by Penny Junor
No one who knew Diana will ever forget her. Millions of others who never met her, but felt they knew her, will remember her.
I for one believe that there are lessons to be drawn from her life and from the extraordinary and moving reactions to her death.
The Queen’s words were what people wanted to hear, and they were delivered in the nick of time, but she does not have her mother’s gift. The Queen Mother exuded charm and empathy; her smile, her wave, her eyes – no one who stood within a sizeable radius of Queen Elizabeth, whether she spoke to them or not, ever felt they had been excluded. They knew she had noticed them and her look spoke volumes. Diana had the same gift, in a much more informal, modern way and her laugh charmed the birds from the trees. She had no fear of people’s emotions. She invited them to open up, and was not afraid to hold a hand for longer than normal or to put a comforting arm around someone in need. The Queen finds it very hard; it is partly her character and partly a generational thing. She was brought up, as people were in the 1920s, with a stiff upper lip; she was taught not to wear her heart on her sleeve and to keep her emotions to herself. ‘Nowadays people think differently,’ says a former courtier of the same age, ‘but if that’s what you’ve been taught, as we all were, it lives with you. It might appear that we are not as simpatico as we might be, but it’s just that we don’t show our feelings and that’s the way it is. It doesn’t mean we don’t care. It was demonstrated at the time of the Princess of Wales’s death. It’s the generation gap. A stiff upper lip is not all bad; it gets you through difficult times. You can’t cry all the time.’ The Prince of Wales has more of his grandmother than his mother in him in that respect; he is a deeply spiritual man and not alarmed by what lies beneath the surface – but, like his mother, he has sometimes taken some convincing to believe that his presence will help. He was once persuaded to stop at a school in Middlesbrough on his way to Teesside, where a child had been brutally murdered the day before. He was afraid he would be intruding on private grief but his Private Secretary said firmly not; this was what was expected of monarchy. The press were out in force and he talked to the headmaster and the parents of the murdered girl. Then, quite unexpectedly, the headmaster asked whether he would talk to the girl’s classmates. Unprepared, but unable to say no, he spoke to them, told them about his own experience, how he had learned to cope with the murder of Lord Mountbatten. It was monarchy at its best.
Prince Charles drew on personal experience again when he went to Omagh in Northern Ireland in 1998, just after twenty-nine people, many of them women and children, had been killed by a Real IRA bomb. More than two hundred were injured, many of them seriously; one of the doctors performing amputations said afterwards that he had done so many he had lost count. Charles spent five and a half hours in Omagh, talking to the injured and relatives of the dead, meeting doctors, nurses and the people from the emergency services who had had the grim task of collecting the body pieces. And he visited the site where the twenty-nine had died. It was an emotionally draining day, he found everything he saw and heard deeply upsetting, but, like his grandmother, he appears to absorb other people’s pain without cracking up himself. When asked how he does it, he says, ‘It’s fifteen hundred years of breeding. It comes from being descended from Vlad the Impaler!’ Again, he was worried that he might be intruding on other people’s grief but nothing could have been further from the truth. About a thousand people came to see him, all of them saying again and again how grateful they were that he had come. And it was clear in Omagh, as it is in the aftermath of every tragedy, that a royal visit helps. When a politician turns up, cynics can always say he or she is doing it to win votes. The same can never be said about a member of the Royal Family.
But if ever proof were needed that these aspects of monarchy were valued, the public reaction to the deaths of the Princess of Wales and, four years later, the Queen Mother, must surely have been it. Two very different reactions but, in their own ways, both equally as strong. I don’t pretend for a second that I understand what was going on in the public psyche when Diana died – even psychiatrists have tried and failed to explain the extraordinary display of grief for someone who most of those grieving, some so badly they needed counselling, had never even met. It wasn’t just the shocking way in which it happened, or just the fact that she was so young and beautiful and leaving behind two young children. I don’t even think it was the tragic end to what had been a very tortured and tragic life. I think she provided on a small scale what monarchy provides in the wider picture. People seemed to identify with her, they felt that she spoke for them and cared about them, and was a part of their lives, utterly familiar, her face seen time and again, part of their identity, part of the national identity.
