Shadows of a Princess

‘Well, there are a few small changes …’ I explained them briefly. The silence on the other end of the line was heavy with disapproval. When I had finished my excuses her voice acquired an ominous tone of reproach.

‘Patrick! All that extra work, and after such a long flight. We’ll be on our knees.’ It always switched to ‘we’ when she was trying to imply that I – or life in general – was being unfair.

‘Yes, Ma’am, but it’s serious stuff – it’s not just something to keep you occupied while the Prince does the grown-up bits – and it’ll give the press something to write about apart from what you’re wearing.’

There was a pause, and then a sigh. ‘So what you’re telling me, Patrick, is: “Shut up, Diana, and do your job.”’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that …’

‘Ha! I know you wouldn’t. All right, Patrick – I’ll do what my male nanny tells me.’

‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Hmm. Male nanny. It could be worse. It was certainly worth a facetious parting shot. ‘Have a nice flight.’

The reply was a violent raspberry.

In the event, of course, everything did work – at least as far as most people could see. The royal VC-10 whistled to an ear-splitting halt precisely on time, raising the curtain on a show essentially as old as diplomacy itself. The stars smiled for the cameras, spoke their lines and performed their routines with the charm and ease the world had come to expect. The machinery we had laboured to set up whirred into action and carried us all along on a conveyor belt of engagements, each a one-act play before an audience as faithful to the script as we were.

Nobody saw the little dramas behind the scenes. Nothing stirred a ripple on the smooth public surface of the tour. There were no cameras to snap the Princess testing her mattress by bouncing on it. Nobody recorded the staff’s impromptu late-night revue, complete with the butler’s impersonation routine that had us crying tears of laughter into our whisky. No outsiders, fortunately, witnessed the other tears and tantrums that inevitably erupted from time to time in our highly strung party far from its home base.

In fact, memorably, it was an outsider – a hysterical military attaché – who caused one of the greatest dramas by threatening a soldier in our team with court martial for insubordination. The poor, choleric colonel did not realize that the offender was a vital part of the royal support system and hence beyond the reach of normal military censure. Later, he recovered sufficiently to try to wheedle an official portrait photo of the Prince and Princess out of me. These trinkets had a remarkable attraction for some people and I could see the attaché’s mantelpiece was not going to be complete without this happy snap. There were real tears in his eyes as I explained that he was not on his Ambassador’s list of those deemed worthy of such recognition.

Disaster always seemed a hair’s-breadth away. Usually the crises were self-inflicted, as with our departure from Bahrein. Until that point the whistle-stop visit for lunch with the ruler had lived up to its expectations as a stress-free interlude between the exertions of Kuwait and the Emirates. Everything had gone smoothly and we returned to the airport to resume our journey in a state approaching euphoria. The accompanying party were already installed back on the VC-10 and I could see their faces pressed against the portholes as they looked down at the departure ceremony at the foot of the aircraft steps.

With a final wave to their host, the Prince and Princess started to climb the steps to the forward door of the aircraft. The remaining members of the party, me included, hurried up our own set of stairs to the doorway further aft (a sensible piece of aeronautical class distinction for which the venerable VC-10 might have been specifically designed). Speed took precedence over dignity, because we knew that slick RAF practice demanded that the engines should be started as soon as the senior VIP passengers were aboard. Any underlings following in their wake had therefore better look sharp or be left behind.

Sure enough, as we clattered up the last few steps I heard the first of the four Conway jets start to whine into life. Suddenly there was an urgent call from below. ‘Patrick!’ I turned round. At the bottom of the steps one of the local Embassy staff was holding out a suitcase. Had I forgotten something? I racked my brains, ready to blush at the thought of some duty not done.

Then it hit me. The watches! This was the almost mythical bonus that awaited members of royal tour parties visiting certain countries where ancient customs of hospitality had survived into a more material age. The suitcase was filled with gold, cunningly disguised as wristwatches, and each member of the accompanying party, down to the most humble secretary, expected his or her share of the windfall. No wonder their noses had been pressed to the windows as my car drew up. I had almost forgotten the most important piece of luggage of them all.

Quickly I turned and ran back down the steps to the ground. Fervently thanking my guardian angel, I started the return climb to the beckoning doorway, swag secure in my clammy hand. Imagine going down in history as The Equerry Who Forgot The Rolexes…

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the forward door was now firmly closed and a party of soldiers was hurriedly rolling the red carpet back towards the ceremonial dais from which our hosts were waving a final farewell. In my ears the Conways were rising to a crescendo. I did not have a second to spare.

