Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother seemingly put the matter out of her mind – ‘the old ostrich approach’, as Charteris had it. The young Queen, not yet crowned, put the matter on hold. ‘Under the circumstances,’ she said, ‘it isn’t unreasonable for me to ask you to wait a year.’ In the event, Margaret and Townsend waited more than two years before bowing to the inevitable.
Elizabeth wanted Margaret to be happy. As their cousin, Margaret Rhodes, put it to me, ‘Margaret drove the Queen mad frequently, but she was her sister and she loved her.’ Prince Philip was not unsympathetic, either. He was infuriated by the amount of publicity the romance generated, and annoyed, especially, that it was a photograph taken at Westminster Abbey on Coronation Day – of Margaret brushing Townsend’s lapel ‘with a tender hand’ – that triggered the worldwide media interest in the story, but there is no evidence to support repeated press suggestions that he was positively hostile towards Townsend. When stories of his alleged plotting against his would-be brother-in-law appeared in the papers, Philip bleated, despairingly, ‘What have I done? I haven’t done anything.’ In truth, he tried to keep out of the way. As he said to me once, with reference to his own children’s marital difficulties, ‘I try to keep out of these things as much as possible.’ Charteris said to me, ‘Prince Philip had a sort of ragging, joshing way with Princess Margaret, treated her as the wayward younger sister, but I don’t believe he interfered in any way. The Queen was naturally sympathetic towards the Princess, but I think she thought – she hoped – given time, the affair would peter out. Townsend really was unsuitable. He was older, he had two sons already. It just wasn’t going to happen. Churchill wouldn’t wear it. Salisbury wouldn’t wear it. The Commonwealth wouldn’t wear it. It wasn’t going to happen.’
It didn’t. Under the Royal Marriages Act of 1772 the Queen’s sister required the Queen’s blessing before she could marry. If the Queen decided not to sanction marriage, Princess Margaret could wait until her twenty-fifth birthday and then marry without the sovereign’s consent provided she could secure the approval of Parliament. In 1953, when Margaret was still twenty-three, Churchill, whose momentary first instinct had been that ‘the path of true love must be allowed to run smooth’, quickly advised against the marriage. Lord Salisbury, a senior figure in the government, was adamantly opposed. The Commonwealth prime ministers, when consulted, expressed their misgivings. The Queen was Supreme Governor of the Church of England: her sister’s union with a divorced man was not to be condoned.
For two years the issue simmered on, with the publicity surrounding it coming to the boil at regular intervals. In the hope that distance might lessen enchantment, under pressure from Lascelles and Churchill, the Queen agreed that Townsend be ‘let go’ from court. He was dispatched to the British Embassy in Brussels as air attaché. Margaret took up her public duties. She accompanied her mother on a tour of Rhodesia. Alone, she undertook a tour of the West Indies. For nearly two years the lovers remained apart, but in touch. They were lovesick and the malady lingered on. It all came to a head in the summer and autumn of 1955, as Margaret approached and passed her twenty-fifth birthday. At twenty-five she would be free to marry without the sovereign’s consent. The new Prime Minister, Anthony Eden (himself, incidentally, divorced), advised the Queen that the Government still could not sanction the union – Lord Salisbury, for one, would resign if it attempted to do so – and, while the legislation required to enable the marriage to take place might be passed by Parliament, it would necessitate the Princess sacrificing her right of succession. Margaret was third in line to the throne. Eden advised the Queen that ‘neither the proposed marriage nor her renunciation of her right to the Succession need in themselves affect her style and title as Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret or the provision made for her under the Civil List’, but, inevitably, if she married Townsend, her status would be changed, irrevocably.
In the end Margaret decided against the sacrifice. She met with Townsend on 22 October 1955. ‘We were both exhausted,’ he recalled, ‘mentally, emotionally, physically.’ He knew his Princess loved her life as a princess. He knew he could not expect her to abandon it for a life in Brussels as the not-quite-as-royal-as-once-she-was second wife of a middle-aged air attaché. They met again. ‘We looked at each other,’ he said, ‘there was a wonderful tenderness in her eyes which reflected, I suppose, the look in mine. We had reached the end of the road.’