The Lord Chamberlain, the Earl of Airlie, who was responsible for organizing Diana’s funeral, which had to be done from scratch with no precedent to follow, went out into the crowds outside Buckingham Palace on two separate occasions during the days after her death to try and understand what was going on. He concluded that there were two distinct groups of people among the mourners. There were the modernists, who were desperately unhappy, crying in the streets and wanting to demonstrate their feelings in the various ways they did; and there were the traditionalists, quiet, low-profile, who didn’t openly express their views – very upset, no doubt, but not likely to have been milling around outside Buckingham Palace. It proved an important factor in deciding what sort of funeral procession to devise, one that took into account both the modernists and the traditionalists. The result was a cortège with Welsh Guardsmen on either side of the coffin to provide the formal, ceremonial and a bit of military; but to have all Diana’s charities following behind higgledy-piggledy, which was perfect, and perfectly judged. The procession alienated no one.
Any fears that the public reaction to the Queen Mother’s death when it finally came on 31 March 2002 – she was a hundred and one, had two new hips and up until the end looked as sparky and indestructible as ever – would be insignificant by comparison with their reaction to Diana’s were simply not borne out. The BBC misjudged it badly. They did interrupt a programme in the early evening to make the announcement but the newscaster who delivered the news, Peter Sissons, was wearing an everyday burgundy-coloured tie (following BBC guidelines), and for the main evening News At Ten was still wearing burgundy rather than black – and was much criticized for it. There was no hysteria as there had been over Diana’s death, but Diana’s death had been unnatural and untimely; the Queen Mother’s was a peaceful conclusion to a long, full and largely very happy life. But there was no shortage of mourners. Thousands of bouquets were left on the lawns at St George’s Chapel in Windsor, and the queue for the lying-in-state in Westminster Hall, where each of the Queen Mother’s four grandsons – Charles, Andrew, Edward and Princess Margaret’s son, Viscount Linley – stood vigil, stretched for more than three miles. So many people wanted to pay their respects that the doors of the Hall were left open all night.
Prince Charles, who had been in skiing in Klosters with William and Harry, was distraught and on his return gave a very personal and moving tribute on television to his ‘magical grandmother’. How much they had learned from the experience of four years ago. Then there had not been so much as a statement from Balmoral, and the family had all gone to church within hours of hearing the news, which looked, in this godless day and age, for all the world as though nothing momentous had happened.
Plans for the Queen Mother’s funeral – Operation Tay Bridge – had been drawn up years before and were very straightforward compared with the complexity of Diana’s. Queen Elizabeth’s was a full-blown state funeral with full ceremonial regalia; and ceremony is something that The Firm does exceedingly well. One million people lined the route on the day of the funeral and one billion around the world supposedly watched it on television.
Why? Because of what she represented. She was an old woman with a penchant for pastel coats and matching feathery hats; a complete t
yrant, rumour has it, but a much-loved mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. Bill Tallon, or ‘Backstairs Billy’ as he was known, her butler for many years, also loved her unreservedly. People of all ages, all religions and all colours queued in the cold for hours to walk past her coffin because she had touched their hearts, just as Diana had. She was part of their identity, the nation’s identity, as familiar to them as the language, November fog or cancelled trains.
TWENTY-THREE
Pomp and Ceremony
Ceremonial is part and parcel of the monarch’s ability to represent the nation to itself, and anyone who advocates a bicycling monarchy, like the Scandinavians, where the King of Sweden was once asked for proof of identity when he presented his credit card in a shop, has been a lousy student of history. The British love ceremonial – so do tourists. The sight of the Irish State Coach or the Golden Coach drawn by four pairs of immaculate Windsor Greys, uniforms dating back to Tudor times and serried ranks of soldiers, moving with the precision of a Patek Philippe watch, is not just stirring, it touches the very heart of what it is to be British.