With a final heave, I reached the platform at the top of the steps and thrust the suitcase at a large RAF figure who was blocking the doorway. ‘Quick, take this!’ The figure did not move. What was the matter with the idiot? ‘Hurry up! They’re waiting for us to go!’ I shouted above the steady roar of the jets. I could sense a dozen sets of eyes burning resentfully into my back. This stupid naval officer was delaying everything and spoiling the perfection of their departure ceremony. And what is the problem with our suitcase? Are our gifts unworthy?

The RAF figure was quite oblivious. ‘Has this item been security cleared?’ it asked impassively.

Still standing exposed on the platform, I felt a sudden rush of exasperated anger. ‘Of course it bloody well hasn’t! It’s a gift from the Emir and he’s watching us right now wondering what the f***’s the matter with it!’

‘I don’t care who it’s from,’ said the figure, still blocking the doorway. ‘It’s not coming on this aircraft until it’s been searched. It might be a bomb for all I know.’

‘All right then! You search it!’ I shouted, dropping the case at his feet and pushing past him into the cabin.

To his credit and my shame, he squatted on the platform under the baleful gaze of the Bahreini ruling family and the jubilant scrutiny of the British press corps and searched the suitcase from top to bottom, very thoroughly.

As we made our progress down the Gulf, schizophrenia seemed inevitable. One moment I was standing at the royal elbow, trying to wear an expression appropriate to the business in hand, be it the Emir’s banquet, the centre for children with disabilities, or the display of folk dancing. The next moment I was scurrying around in the false sanctuary of one of our guest palaces, humouring the hairdresser, placating the baggage master or fighting with the unfamiliar shower controls as I hurried to change for the Embassy reception.

With astonishing speed, the engagements painstakingly researched, recced and re-recced came and went. The closely typed pages of outline programmes, detailed programmes, administrative instructions and security orders had their brief moment of frenzied importance and then were forgotten, turned to paper vermicelli in our mobile shredder.

The leading lady did not even appear in the final scenes. She made a suitably stylish departure from Dubai in a borrowed jumbo jet, lent by a solicitous Sheikh. Never one to disappoint a damsel in need, when he heard that her scheduled return flight was delayed, he sent for his pilots three and dispatched her towards London in nothing less than a flying palace.

It was not clear who felt most upset: the Queen’s Flight at not being properly consulted about the use of an unfamiliar aircraft, or me at having to watch the Princess and her homebound team fly away in an aeroplane I would have liked to bore my grandchildren about.

The baggage master and I rattled back to our hotel in the elderly Embassy Land Rover and tortured ourselves with thoughts of the luxuries now being enjoyed by the lucky passengers. We had no trouble agreeing we were much more deserving. This was probably debatable. She had earned her seven hours of airborne fun.

With the departure of the Princess, her lady-in-waiting, dresser, assistant dresser, hairdresser and detective – and practically all the press – something approaching a holiday mood settled over the remaining party. The last leg of the journey was a private visit by the Prince to another desert kingdom, a male sanctuary where the exclusive club rules of worldwide royalty offered an understanding welcome for a fellow member. Compared to the tensions of the preceding week, even someone feeling as neurotic as I was could afford to relax.

‘Here’s the medicine you ordered,’ said the man from the Embassy as we settled into the last of a series of guest palaces. He handed me a suspiciously heavy dispatch case.

‘I didn’t order any medicine,’ I replied, mystified. Then I heard a muffled chink from inside the box. ‘Ah … yes, of course. Medicine. Thank you!’

Our accompanying doctor was unimpressed. ‘What you lot don’t need is more whisky,’ he grumbled, handing out supplies of pills to help us either sleep or stay awake.

Now alone among the Prince’s staff, I could not escape the feeling that the Princess’s mark was metaphorically stamped on my forehead. Although encouraged to feel part of the team, I was still a guest among guests. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the unbuttoned atmosphere of the male court, where discussion of real political and philosophical issues was possible in an atmosphere reminiscent of the wardrooms I had left behind. I noticed the same cautious deference to the senior officer’s opinion and marvelled again at the intricacies of his domestic arrangements, which could suddenly override almost all other priorities.

In addition, the experience of working briefly in what was later to become a hostile camp was invaluable. In later years, when events suggested that this camp was capable of conspiracy against the Princess, I could reassure myself – and her – that its capacity for cock-up was even greater. The passage of time and further rotations of advisers has not greatly altered that early impression.

