On Duty With the Queen: My Time as a Buckingham Palace Press Secretary

by Dickie Arbiter

  It had been an eye-opening couple of days. I wasn’t privy to Charles and Camilla’s meetings, but had I been, and had I ventured an opinion about the potential for exposure, I would have been told in no uncertain terms to get lost.

  It was my first real glimpse into the grim reality of the Waleses marital situation. When the Prince left hospital, he and the Princess put on an impressive display of unity, but in reality they were anything but unified.

  I had a sense that difficult times lay ahead, but when I finally left for London, my principal feeling was one of profound relief that no-one had cottoned on to the bigger picture. The resultant headlines, particularly in the tabloids, would have been a gift to editors, and the front pages that might have been didn’t bear thinking about.

  I returned to the Palace feeling rather buoyant. The Prince’s arm would heal; the press was satisfied, and best of all there had been no leaks hinting at the much larger fracture – the state of the Waleses marriage. I was surprised, therefore, at the conclusion of the morning meeting when Charles Anson, my senior, asked me to stay behind.

  The royal press office then was a very different beast to the one operating today. Where now there is a team of some 27 people, in the late 1980s and early 90s, we were a much smaller affair. There was the press secretary in charge, and three other press secretaries, each with an overall portfolio. John Haslam looked after the Duke of Edinburgh, the Princess Royal and the royal finances. Geoff Crawford looked after Princess Margaret, the Duke and Duchess of York and Prince Edward. I looked after the Prince and Princess of Wales. Five information officers ably backed us up, one of which was responsible for the Court Circular and public enquiries. We were a grand total of nine, and a pretty close-knit team, so I was dismayed to have been singled out to stay after the meeting. I had a feeling that I was about to get a good dressing down. The question was, why?

  Charles Anson wasted no time in telling me. My sin proved to be the on-camera briefing I had given outside the hospital. It was not the royal way to speak on camera, and I shouldn’t have taken it upon myself to do so. No Buckingham Palace press officer had ever spoken on camera before. Our role was to brief the correspondents off the record, full stop.

  I was more than a little irritated. I had done my job professionally, and to the Prince’s satisfaction. I was almost 50 years old, and yet I’d been treated like I was new to the game.

  I kept my thoughts to myself, but after leaving Anson’s office, I put in a call to the Prince of Wales. It was an impulsive act, something I’d never done before, but given that Charles had thanked me personally, I felt that the situation needed to be rectified. In the grand scheme of things it was a minor transgression, especially given the much bigger crisis that had been avoided with reference to Mrs Parker Bowles.

  I felt both cheered and vindicated that my little knee-jerk act of petulance paid off. At the morning meeting the following day, Charles Anson explained that HRH had called to say how pleased he was with the way I had handled the broken arm incident.

  Despite the call from the Prince, there was no change in Palace policy. The royal communications strategy was stuck in the dark ages, but I toed the line from then on. It would have been nice to set a broadcasting precedent, but I was on staff, and one simply didn’t break the rules.

  CHAPTER 8

  Birthday Boy

  September 1990

  In 1990 the Princess of Wales threw me a party to celebrate my 50th birthday. There was a drinks reception in her sitting room followed by a sit down lunch in the dining room of the home she shared with Prince Charles at Kensington Palace. I couldn’t have been more excited. I’ve always been a big one for celebrating birthdays. Maybe it has something to do with the emotional challenges of my childhood, but I’ve always thought birthdays should carry importance. I couldn’t give a fig about exchanging Christmas presents, but when it comes to birthdays, I feel quite differently. It’s your big day – the one day in the year when you’re the centre of attention, and I love the whole idea of making it special.

  The Princess was incredibly generous and thoughtful. She loved to surprise people, including those who worked for her. That year I was to be especially spoiled, and my birthday would prove to set a precedent. I wasn’t aware of the Princess ever having laid on a party for someone who worked for her. To say I felt privileged would be an understatement.

  I was able to invite 20 guests, which gave me the perfect opportunity to share my good fortune with colleagues. I had been at the Palace for two years, and it was thanks to my pretty great workmates that I enjoyed going into the office every day.