It is something that critics of the monarchy seize on regularly; why, they ask, does the Queen have to travel by coach and horses with all the paraphernalia to open Parliament? Why can’t she just go by car?
These are the sort of questions that come up for discussion from time to time inside Buckingham Palace, a custom encouraged by Lord Airlie when he was Lord Chamberlain. He would get papers written on the subject – not just platitudes but genuine, thought-provoking papers which got out into the open issues, many of them difficult, that it would have been much more comfortable to have left forgotten. They would then discuss the paper, look at the pros and cons and try to form a view. And find, as in the case of the ceremonial, that there might be changes that they could make at the margins, but that there was not a strong argument for doing away with it. Once you have done away with it, it is gone for ever.
Lord Airlie’s view is that they do it very professionally and it is something the British love. Ceremonial is an important part of the image of the monarchy and the respect that people have for it. They want to see the Queen up there in her magnificent coach – even if not every car driver and bus passenger caught in the resultant traffic jam in London agrees.
The State Opening of Parliament is a tradition that goes back centuries and is the very essence of what our constitutional monarchy is all about. It establishes the Queen’s role and Parliament’s role and the relationship between them. And the ceremonial aspect, rooted so deeply in history, and so incongruous with modern life, serves as a vivid reminder, even if only subliminally, of the continuity and stability of our system. Society may be changing rapidly, technology turning our world upside down, but in the sea of so much change and uncertainty there is a rock – a landmark that is reassuringly constant. No matter which individual is wearing the crown, the sovereign performs the same ritual year in year out.
In October or November, or at other times if there is a change of government, the Queen makes the journey from Buckingham Palace in the Irish State Coach (on view in the Royal Mews) drawn by four horses with a Household Cavalry escort. They take the traditional processional route down the Mall, across Horse Guards Parade, through the Horse Guards Arch into Whitehall and along to the Palace of Westminster where a guard of honour awaits – three officers and 101 men with a colour and a band. The Queen wears a long evening dress with long white gloves and the George IV diamond State Diadem on her head, which normally resides with the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London. The rest of the regalia travels in its own coach ahead of the Queen’s; the Comptroller of the Lord Chamberlain’s Office carries the Imperial State Crown (set with three thousand precious stones and weighing two pounds thirteen ounces) for which she exchanges the diadem during the ceremony. His assistant carries the Cap of Maintenance, and other bits of regalia are carried by Gentlemen Ushers and Serjeants-at-Arms. Before he became Diana’s rock, Paul Burrell was at one time one of the Queen’s personal footmen at Buckingham Palace; on the eve of the State Opening one year he found his boss, late at night, working on her boxes with pink mule slippers on her feet and the Imperial State Crown on her head. She was practising carrying the equivalent of nearly two standard bags of sugar on her head – as she does every year – but the absurdity of the picture she presented was not lost on her. Before the Trooping the Colour ceremony, the Prince of Wales practises wearing a bearskin, which is also several bags of sugar, and he has the added hazard of having to sit on the back of a horse at the same time.
Before the royal party sets out a detachment of ten Yeomen of the Guard – the oldest of the royal bodyguards (formed by Henry VII in 1485) and the oldest military corps in existence – search the cellars under the Houses of Parliament with lanterns to make sure the building is safe. This dates back to 4 November 1605 when they found Guy Fawkes busily preparing to blow up the place; nowadays they are helped in their task by policemen with sniffer dogs and other devices but the ten Yeomen of the Guard in their scarlet doublets still go too.
