I stayed six years on that particular visit, but the writing was on the wall. By 1974 the war in Rhodesia had intensified, and we were now expected to do military service on a regular basis by putting in a month’s service every six to eight weeks. There was no end in sight, and therefore no future. I was also married by this time, and my wife was expecting our daughter. It was time to take the next sensible step. I had heard that commercial radio – including news radio – had started up in the UK, and with my broadcasting experience, I knew I had a shot at a good job.
I was right. I joined LBC News Radio within a month of our return.
Joining a 24-hour news station was not an easy adjustment. Nonstop airtime requires a significant amount of content and the station needed to be staffed around the clock, which meant working nights. The last time I had worked through the night was during my time in the army either conducting night patrols in the bush or on guard duty at the barracks. I was asked by my station bosses if I would consider doing the overnight news slot. I was a new voice in London broadcasting and prepared to do whatever was necessary to get ahead in a very competitive industry. It wasn’t ideal, but I agreed.
Working nights five days a week and then going home to sleep for half the day was not conducive to a happy marriage, and before long I was a single father bringing up my 3½ year old daughter, Victoria.
My immediate priority was to ensure that she had stability and continuity. This meant keeping her in nursery school, though I could ill afford it. I also needed a child minder. Through the small ads in The Lady magazine I found an au pair, and the magazine became my bible in the ensuing years.
By this time I was working more sensible hours during the day, and my regular slots included AM, LBC’s weekend breakfast show. Unfortunately, au pairs didn’t work 24/7, which meant that Victoria had to go into work with me at the weekend. LBC was very supportive, and while I entertained Londoners for three hours over their cornflakes, my fellow journalist kept Victoria amused in the newsroom.
Victoria, myself and the au pair were living in a two-bedroomed flat in Windsor, so space was tight. Our first au pair was a wonderful and rather large Austrian lady named Anita. She was a dreadful cook, but redeemed herself by baking the most mouth-watering apple strudel. Victoria adored her. But soon the rented flat gave way to my first mortgage, a three-bedroomed, terraced cottage, also in Windsor. It was a step up for us, but when I got the keys and walked in, I wondered just what I had done and how I was going to cope. There was no carpeting and no furniture, but with the meagre savings I had accumulated, I carpeted the house and bought a fridge, cooker, some chairs and three mattresses. There wasn’t enough left over to buy the actual beds.
No matter. I would build some. Having served an apprenticeship for five years, I was good with my hands, and out of necessity knew I could rise to the challenge. I bought wood and screws from a DIY store and built two single beds, a double bed and a rather fine dining table, which started off rectangular, but a couple of years later, I tired of it and adapted it to a round one.
There were still some early morning and late night shifts making transport a problem. I needed a car and knew just where to find one that suited my budget. In the 60s and 70s Australians travelled to Europe in droves. They bought cars, usually Volkswagens, while in Holland, toured the continent and the UK, and when they were done with them, they sold them outside Australia House in London’s Aldwych. I wrote off the first one I purchased when I hit black ice and lost control of the car. I thought I was a goner, believing the car would somersault over the wall at the side of the road and onto the railway tracks below, but I survived, and it was back to Australia House to look for another.
The second, another Volkswagen, had a sound enough engine, but the bodywork left much to be desired. In winter there was more ice inside the car than outside, and if I glanced over my shoulder at the floor in the back, I could get a pretty good view of the road. This all took place around the time of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee, by which stage my working schedule revolved around outside broadcast events and the royal calendar. These events included the Queen’s official birthday parade, Trooping the Colour. As I described the spectacle to the nation, Victoria took in the view from the roof of the news van. She came with me when I commentated at the Remembrance Sunday ceremony in Whitehall; she was alongside me as I broadcast from the Royal Tournament at Earl’s Court and she accompanied me to Normandy when I covered the commemorations for the 40th anniversary of D-Day in 1984.
All the while I continued to maintain regular slots on LBC. There was the Christmas Day AM breakfast show, during which I’d have Victoria open a Christmas present on-air. One of my guests on the show each year was Savoy chef, Anton Edelmann, who would offer listeners last minute Christmas dinner tips. After the show we would join Anton in his kitchen at the hotel, where he would treat us to a late breakfast of smoked salmon washed down with champagne for me and freshly-squeezed orange juice for Victoria.
Anton was always a kind and generous man. When it was time to leave, he would thrust a side of smoked salmon into my hands, along with a bottle of his best bubbly. We may have suffered our privations, but our Christmas dinners were always top notch.
Another of my regular LBC slots was the live New Year’s Eve broadcast from Trafalgar Square. Victoria was there, too, safe within a secure area set up by the police who acted as her minders while I was on-air.
There’s a misconception that if someone is in the entertainment industry he’s well off. Nothing could be further from the truth. We lived day to day. I was still driving the car with no floor in the rear. I was still DIY’ing. I was still dependent on au pairs, and still trying to maintain a sense of normality for Victoria, though her young life was not without its challenges. She was never thrilled when work commitments meant I had to drop her off at school an hour before it opened, but just as I was glad to have an understanding bank manager, we were lucky that she had an understanding headmistress.