  The party also gave me the chance to treat a trio of other key women in my life – my second wife Rosemary, my daughter and my mother, who had travelled from Bulawayo in order to celebrate my milestone birthday.

  I let Rosemary in on the secret early on, but merely told my mother that we were going out for lunch. Victoria, who was a boarder at Elmhurst Ballet School at the time, was kept completely in the dark.

  It had broken my heart to send Victoria to boarding school – not least because it brought back so many of my own painful memories – but having gone as far as she could with an after school ballet teacher, she longed to go to a school dedicated entirely to dance. With classes often going on into the early evening and at weekends, it simply wasn’t logical to attend as a day pupil. Although I missed her terribly, she thrived, and as an only child, perhaps she was tailor made for the experience as not only did she relish every minute of her time there, she made wonderful friends for life.

  In order to keep up the ruse, it was time to do a little performing myself. I arrived at her school mid-week, which was highly irregular, and told Victoria to change out of her uniform and into her Sunday best as we were going to lunch in London. Dumbfounded to be pulled out of class, she duly did as she was told. I didn’t come clean until we turned the car onto Palace Avenue, the private road that leads to Kensington Palace.

  ‘Where are we going,’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ I replied. ‘The Princess of Wales is giving me a lunch in her apartment, and she invited you too.’

  Victoria was speechless, something of a rarity, but her expression was a birthday present in itself. I had already let the cat out of the bag to my mother, as knowing how fastidious she was about her hair, make-up and always wearing the appropriate clothes, I knew she’d be mortified to have not had the opportunity to dress for this one. Telling her was a joy. Considering how much my mother had loved the high life, it was incredibly validating to be in a position to take her to lunch with the wife of the heir to the British throne and future Queen Consort. What’s more it was a lunch in her son’s honour.

  Upon entering apartments eight and nine, Diana’s residence until her death, people were immediately struck by how homey it was. While one might expect ornate tapestries, chandeliers and gold leaf ceilings, there was nothing ostentatious about the Princess’s house. The address may have read Kensington Palace, but it was a home first and foremost.

  When we arrived, we were shown into the drawing room and Diana joined us minutes later. Rendered completely star-struck, my wife, mother and daughter dipped into curtsies. As an avid ballet enthusiast, the Princess broke the ice immediately by telling Victoria that her curtsey was the best. My work duties frequently found me in this same room with Diana, but usually for little more than a quick exchange and a bow. Framed family photographs adorned every surface, and dominating the space was a large grand piano. An accomplished pianist in her own right, I had had the good fortune of hearing Diana play during a tour to Hungary in 1991. As had happened previously in Melbourne in 1988, a brave music professor persuaded her to have a go. Without the aid of sheet music, she skilfully played a section of Rachmaninoff’s Concerto Number Two. It was quite something.

  A champagne reception ensued, followed by lunch. We entered the dining room, where four tables of five had been set and helium balloons blazing Nifty Fifty! graced e
ach of the chairs. Streamers and party poppers also littered the tables, and everyone was in a very festive mood.

  Mervyn Wycherley, the Princess’s personal chef, prepared a meal that was simple and elegant, but the pièce de résistance was my surprise birthday cake. I had gained a reputation among my colleagues for never being without my mobile phone. It was always with me, as I was aptly reminded when the bright blue cake appeared, topped with an enormous sparkler. The cake was fashioned after the iconic Motorola ‘brick’ mobile of yesteryear and bore the apropos inscription, You’re never alone when Dickie’s got his phone!

  It was an extraordinary day and one I will remember always. I was wearing the Hermès tie Diana had given me the year before. On this day she presented me with a bottle-green cashmere jumper from a high-end shop on Jermyn Street. Admittedly, with my deep-rooted notion of keeping things for best, I have never felt an occasion best enough to wear that beautiful sweater. Today it still proudly sits in my wardrobe, as pristine as the day she gave it to me.

