritage Centre. Next it was on to Brisbane to open Expo ’88 before wrapping up in Sydney, Newcastle and Albury in New South Wales, and the ACT (Australian Capital Territory) Canberra, where she was to open the New Parliament House.
Royal tours are organized down to the minutest detail. It is the press secretaries’ job to organize hotels, ground transportation and internal flights for the media, while also coordinating with the federal government’s Department of Information. Tours are well-oiled machines, but this was the first time I had paid particular attention to the complex role I was soon to inherit.
On the flight back to London, I thought hard about the potential task ahead. Having special responsibility for the Prince and Princess of Wales was a daunting prospect. The rumour mill about the state of the Wales’ marriage wasn’t quite yet in overdrive, but it was increasingly being talked and written about. If my instincts were correct, the story would only get bigger. I’d be taking on the job at a volatile time. The situation could go one of two ways – things would either work out for the couple or they wouldn’t.
Regardless, Charles and Diana were under intense scrutiny by the media, and as their press secretary, I would have to be on my toes. Was I up to the challenge of being on the other side of the fence with a gossip-hungry media pack at my door? Could I be up front when it was required and stonewall when necessary? Could I steer a course through what would doubtless be a stormy public relations period? I had been an outsider looking in, so I knew what to expect. It would be challenging, but I was sure I could do it. As the plane landed, I was buzzing with anticipation, but I still couldn’t share my exciting news with anyone, not even my wife and daughter.
There was one person, however, whom I did need to take into my confidence – my boss, Bill Coppen-Gardner, LBC’s Managing Director. I had to tell him that I was resigning, but I wasn’t worried. We spent time together socially, and I knew that whatever I said to him in confidence would remain with him alone.
Despite my excitement, telling Bill of my decision would still make for a sad day, marking the end of a personal era.
LBC had been the first commercial radio station to go on-air in the UK in October 1973. I had been put in touch with the sta
tion through the well-known journalist, Ron Onions, who had begun his career working with the BBC before moving on to run the newsroom at fledgling music station Capital Radio. He informed me that LBC was actively seeking broadcasters, having launched the network solely with newspaper journalists. While the scribes were excellent writers, they were not particularly good at speaking into a microphone. I joined the station in June 1974, and not long after, Ron was brought in to serve as the Head of LBC. Ron pioneered a new style of radio programming, and it was thanks to his vision and drive that LBC went from strength to strength, knocking the BBC off its perch as it went. Along with guiding my career, Ron made household names of Bob Holness and Douglas Cameron, while also launching the careers of Jon Snow and Peter Allen. It was Ron who first assigned me the royal beat, and ensured that I was accredited by the Palace as IRN’s Court Correspondent. Flattered to have been given a specialist reporting job, I asked him one day, ‘Why me?’
‘You speak well, with a distinctive broadcasting voice. You’re always dressed properly in a suit, and by all appearances I could take you anywhere, including Buckingham Palace.’
On that basis, the job was mine.
The royal beat aside, LBC afforded me many a novel experience. In 1986 I climbed the stairs to the top of Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square to interview the man responsible for cleaning the great Admiral himself. The uninterrupted view across London from 169.3 feet high was spectacular. Though I do not suffer from vertigo, my courage was put to the test yet again when I was asked to abseil from the ceiling of Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre during the AM breakfast show. As I dropped 50 feet into the Royal Tournament arena, I promoted the live broadcast that I would be conducting that night. I covered Derby Day at Epsom, Royal Ascot and every ceremonial event on the royal calendar. To say LBC was a fun place to work would be doing the station a disservice. I was there at a special time, when many a long-standing career was launched. It was consistently at the forefront of breaking news. I had seen it grow, followed its fortunes and watched it beat the BBC’s Today program on Radio 4 for a majority share of the London audience. But, alas, in recent years I had also seen its authority as a news station diminish.
On Duty With the Queen: My Time as a Buckingham Palace Press Secretary Page 1