*
During our pre-visit recce to Hungary we had learned that Budapest was going to present both logistical and security-related challenges. Two walkabouts were scheduled – one in the Central Market Hall, and the other in a nearby square alongside the river Danube. Both locations posed potential threats to the royal couple’s safety.
There was particular concern for the Princess. Press speculation was rife with regard to how much weight she had lost. There was no question that she was on the skinny side of slim, but there was also much muttering, especially in the tabloids, about whether she might be suffering from bulimia. I didn’t know anything about that, but I had observed that she didn’t cope well when she was overly hot or flustered. Any crowd situation – chiefly one in which she had to be dressed formally – had to be monitored carefully.
The Market Hall visit was one in which we could readily see the chance of ‘losing it’ – press office speak for when the principals are engulfed by a mob of well-wishers. We therefore suggested to the Hungarian security team that they erect barriers along the walkabout route.
The suggestion fell on deaf ears. The security detail looked at us as if we had suggested putting each member of the crowd in chains. ‘Barriers keep people in,’ the lead security officer pronounced, ‘and here in Hungary, which is now a democracy, we do not see any need to erect barriers.’
His stern expression made it clear that there was no room for argument.
Fast-forward to the royal visit itself, and exactly what we had predicted came to pass. The royal couple entered the Central Market Hall, and with well-wishers keen to have their moment, we did indeed lose it…and in turn lost them.
No harm was done. We managed to retrieve them just past an array of local cheeses. Having endured minimal trauma via the medium of extreme well-wishing, neither royal visitor appeared to be too traumatized by the experience. Not surprisingly, by the time we reached the next walkabout, in Vidago Square by the river Danube, there were enough barriers in place to adequ
ately contain a thousand fanatical Bolsheviks. After all, no democracy, however proud and new, wants to be responsible for mislaying members of the British Royal Family.
For all the anxiety of the first walkabout, both Charles and Diana worked wonders. This was quite a coup for an eastern bloc country. The local people had never seen royal luminaries at such close quarters, and as they walked, chatted and shook hands one could feel the palpable warmth and affection in the air. Even so, the crowds had taken a toll on the Princess.
‘Dickie,’ she whispered to me, as we neared the end of the walkabout in Vidago Square. ‘I’m feeling terrible. I think I’m going to pass out.’
Though there are plans and protocols in place for countless numbers of potential royal mishaps, there are none for a situation like this. It is generally left to the initiative of whomever is closest at the time. In this case, me.
Her Royal Highness clearly needed to be removed from the site, and quickly. The last thing either of us wanted was for her collapse in the middle of the crowd. Fortunately, the motorcade was parked nearby, in a side road just off the square, which had been sealed off in the event we needed an escape route.
‘Just keep walking close beside me,’ I told her. ‘Keep walking and don’t look back. We’re nearly there. Take deep breaths…that’s it…just keep going.’
I knew where the motorcade was parked; now it was just a case of getting the Princess to it without her keeling over.
Under normal circumstances a person feeling faint is not necessarily a cause for alarm, but these were not normal circumstances. Speculation was ongoing in the newspapers about whether the Princess was struggling with bulimia. I refused to enter into it. All I knew was that to provoke another rush of excitable chit-chat on the subject would benefit no-one, least of all the Princess and her sons.
We made it to the car. Once there, I ensured that she was comfortable. She simply seemed to be suffering from crowd-fatigue. I told the chauffeur – one of ours, who had driven the Prince’s Bentley from London – to give her water and to keep an eye on her. I walked back to where the Prince and the Household were saying their goodbyes and briefed the lady-in-waiting as to what had happened, grateful that a small crisis hadn’t exploded into a global story.
The following day the Princess was back in fine form, and in a reflective mood. After a display of British fashions at the Museum of Applied Arts in downtown Pest, the Princess was across the river in the old town of Buda. Amongst other magnificent buildings stood the Calvinist Church overlooking the Danube, and the equally magnificent parliament building on the opposite side of the river.
Diana was keen to visit the church, and I had a pretty good idea why. As I had seen her do before, she wanted to slip away from the hustle and bustle for a moment to centre herself through prayer.
I hung back and kept a watchful eye on her from a respectful distance. She went to the front of the nave, fell to her knees and buried her head in her hands. It was an intensely private moment and I lowered my eyes to look away, but not before catching a glimpse of a camera lens poking through a side door.
I crossed the space to collar the surprised photographer, knowing exactly what sort of action to take. Snappers know well how to handle such situations. They keep a spare roll of film handy so that when they’re caught taking unsolicited photographs, they hand over a decoy roll.
I was not going to let that happen. ‘I want all of it,’ I insisted. He didn’t try to argue as he knew he’d never see the pictures published without facing a lawsuit. All of his rolls were handed over.
There were no hard feelings. Such is the game between the press and the press office, one in which the score is generally about even.