  It wasn’t just my phone that seemed to be permanently welded to my body, but also my favorite suitcase. It was just as well that I wasn’t fazed by a nomadic existence, as I was on the road for about a third of my working life. Royal tours might look glamorous, but they aren’t an excuse to gad-about on a jolly, rather they are filled with long hours, hectic agendas and protocols that have to be met. They can also be decidedly lonely affairs. In those days every night on the road entailed an evening event of some description, be it state banquets, cocktail receptions or formal meet-and-greets. Having been on parade all day, it wasn’t easy to then don formal wear for another evening of monotonous small talk. As soon as they were able, Charles and Diana would bolt to their individual rooms, no doubt craving a little solitude. While they sat on the phone to London, those of us providing the support would change into tracksuits, kick back with a drink and debrief the day. The couple’s 1990 tour schedule was no less busy than usual, including visits to Nigeria and Cameroon – two countries I was looking forward to simply due to my fond memories of life in Zimbabwe.

  A trip to Africa involved particularly astute planning. The continent didn’t have the sophisticated transport infrastructure of the developed world. It was decided that Britannia, the royal yacht, would be our base for the tour. The media’s internal ground and air transportation was organized in conjunction with the British High Commission based in Lagos, then the capital. The air component for the Prince and Princess, as well as the Household, would employ the Queen’s Flight BAe146 aircraft.

  The RAF used the January recce for this tour to familiarize itself with the various airports it would use to transport the royal party. It was necessary to do a dry run of the itinerary beforehand, however, as this was Africa and we didn’t want to leave anything to chance. With three fuel stops required en route, it took the best part of a day to travel to Lagos from RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. There’s no finer way to see the Sahara than from the window of a royal flight. Tamanrasset Airport, deep in the Algerian Sahara, was a memorable stop. I say airport; in reality it was a strip of tarmac and a single modest building that functioned as a terminal, control tower, customs and immigration hall all in one.

  It was there that I realized that a royal tour in this part of the world would have more than the usual complement of challenges. The Royal Family was used to roughing it, but the searing heat was oppressive in the extreme. In the coastal cities of Nigeria and Cameroon, we experienced what felt like 100% humidity – even more overbearing than steamy Indonesia. For Sir John Riddell, then Private Secretary, however, one would have thought he had just stepped off the plane and into a balmy British spring garden. I’ll never forget the sight of him strolling down the runway, dressed impeccably, as usual, in a crisp shirt and tie beneath a heavy-wool double-breasted suit while the rest of our party staggered around in clothes that looked like they’d been slept in for a week. Sir John was the epitome of an English gentleman – cool as a cucumber, wearing no hat, no sunglasses, not so much as a drop of sun block. Had I a hat, I would have raised it to him.

  The Nigerian tour took in Lagos, Port Harcourt, Maiduguri and Enugu. It was in Maiduguri that the Princess, this time accompanied by the Prince, paid a visit to a leprosy hospital with a call-in to the Molai Centre. Once again she debunked the ‘do not touch’ myth, informing reporters that leprosy wasn’t contagious, and that victims of the ailment shouldn’t be shunned. Maiduguri is in the north-east corner of Nigeria, near the border with Chad, and on our last day in the country Charles and Diana were treated to a Durbar – a celebration in their honour. We had been told during the recce that the event would last half an hour. More than an hour after the ceremony had begun, Their Royal Highnesses were still sitting alongside the region’s ruler (Nigeria is a Federation of States, each with a ruler or governor) as waves of tribespeople on foot and on horseback made their way across what can only be described as a dust bowl the size of a football field. Also on display was a large number of ululating women, whose unmistakable greeting call – a high, yodel-like trill – is heard in many parts of the African continent.

  The procession felt like it would never end, to the point that one member of the media pack quipped that perhaps the parade was running a circular route. For their part Charles and Diana displayed true British stoicism, as the long journey and late hour had no doubt taken a toll before the celebration had even started. The royal couple finally departed with scores of gifts and a fine layer of reddish dust covering them from head to toe. A quick look around confirmed that we were indeed all caked with it, except of course for Sir John Riddell.

