Philip: The Final Portrait

by Gyles Brandreth

  What was Lilibet like at thirteen? Henry Marten said she was shy and looked to Crawfie to give her confidence. Crawfie said that, at thirteen, ‘when so many are gawky’, Lilibet ‘was an enchanting child with the loveliest hair and skin and a long, slim figure’. She was growing up. She was no longer biting her nails. She was almost as tall as her mother. Soon her wardrobe of ‘very simple afternoon frocks’ – ‘usually of tussore silk, often hand-smocked, quite short with knickers to match’ – would give way to something more sophisticated: a hemline below the knees, silk stockings in place of white cotton ankle socks, a beret instead of a winter bonnet or a summer straw hat. Lilibet and Margaret Rose, who, according to Crawfie, ‘were never in the least interested in what they were going to wear and just put on what they were told’, no longer appeared, automatically, in matching outfits. The child was giving way to the young adult.

  Was she a moody adolescent? ‘No,’ said Patricia Mountbatten. ‘Far from it,’ said Margaret Rhodes. ‘She was always very controlled – or, should I say, in control?’

  Countess Mountbatten said, ‘The Queen told me recently that she had been quite nervous of me when we were in the Guides together and she was my second-in-command. That surprised me, but, of course, she has always been guarded about her feelings. Even as a girl, she was careful how she appeared in front of others. For example, if she fell and hurt herself she knew she mustn’t be seen to cry.’ ‘Only once,’ according to Crawfie, ‘did she walk right into my arms, thinking of nothing but that for the moment she had to have a little comforting … “Oh, Crawfie, Grandfather Strathmore is dead,” she said, and burst into tears.’

  Like her father and, to an even greater extent, her royal grandparents, King George and Queen Mary, Princess Elizabeth was not given to public displays of emotion. She was, from an early age, self-controlled, self-contained, self-sufficient. Was that healthy? We might not think so, living as we do in the let-it-all-hang-out twenty-first century, but things were very different eighty and more years ago. The ‘stiff upper lip’ wasn’t a joke then: it was a much-vaunted national characteristic. Lilibet was a Girl Guide35 and the daughter of a king – and of a king of England, too.

  Besides, as Margaret Rhodes pointed out to me, she had an outlet for her emotions. She might stand, as, by her own account, she did, for hours, gazing out of the window of Buckingham Palace, ‘watching the people and the cars there in the Mall’, saying little, but wondering ‘what they were doing and where they were all going, and what they thought about outside the Palace’. But, then, she could scamper off and play with the corgis and the labradors – with Dookie and Spark, Flash and Mimsey, Scruffy and Stiffy – or go for a ride on Peggy or Comet. Margaret Rhodes stubbed out yet another cigarette and pondered, ‘Perhaps she didn’t repress her feelings. Perhaps she channelled them through her animals. Dogs are faithful. And they don’t tell tales. I don’t know. All I do know is that the real love of her life, then, as now, was dogs, followed by horses.’

  The real-life Christopher Robin, who had become a character in a story book in the year that Princess Elizabeth was born, blamed his troubled adolescence on his parents and on the global fame attached to his name as a consequence of his father’s four best-selling children’s books. He later accused A.A. Milne of ‘building his reputation by standing on a small boy’s shoulders’. Princess Elizabeth, like Christopher Robin, received sackfuls of post from unknown admirers. Like Christopher Robin, she was photographed, written about, and featured in newspapers and magazines around the world. He, in effigy, appeared, with Pooh, in the window of Selfridges department store in Oxford Street. She appeared, with her pony, as a waxwork at Madame Tussaud’s exhibition in Marylebone Road. Unlike Christopher Robin, however, Elizabeth did not grumble: she accepted her lot.

  And it was a bizarre lot to have to accept. Aged eleven, when she was taken to a children’s matinée at the Holborn Empire, as she entered the auditorium, fifteen hundred children got to their feet and sang a specially written children’s verse of the national anthem. Aged twelve, she was attending the Buckingham Palace Garden Parties, walking dutifully behind her parents through a throng of three thousand excited subjects, who bowed and curtsied as she passed. Aged thirteen, she accepted her first official post: as President of the Children’s League of the Princess Elizabeth of York Hospital, which had been named after her. From birth, she had been a public figure: now, she had increasingly to become accustomed to public life, to exposure to public gaze, to being – literally – the centre of attention.