On 31 October they met at Clarence House and had a last drink together, toasting the happiness they had shared and the future they would not. At seven o’clock that same evening the young Princess issued a public statement that, within hours, became the lead story on front pages around the world:
‘I would like it to be known that I have decided not to marry Group Captain Peter Townsend. I have been aware that, subject to renouncing my rights of succession, it might have been possible for me to contract a civil marriage. But, mindful of the Church’s teaching that Christian marriage is indissoluble, and conscious of my duty to the Commonwealth, I have resolved to put these considerations before any others.
‘I have reached this decision entirely alone, and in doing so I have been strengthened by the unfailing support of Group Captain Townsend. I am deeply grateful for the concern of all those who have constantly prayed for my happiness.’
Sarah Bradford, in her biography of the Queen, says, when she reaches this point in the story: ‘Amazingly, the royal family did not rally round Margaret on the night of her formal renunciation. She dined alone while her mother kept an official engagement at London University. The Queen Mother did not say goodnight to her daughter on her return. For some time they had barely been on speaking terms; for the Queen Mother, the Townsend affair had been as traumatic as the Abdication had for Queen Mary. Elizabeth telephoned for a brief conversation, after which Margaret returned to watching boxing on television. The King’s death and his widow’s subsequent withdrawal, Elizabeth’s marriage and Margaret’s romance had weakened the family bonds that had linked “us four” so closely together.’
Certainly, the ‘family dynamic’ had changed, but I believe that, today, the Queen – who, I understand, admires Sarah Bradford’s biography of George VI – would quarrel with the implications of the Bradford account of ‘the night of the formal renunciation’. Of course, the Queen Mother fulfilled a long-standing official engagement. Duty always comes first. Of course, the Queen telephoned her sister, but the conversation was neither cursory nor unsympathetic. As Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother pointed out to Princess Margaret in a letter that October: ‘It is so difficult talking of anything personal on the telephone, because one feels that so many people are listening most eagerly.’ And if the telephone is not secure, a meeting is not always easy either. The Queen’s position – and her lack of any kind of anonymity – mean that she cannot simply jump into the car and go round to see people on a whim.
Townsend did not entirely disappear from Margaret’s life. He went around the world, slowly, to help himself forget her, but found himself unable to do so. He contacted her once more in the spring of 1958. They met again at Clarence House, apparently with the Queen Mother’s somewhat uncertain blessing. This was in March 1958, when the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh were on a state visit to the Netherlands. Unfortunately, news of the reunion reached the press, and salacious, sensationalised coverage of the Princess’s tryst at Clarence House quite eclipsed more responsible reporting of the state visit. Elizabeth and Philip were not amused. Margaret and Townsend knew there was no hope, and parted for a final time. Within a year, Peter Townsend, aged forty-five, was engaged to a Belgian girl, aged nineteen. Marie-Luce Jamagne looked uncannily like the teenage Margaret.
In May 1960 Princess Margaret, approaching thirty, married a man her own age (‘and almost her own height,’ quipped friends: in fact he was several inches taller): Tony Armstrong-Jones, a gifted theatre and society photographer, and one of the most alarmingly charming people a girl (or boy) could hope to mee
t. They did not live happily ever after. Far from it. Their marriage was a roller-coaster ride: at times exciting, at times quite frightening: ultimately disastrous. As personalities they had much in common: both were charismatic, creative, charming, manipulative, selfish, and self-absorbed. Their marriage was turbulent almost from the start, characterised by self-indulgence, recrimination and mutual infidelity. And yet, as parents, they seem to have been enormously successful. As adults the Snowdon children have been happy and fortunate in their relationships in a way that the children of Philip and Elizabeth, on the whole, have not. The Snowdon children – children of a broken home – made good marriages and got on well and easily with both their parents. Three of the children of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh have had failed marriages, and their relationship with their eldest son was, for many years, uncomfortable. It is interesting to ponder why.