  At last it was back on to the Queen’s plane for the return flight to Britannia, via Enugu in eastern Nigeria. The yacht would then sail the short distance to the port of Douala, Cameroon’s largest city. I on the other hand, along with my assistant, Kiloran McGrigor and the Princess’s policeman, Ken Wharfe, travelled on the press plane to Cameroon’s capital Yaoundé, where we would kill 36 hours.

  With the plane locked and loaded, and a knackered press corps comatose in its seats, we kicked back ready to relax for the duration of the flight. It was then that the captain suddenly exited the cockpit, opened the outside door and jumped down on to the tarmac. Concerned, I unbuckled my seatbelt and followed him down the steps, which had hastily been put in place. A decidedly incongruous site greeted me. A fire truck had been parked right up against the nose of the plane, preventing us from moving.

  ‘Money,’ the captain explained. ‘The airport manager says the aircraft’s fuel, taxes and landing fees haven’t been paid.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ I exclaimed.

  Not only had they been paid in full, but the High Commission had acted as a guarantor for all payments due. This was clearly a case of creative accounting. The ever-resourceful airport manager thought he’d make a bit of extra cash on the side. Diplomatic relations were breaking down at a rapid pace. I stepped in and told the manager I had an armed policeman on board who was tired, covered in dust and in a very bad mood.

  ‘Do you want me to call him off the plane?’ I asked.

  The bluff worked. After much huffing and puffing, the fire truck was duly moved, and we took off without further incident, headed for the Cameroonian capital of Yaoundé.

  Once in Yaoundé, as the press settled into its hotel, the three of us in the advance party planned to make the most of the time we had to kill before the Prince and Princess arrived.

  Someone, certainly not me, suggested we play a round of golf. Outnumbered by Kiloran and Wharfie, I had no choice but to agree. Using borrowed clubs from the hotel, we trotted off to play a round on the adjacent course. My golf prowess being distinctly limited, I did the best I could. Thankfully, the round was to be short lived.

  ‘Is that a snake?’ asked Ken, casually, as we approached one of the greens. He pointed to an unusual black shape in the grass.

  With a single nod I confirmed that it was. From my time in the Rhodesian arm
y, I knew immediately that it was a black mamba, the deadliest snake on the African continent.

  Eyebrows shot up.

  ‘…And where there is one,’ I added, ‘there will almost certainly be another.’

  Our round ended there, with a hasty sprint off the fairway. Golf being one of my least favourite pastimes, I was quite happy to hightail it to the bar instead.

  Our final stop in Cameroon entailed the Prince’s visit to Limbe Botanic Gardens, remembered not only for their beauty, but for how desperate I was to get out of there. I don’t recall ever experiencing such dizzying heat, particularly as we entered an amphitheatre to watch a group of local singers and dancers. It felt as if we’d entered a sauna from which there was no escape. The Prince coped remarkably well, no surprise as he takes after his parents who have an astonishing capacity for tolerating discomfort when in public. That said, I’m sure we were all eager to return to the cool comfort of the royal yacht back in Douala.

  There would be a quick turnaround as a black tie reception was to be held on board that evening. I showered and changed in about ten minutes, but fate was not on our side that day. The Admiral informed us that jellyfish had been sucked into the system while en route from Lagos, disabling the air conditioning – at last, something that did cause Sir John to break a sweat.

  CHAPTER 9

  Heir Raising

  December 1992

  During my time at the Palace I didn’t see a great deal of Princes William and Harry. Always in the limelight, Diana was well aware of the emotional toll royal life could take, and as a result she was eager to protect her children from the media glare for as long as possible. She took great pains to separate her role as a mother from her role as the wife of the heir to the throne. In doing so she hoped to provide the boys with as normal a childhood as one could have within the confines of Palace walls. She took them to movies, theme parks and burger restaurants, each activity allowing for the boys to have a life in common with their friends. She rarely brought them into the office at St James’s Palace. Unless there was a photo call at Ludgrove, their prep school, I seldom had the opportunity to spend time with them, but there is one occasion in particular that sticks out in my mind.