  Princess Elizabeth was blessed with parents who were loving – and united. Prince Philip’s parents lived apart from each other and Philip did not live with either of them. In November 1937 Philip, aged sixteen, saw Andrea and Alice together for the first time in six years – and for the last time ever. That was when the family gathered in Darmstadt for the heartbreaking business of the funeral of Philip’s sister Cécile and her husband and two of their three children, all killed in the aeroplane accident on their way to a cousin’s wedding. Kurt Hahn, Philip’s headmaster at Gordonstoun, broke the news of the tragic accident to the sixteen-year-old boy, who took it on board with stoical calm. ‘His sorrow,’ according to Hahn, ‘was that of a man.’ Andrea, understandably, was devastated by the deaths: Cécile had been his favourite daughter. Of the parents, it seems Alice coped the better. Her sister Louise (now married to the King of Sweden) said Alice was ‘so balanced & so splendid about her sorrow’.

  Alice appeared to have regained some of her old equilibrium. She was even ready to consider the possibility of living with her husband once more. That was not a prospect Andrea was willing to entertain. He returned to the south of France and the singular life of a displaced prince. He moved between Monte Carlo and Nice, between hotel rooms and the yachts of friends. He drank, he charmed, he reminisced. At a distance, he followed the complexities of Greek politics. When he could, he visited relations. At the beginning of 1938 he asked Philip to join him on an expedition to Athens to attend the wedding of Crown Prince Paul of Greece and Princess Frederika of Hanover.

  Cécile’s youngest child, her baby daughter Johanna, had been too small to take on the fatal flight in November 1937. She died, nonetheless, aged barely two, of a fever, in June 1939. Alice, who was at her little granddaughter’s deathbed, wrote to Philip: ‘… we had such a sweet picture before our eyes of a lovely sleeping child with golden curls, looking for me so very like Cécile at that age that it was like losing my child a second time and I was thankful that Papa was away travelling and did not see that, for Papa adored Cécile when she was small and could never bear to be parted from her.’ This was the month in which Philip turned eighteen. His mother, having disappeared from his life throughout his adolescence, was in touch with her boy once more. A week later she wrote to him again: ‘I am quite exhausted by the strain and the sadness of it all.’

  The Yorks, undoubtedly, were more conventional parents. Inevitably, as King and Queen, however, they saw less of their daughters than they would have liked. In the summer of 1938, with the clouds of war gathering across Europe, Lilibet and Margaret Rose were left at home as Papa and Mama undertook their first foreign assignment: a state visit to France intended to reinforce the Entente Cordiale. In May 1939, with war now imminent (despite Chamberlain’s determination to secure peace), the King and Queen were dispatched on a longer and more ambitious expedition: to Canada and the United States. The American President, Franklin Roosevelt, invited the Princesses along for the ride. ‘I shall try to have one or two Roosevelts of approximately the same age to play with them!’ he promised.

  In the event, the girls were left at home, perhaps wisely. The tour proved arduous and the transatlantic crossing, on board the Empress of Australia, potentially perilous. Off the coast of Newfoundland, the fog was treacherous. The Queen reported by letter to her mother-in-law, Queen Mary: ‘For three & a half days we only moved a few miles. The fog was so thick, that it was like a white cloud round the ship, and th
e foghorn blew incessantly … We were nearly hit by a berg the day before yesterday, and the poor Captain was nearly demented because some kind cheerful people kept on reminding him that it was about here that the Titanic was struck, & just about the same date.’