The Prince’s office had acquired a rather patchy reputation, not because of incompetence or lack of effort, but because a support organization constantly on the verge of meltdown seemed to be an essential accompaniment to the Prince’s sense of being unfairly burdened. In a revelation gleefully reported by the press, he even once disclosed that he was forced to spend time correcting elementary errors in correspondence originating from his own office. His obvious regret at such a slip was not quite in time to prevent an understandable dent in fragile secretarial morale.

At last we reached the end of the tour. The euphoria was almost tangible as we clambered out of the final motorcade, made our last farewells and headed for the elegant white and blue VC-10 which was waiting to take us home. With a reassuring nod from the top of the steps, the baggage master signalled that all the other passengers and our mountain of luggage were safely aboard.

Taking a deep breath of scented Arabian air, I turned to follow my companions up the ladder. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Prince give his final wave and disappear inside. As expected, the first of the four jets immediately began to whine into life. Remembering Bahrein, I smiled to myself. That fuss with the suitcase seemed a long time ago. I had come a long way since then.

I turned for a last look and saw something fluttering on the bonnet of the Prince’s car. ‘Christ! The Standard!’

I ran back down the stairs and sprinted towards the car. It was my most elementary duty to ensure that we always carried with us the little flag that flew from the royal limousine. To leave it behind was a guarantee of ridicule, or worse. The royal Standard was a coveted object, laden even now with a mystical significance. Thank God I had spotted it.

Seeing me approach, the driver leapt out of the car and started to unscrew the flag from its special attachment. How helpful, I thought. Behind me I could hear the VC-10 getting up steam. Panting, I reached out to take the scrap of multicoloured cloth, a grateful ‘Shucran’ already on my lips. Suddenly it was snatched away. ‘No!’ said the driver, his dark eyes flashing. ‘I keep! Always I keep VIP flag!’

I grabbed a handful of flag and started to pull. ‘Let go!’ I shouted. ‘You can’t keep this one!’

For a ludicrous few moments we tussled over the flag. I had a hysterical vision of it tearing down the middle as the VC-10 taxied away, leaving us to squabble in the gathering dusk. With a final, frantic tug it was mine. I ran back to the aircraft, cursing all collectors. The idling jets shrieked with laughter. It must have made a great cabaret for the invisible audience behind the row of lighted portholes.

Arriving gasping in the cabin, I was met by the chief steward. He was holding a tray on which a large gin and tonic clinked musically. ‘I expect you could do with this, sir,’ he said.

My first overseas tour had given me a rare opportunity to work directly for the Prince. Although nominally in attendance as his equerry for the entire tour, in fact I had spent most of the time accompanying the Princess on her programme. John Riddell had accompanied the Prince, who had been quite content for me to concentrate on looking after his wife in the same way as if we were in England. On this particular occasion, however, he had agreed to visit the British frigate Hermione currently taking a break from patrolling the Persian Gulf, and it made sense that he should be accompanied that day by an aide in uniform rather than the (very) civilian John.

This engagement had already caused me some amusement. Taking my seat at one of many mahjlis in the Emirates, I found myself next to the Prince’s then polo manager, Ronnie Ferguson. I knew he had flown out to Dubai some days earlier and I was anxious to confirm that the frigate had also arrived safely. ‘Is Hermione here yet?’ I asked in a low whisper, conscious of the royal pleasantries being exchanged close by.

Ronnie started out of his reverie, looking at me with sudden new interest. ‘I say, you’re a quick worker!’

‘What do you mean, Ronnie?’

‘Hermione. You’ve already got some bird lined up here! Very quick work!’

Under bushy brows, his eyes twinkled with admiration. It was painful to have to explain the identity of the distinctly unsexy Hermione with whom I had planned this tryst. The twinkle slowly died and Ronnie lapsed once more into thoughts of polo.

Although the Prince was undoubtedly the senior figure in my royal world, I approached my day with him with few qualms. In all my brief encounters with him since starting the job, he had been friendly but reassuringly distant. Unlike his more volatile wife – who could switch from warm intimacy to frozen exclusion in an instant – he had the air of a man who did not care very much who or what you were so long as you did your job. In this he resembled a certain type of senior naval officer, a species very familiar to me. The Captain’s uniform he wore for the occasion reinforced this comforting impression.