I talked about this with Margaret Rhodes. She was quite shy, a little nervy, but with a sensible head on her shoulders and a countrywoman’s values. She also had a beady eye. She had seen all conditions and types of relationship in her long life. She could sense what worked and did not work. Of the Queen and Prince Philip’s marriage, she said to me at once, and emphatically and convincingly, ‘On the whole, it ranks as one of the most successful marriages. One of the most successful.’
‘And as parents?’ I asked.
‘I’ve seen Philip being absolutely sweet with his children’s babies,’ said Mrs Rhodes, ‘absolutely sweet.’ She paused and poured out more coffee. She sighed. ‘But with their own children it hasn’t been easy. There’s no use denying it. Things have gone slightly awry with Prince Charles. I’ve been at Birkhall when he’s been there. He’s very conscientious, very committed. He’ll have dinner, and go back to work. He works so hard, but then he’s so extravagant.’ Another pause. ‘The Queen finds Prince Charles very difficult. He is extravagant and she doesn’t like that.’
Mrs Rhodes looked directly at me. ‘It’s incredibly sad,’ she said. ‘It’s a fractured family. Terribly sad.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ I asked. ‘What’s at the root of it?’
‘Philip can’t bring himself to be close with Charles,’ said Mrs Rhodes. ‘Perhaps you don’t learn to give love if you haven’t had love.’
We talked for a while about Prince Philip’s childhood and the years when he barely saw – nor heard from – either of his parents.
‘But what about the Queen?’ I asked. ‘Her childhood was very loving, wasn’t it?’
Mrs Rhodes pondered for a moment. ‘The Queen was always reserved, even as a child. And when she became Queen that did add to her reserve, very definitely. But you’re right. The King adored both his daughters. And Queen Elizabeth was brimming with love.’ At this point, Margaret Rhodes, who was by nature a woman of restraint, flung her arms wide open to illustrate the warmth and breadth of the Queen Mother’s embrace. She smiled and looked at me again. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘having married someone who is like Philip, it is difficult to go on expressing emotion to an unemotional person. You find, in time, you can’t express love any more. Princess Margaret could. Completely. And her children have been so successful.’
MA & PA
Chapter Eleven
‘To marry is to domesticate the Recording Angel. Once you are married, there is nothing left for you, not even suicide, but to be good.’
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–94), Virginibus Puerisque
Gina Kennard, a childhood friend of each of them, who knew them both almost all her life (and was godmother to Prince Andrew), said to me, ‘The Queen and Prince Philip were good parents, really good parents, always interested in their children and always actively involved. Whatever Charles says about it now, Philip was a wonderful father. He used to read them stories, play with them, go fishing – the lot. So much nonsense is talked about the Queen and her family. We saw quite a lot of them in the 1950s. They were a young family, full of energy and life, and a very happy one. I remember lots of fun and games, lots of laughter.’
Martin Charteris, a trusted courtier, who was close to Elizabeth from 1949 onwards, told me, ‘There’s this myth that the Queen cares more about her dogs and her horses than she does about her children. I believe it was fuelled when someone who had written to Her Majesty commiserating on the death of one of her corgis received a six-page handwritten response. Certainly, the Queen is devoted to her animals – absolutely devoted: they’re what help keep her sane – but she loves her children deeply, as any mother would. Both she and the Duke of Edinburgh did their level best to give their children a normal family life. Not always easy, under the circumstances.’
Elizabeth II was Queen, after all. In November 1953 Elizabeth and Philip, without their children, embarked on a post-Coronation Commonwealth tour lasting five and a half months. They took in Bermuda, Jamaica, Fiji, Tonga, the Cocos Islands, Aden, Uganda, Malta, and Gibraltar. They spent three months in Australia and New Zealand, and ten days in Ceylon. As Ben Pimlott put it in his biography of the Queen: ‘Such a marathon of travel, speeches, national anthems, handshakes, troop inspections, Parliament openings, performances, banquets, bouquets and gifts, had never been before undertaken by a British Head of State – or perhaps by anybody.’ ‘I can’t remember much about it,’ Prince Philip said to me, laughing, ‘but I can tell you the crowds were incredible, the adulation was extraordinary. You wouldn’t believe it, you really wouldn’t.’ It was reckoned that three-quarters of the entire population of Australia turned out to see the Queen in person.