  George VI and Queen Elizabeth were the first reigning British monarchs to visit North America and their tour was a triumph. Even in Quebec, the cry went up: ‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine!’ The Governor-General of Canada was Lord Tweedsmuir (better remembered as the novelist John Buchan), who chaperoned the King and Queen for much of the Canadian leg of the tour and drafted the text of the King’s principal speeches. For Tweedsmuir, the most telling moment came at the unveiling of a war memorial in Ottawa: ‘The King spoke admirably and clearly, as he has done each time since he landed. After the ceremony the Queen said to me that she wanted to go down among the veterans, and I thought, knowing what excellent fellows they are, that it would be worth chancing it. A most extraordinary scene followed. The King and Queen, and my wife and myself, were absorbed in a crowd of six or seven thousand ex-soldiers, who kept the most perfect order among themselves, and opened up lanes for Their Majesties to pass through. There was no need of the police, and indeed the police would have had no chance. It was a wonderful example of what a people’s king means … One old man shouted to me, “Ay, man, if Hitler could see this!” It was extraordinarily moving because some of these old fellows were weeping … The capacity of Their Majesties for getting in touch with the people amounts to genius.’

  Tweedsmuir was smitten. The King was a ‘wonderful mixture’ of ‘shrewdness, kindliness and humour’: ‘He is simply one of the best people in the world. I never thought that I should feel the romantic affection for my sovereign that I felt for him.’ The Queen ‘has a kind of gentle, steady radiance which is very wonderful’ and ‘a perfect genius for the right kind of publicity, the unrehearsed episodes here were marvellous’. When he had dried his eyes and cleared his throat, the Governor-General reported to the British Prime Minister, ‘The Statute of Westminster is now much more than a mere piece of paper, for we have been given a visual revelation of its meaning.’ Henry Marten, Lilibet’s tutor, would have been gratified.

  The King and Queen were as rapturously received in the United States. They took to the President. ‘He is so easy to get to know,’ wrote the King, ‘& never makes one feel shy.’ Roosevelt was equally charmed, and impressed – and possibly a little surprised – to find his British guests quite knowledgeable ‘not only about foreign affairs in general but also about social legislation’. ‘The British sovereigns have conquered Washington,’ said the New York Times. Crowds turned out to cheer and an initially sniffy press was quickly won over. The misty-eyed Lord Tweedsmuir murmured to His Majesty, ‘It is a pleasant saying in the United States at the moment that you have taken the “g” out of kingship.’ The King himself, whose confidence grew as the tour proceeded, learnt from the experience. ‘There must be no more high-hat business,’ he reflected during the tour, ‘the sort of thing that my father and those of his day regarded as essential as the correct attitude – the feeling that certain things could not be done.’

  The royal couple returned to England on 22 June 1939. The imminence of war, combined with glowing coverage of the tour in the British press, ensured a properly patriotic and heart-tuggingly warm welcome home. Lilibet and Margaret Rose had not seen their parents for seven weeks.36 The girls, accompanied by Alah and Crawfie, travelled by train to Southampton. There they were taken, by destroyer, to meet their parents’ ship mid-Channel. While Crawfie and the Princesses ate cherries with the captain on deck, Alah retreated to a cabin (‘I think she was not feeling very well,’ Crawfie reported, lips pursed). At last, ‘The Empress of India came in sight and we went below to tidy. The Captain’s cabin amused us, with its, to us, almost primitive amenities.’ Back on deck, they saw the Empress ‘heaving to’ and the King and Queen amidships. ‘The little girls could hardly walk up the ladder quickly enough,’ recalled Crawfie, ‘but when they reached the top they rushed to Mummie and Papa. They kissed them and hugged them again and again … The Queen kissed me and said how much the children had grown and how well they looked, and all the time the King could hardly take his eyes off Lilibet.’

  In the ship’s dining room happiness reigned. There was much merriment, and balloons and bunting, too. The King pushed some of the balloons through a porthole. Lord Airlie popped some of them with his cigarette. Champagne cocktails were served and Crawfie got a little squiffy. We can imagine what Alah thought. We are told the Queen said, ‘Poor Crawfie, I ought to have warned you. They make them rather strong aboard.’

  There was rejoicing in the streets as well. From Southampton to Waterloo, all along the railway route, Their Majesties’ subjects turned out to cheer. From Waterloo to Buckingham Palace, the King and Queen travelled home in state. According to police estimates, some fifty thousand people crowded into the Mall to salute them, the men raising their caps and bowler hats (and furled umbrellas) in greeting, the women and children waving flags and handkerchiefs. As the royal carriage passed through Parliament Square, MPs of every party came out of the House of Commons to watch the parade. ‘Such fun,’ Harold Nicolson reported to his wife, Vita Sackville-West. ‘The bells of St Margaret’s began to swing into welcome and the procession started creeping round the corner. They went very slowly, and there were the King and Queen and the two Princesses. We lost all our dignity and yelled and yelled. The King wore a happy schoolboy grin. The Queen was superb. She really does manage to convey to each individual in the crowd that he or she have had a personal greeting. It is due, I think, to the brilliance of her eyes.37 But she is in truth one of the most amazing Queens since Cleopatra. We returned to the House with lumps in our throats.’