CHAPTER 7
Breaking News
Cirencester, June 1990
By the beginning of the 1990s, it was abundantly clear that all was not well within the Prince and Princess of Wales’s marriage. Nothing had been said on the subject, and nothing would be. Not by the staff at any rate. As employees, we were expected to be the souls of discretion. Loyalty to my employer and her family meant that I wouldn’t enter into gossip about what might or might not have been going on in their private lives.
There was no doubt that the Prince and Princess’s living arrangements hinted at a marital rift. The Royal Family has always kept multiple residences, but by now the Princess was spending all of her time at Kensington Palace, while Prince Charles was usually to be found at Highgrove. Whenever possible he would always try to return to Gloucestershire, even if he had engagements that required him to be in central London.
With relations as they were, logistics became an even bigger issue in terms of joint engagements. Charles and Diana had a full diary of commitments which they were expected to attend together. They would arrive and depart from each engagement as a couple, but what the press didn’t know, was that often the royal car would make a stop in Friary Court, St James’s Palace, which was in Marlborough Road between the Mall and Pall Mall. There, another car would be waiting to take the Prince to wherever he might be going, while the Princess would continue home to Kensington Palace. It was a necessary performance to avoid giving the circling hacks any indication that trouble was afoot.
I had become accustomed to performing. By the time I began working for the Royal Family, I had experienced many years as both an actor and a broadcaster. Going before the cameras in my new role would have come easily had it not been so frowned upon by the Palace.
That said, one Friday in June 1990, I was left with a difficult choice.
I was at Highgrove with the Prince of Wales, where he was filming a piece for a television documentary marking the 15th anniversary of the Prince’s Trust. Charles was a consummate professional in front of the camera, and so the shoot was brief. Once he wrapped, he hurried off to play polo in Cirencester.
Highgrove has a staff dining room just off the kitchen. As soon as the camera crew left I took the opportunity to grab a bite to eat before heading back to London. No sooner had I sat down, then a call came through to let me know that the Prince had taken a tumble and was being driven to nearby Cirencester Cottage Hospital with a suspected broken arm.
Lunch curtailed, I made a run to meet him there. This particular polo match wasn’t a major event on the sporting calendar, but both the media and public were always keen to see the Prince play.
With Charles on his way to the hospital, I knew an eager band of journalists wouldn’t be far behind. My job was to get there first in order to prevent some poor unsuspecting hospital worker being seized by an overzealous reporter chasing a scoop.
As His Royal Highness was wheeled into theatre – an X-ray having confirmed that his arm was broken in three places above the elbow – the assembled press pack continued to multiply. Armed with what little information had been made available to me, I stepped outside to give a briefing.
The Prince was under anesthetic, and the questions came thick and fast.
‘If the arm is broken in three places, will Charles be able to play polo again?’
‘If the arm is broken in three places, what are the chances of Charles playing polo again?’
‘How will the bones knit together in order that…’ – you guessed it – ‘…the Prince will be able to play polo again?’
The press often asks the same question repeatedly in the hope of tripping up a designated spokesperson. I had already told them the simple facts: yes, the Prince had broken his arm in three places, and yes, he would be able to play polo again. Reporters on the hunt can’t help but want for news with more substance. After all, their livelihood depends upon acquiring sufficient copy to fill their editor’s bulletins and pages. They persist in squeezing out every last detail from situations which otherwise wouldn’t require more than a couple of lines.
With a partially satiated press, I went back inside to call the office with an update.
The Prince returned to his room a couple of hours later, having had the fractures set. I spok
e at length to the orthopedic surgeon who had performed the procedure to be absolutely clear on the facts. The afternoon was wearing on, and the crowd out front was becoming restless. Deadlines for the evening news bulletins were rapidly approaching and reporters were desperate for something to put on the air. I made an executive decision, and strode outside once again to give the assembled press a briefing… this time on camera.
It was short and succinct. I explained where and how the arm was broken, detailed the treatment that had been administered and offered assurances that HRH would be back in the saddle again soon.
I returned to pay a final visit to the Prince who was settling in for what his doctors anticipated would be a two-day stay. He had seen my briefing and was gracious enough to thank me for doing as he would have wished without having to ask.
That being my job, I thought nothing more of it. Meanwhile, what was potentially a much bigger news story was unfolding. HRH had a visitor – a Mrs Camilla Parker Bowles. Where she had sprung from I had no idea, but Charles was clearly pleased to see her. Though he was still woozy from the anesthetic, he was less agitated in her company. She didn’t stay long, just long enough to make sure he was comfortable and to assure him that she was close by if needed.
Personally, I never gave her presence much thought. The senior members of the Household knew what was going on, and if the worst came to pass, we would batten down the hatches and ride out the storm.
Over the course of the next two days, I returned to Cirencester to corral the press, and on the morning the Prince was discharged, I was on hand to provide a final briefing.
On Duty With the Queen: My Time as a Buckingham Palace Press Secretary Page 7