While their parents were away, Charles and Anne, aged five and three, were looked after by their grandmother, the Queen Mother. At the end of the grand tour the children were to be reunited with their parents in Malta, where their great-uncle, Dickie Mountbatten, was now Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet. The children, sent from England in the newly commissioned Royal Yacht Britannia, arrived in Malta ten days ahead of their parents. Mountbatten was not amused to receive a message from Boy Browning – his one-time Chief of Staff who had become Comptroller of the Edinburghs’ Household in 1948 – to the effect that Mountbatten should submit a programme of proposed ‘excursions for the children’ to be laid before Her Majesty for her approval. Understandably indignant, Mountbatten reported the request to his wife, Edwina, telling her he had told Browning that Lady Mountbatten, the children’s great-aunt (and, incidentally, mother of Pamela Mountbatten, who was accompanying the Queen on the royal tour as lady-in-waiting) ‘would organise the trips, etc, as desirable each day. Really!’
When you become sovereign, nobody treats you quite as they did before. According to Sonia Berry, perhaps Lilibet’s closest childhood friend, ‘She would never have chosen to be Queen. She would much rather have lived in the country with horses and dogs and been a normal housewife.’ Lilibet and Sonia’s friendship did not end with the Queen’s Accession, but its nature changed. Suddenly there was a new formality – a sense of strain and distance – in the air. Overnight, the old, easy intimacy disappeared. Letters and invitations were no longer sent to ‘you’, but to ‘Your Majesty’. When Philip was away, the Queen might come to Sonia’s for tea or dinner – ‘She used to say how nice it was to get out of Buckingham Palace’ – but informality and spontaneity were no longer possible. Security was required. Guest lists had to be checked. Curtains had to be drawn so that the sovereign might not be observed. ‘Once she arrived, she was completely at ease,’ said Sonia Berry. But for everybody else, inevitably, having the Queen in your midst is an honour, may be exciting, can be exhilarating, but, as experiences go, is rarely wholly comfortable. Sonia Berry reflected, ‘Looking back, perhaps the formality was a mistake, but it takes time to change.’
On her Accession, Elizabeth II was in no mood for change. Naturally shy, instinctively conservative, she was content to follow in her father’s footsteps, to do her duty as he had done his. Her court had much of the character – and personnel – of his. Soon after her Coronation, her private sec
retary, Sir Alan Lascelles, who had been the late King’s private secretary also, was succeeded by Sir Michael Adeane, who had joined the royal household in 1937, aged twenty-seven, as an assistant private secretary to George VI. Adeane, on his mother’s side, was a grandson of Lord Stamfordham, assistant private secretary to Queen Victoria and influential private secretary to George V as Prince of Wales and King. Adeane had the traditional courtier’s manner: he was effortlessly courteous, he had a nice sense of humour, he understood the ways of the world. Like his father (who was killed in action in 1914), he was an officer in the Coldstream Guards, and, while he was no radical, he was no fool either: he got a First in History at Cambridge.82 For nineteen years, until 1972, he served the Queen with intelligence, quiet efficiency, and complete devotion. He was cautious, he was careful, he was kindly: Her Majesty liked his style. It suited her own.
As monarch the Queen had role models: her father and grandfather. According to Martin Charteris, ‘She took on the mantle of monarchy as to the manner born – which, of course, she was. Right from the start, she performed all her duties, not only conscientiously – never chafing against her lot – but with a quiet confidence that was moving to behold. Remember, she was not quite twenty-six at the start of her reign.’ Dutifully, and thoroughly, she read through her ‘boxes’, absorbed Cabinet minutes, digested Foreign Office telegrams, signed state papers, met her Prime Minister, gave audiences to ambassadors, judges, generals, held meetings of the Privy Council, conducted investitures. Her husband was involved in none of this. As consort the Duke of Edinburgh had no role models (Prince Albert died sixty years before Prince Philip was born) and – in a way – no role. As he put it to me, ‘I had to find a way of supporting the Queen, without getting in the way.’
Philip: The Final Portrait Page 33