  The King and Queen were riding high. To date, this was their finest hour. Perhaps it needed to be: it was the prelude, after all, to Britain’s darkest hour. War was looming. There was a whiff of romance in the air as well. On 22 July, exactly a month after their triumphal return from America, and five weeks and a day before the declaration of war on 3 September, the King and his family and their entourage – Crawfie and Alah and all – set off for a brief excursion on the Royal Yacht Victoria & Albert. Their first port of call – part duty, part pleasure – was along the Devon coast, at the mouth of the estuary of the River Dart, at Dartmouth, at the Royal Naval College, where the King – a cadet at the College in the years before the Great War – was to carry out an inspection, and Princess Elizabeth, aged thirteen, was to meet Prince Philip of Greece, aged eighteen. Lilibet later claimed it was love at first sight.

  Chapter Six

  ‘He had never kissed me, and I wondered whether he would.’

  Vita Sackville-West (1892–1962), Portrait of a Marriage

  ‘How do you do?’

  He was standing over her, looking gently amused. He was tall and slim, blond and blue-eyed, and his dark blue naval uniform suited him. He was eighteen and achingly handsome.

  ‘I’m quite well,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She was sitting on the floor, her knees tucked under her, leaning over the track of a toy railway set, trying to make an engine stand steady on the rolling stock.

  ‘You haven’t had mumps then?’ he asked. He seemed to be half-laughing as he spoke. She sensed he was teasing her, but she did not mind.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘But Papa – the King – he had the mumps when he was a cadet here. He said we should be careful. He says it’s really horrid.’

  Philip nodded, slowly. ‘Yes, beastly. I know one of the chaps who’s got it now. He’s having a rotten time.’ Her brow furrowed. She was trying to look sympathetic. He thought she was anxious. He smiled. It was a kindly smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m not contagious.’ He crouched down beside her and took the engine out of her hand. ‘Let me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, again.

  ‘To be honest,’ he said, when they had watched the small train rattle around the tr
ack four times more, ‘I don’t see you as a clockwork-railway sort of girl. Do you fancy a game of tennis?’

  She looked uncertain. ‘I haven’t got—’

  He interrupted: ‘Of course not.’ He got to his feet. ‘But we could jump the nets or something. Or we could play croquet. Do you play croquet? It’s a filthy game. Vicious. Shall we play croquet?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’d like that.’

  He took her right hand in his and pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Well, dear reader, it might have been like that. Who knows? When I asked him he said he couldn’t remember much about it, and I don’t think you will find her very forthcoming (even if you have the courage to ask her), and all the other witnesses are long since dead.

  What we do know is this. Prince Philip of Greece, fresh out of Gordonstoun, just turned eighteen, apparently very engaging (there is evidence), certainly very handsome (there are photographs), was undoubtedly at the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth, on the weekend of 22–23 July 1939. He was coming to the end of his three-month initial officers’ training course. He was not a traditional Dartmouth cadet. They came to the College at thirteen and stayed for five years. Philip was a Special Entry recruit. These were public school boys, who joined up at eighteen, and would normally begin their naval careers on a training cruiser. However, in anticipation of war, HMS Frobisher, the cruiser in which Philip would have expected to train, was being refitted and rearmed, hence the presence of Philip – and the other ‘Specials’ – at Dartmouth.

  We know, too, that on Saturday, 22 July, the day Victoria & Albert arrived at Dartmouth, Philip was invited to join the royal party. It is hardly surprising, since he was a cousin of the King, and his uncle, Louis Mountbatten, was in attendance on board the Royal Yacht. On 22 July, Mountbatten noted in his diary: ‘Philip accompanied us and dined on board.’ The next day he reported: ‘Philip came back aboard V and A for tea and was a great success with the children.’