The ceremony itself takes place in the House of Lords – the Commons are summoned from their chamber to hear The Queen’s Speech – and when the Queen arrives at the Sovereign’s Entrance she is met by the Earl Marshal and the Lord Great Chamberlain, both in scarlet court dress, the latter carrying the golden key to the Palace of Westminster. The entire ritual is performed by a collection of officers with ancient titles in ancient costumes and when the Queen finally arrives in the chamber of the House of Lords (having been up the Royal Staircase past two lines of troopers of the Household Cavalry in full dress uniform with swords drawn) to the Robing Room to put on the crown in the ceremony for which she has been practising, plus the Garter collar with diamond George (the figure of St George and the dragon) and the same parliamentary robe she wore for her coronation – eighteen feet of crimson velvet and ermine – she is ready for a throne to sit on.
The Lord Chancellor then advances – and, despite the present incumbent Lord Falconer’s attempt to abolish the ancient office in 2003, much to the Queen’s surprise and dismay – removes The Queen’s Speech (written by the Cabinet) from its special silk bag and on bended knee hands it to the sovereign. Before she reads it, the ‘faithful Commons’ have to be summoned. What follows is a reminder, dating back to 1642, when Charles I burst into the Commons with troops in the vain hope of arresting five MPs, that the Commons have the right to exclude everyone from the chamber except the sovereign’s messenger. The Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod is that messenger; dressed in black cutaway tunic, knee breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes with white lace jabot and cuffs and a sword at his side, he makes his way to the House of Commons and as he approaches the Serjeant-at-Arms slams the door in his face. Black Rod knocks three times with his rod – three and a half feet long and made of ebony – the Serjeant-at-Arms looks through the grille to make sure there are no troops and opens the door. Black Rod then says, ‘Mr Speaker, the Queen commands this Honourable House to attend Her Majesty immediately in the House of Peers.’ With traditional lack of haste, the Speaker and the Serjeant-at-Arms baring his mace then lead MPs to the Upper Chamber, chatting deliberately as they go to demonstrate they stand in no awe of ‘the other place’. The other place can’t hold the full complement so a token 250 MPs stand at the opposite end of the Chamber to the sovereign to listen to ‘the most Gracious Speech from the Throne’ at the end of which Parliament is officially open.
‘On the face of it, it is the Queen giving these common folk their instructions about what they are to do,’ says Lord Garel-Jones, the former MP (as Tristan Garel-Jones) and pairing whip and, as such, for seven years held sinecure positions within the royal household.
But everyone knows the government has written it. Well, what is the first thing the House of Commons does when it gets back? It approves, on the nod, no debate, supply for the Armed Forces. It votes money so that the monarch can pay her soldiers, and the symbolis
m of that is, ‘You may be head of the Armed Forces, all those soldiers may have sworn an oath of allegiance to you but, we, Parliament, the people, we actually pay for all of this.’ It is a symbol but it doesn’t do any harm to remind people about these things.
As vice-chamberlain, comptroller and treasurer, Garel-Jones played a part in the State Opening, walking backwards with his rod of office at the ready. ‘It’s all part of the pantomime but there’s no harm in it and a lot of the pantomime represents part of Britain’s evolution from absolutism to being widely regarded as one of the most solid democracies in the world. Each one of these things that goes on reminds us. It hasn’t happened by chance. It has happened through history.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Charity Begins at Home
It was steaming hot in the hospital. There was no air conditioning and, despite the pioneering work going on here, not many creature comforts. This was Tashkent in Uzbekistan, once part of the Soviet Union and still communist to its fingertips in everything but name. Life was still bureaucratic, cheerless and very hand-to-mouth.
The hospital specialized in treating children with cerebral palsy and the Princess Royal had come to visit. It was July 1993, she had recently remarried and this was her first foreign trip with her new husband, Tim Lawrence. They had already been to neighbouring Mongolia, where they had narrowly avoided eating sheep’s eyeballs in a nomadic camel breeder’s yurt – a great honour in those parts – and been soaked to the skin in a sudden storm in the Gobi Desert; from there they had travelled to Kazakhstan. The trip was a mixture of Foreign Office fixtures, the British Royal Family extending the hand of friendship abroad, and charity, which more often than not in foreign parts is Save the Children. Uzbekistan was the last leg of the ten-day trip.
