Since Colin had successfully set up the Mustique Company, the island was being run by various people, which meant Colin had time to pursue other things, including a short-lived political career: the Tennant family had long been established as a big liberal family, so unexpectedly, in 1976, Colin tried to get selected as the Scottish National Party’s candidate for the constituency of Roxburgh, Selkirk, and Peebles.
For a while, Glen became the hub of endless parties for the SNP and Colin quickly became popular, building a reputation for delivering brilliant speeches without notes. But the party decided to select an Edinburgh lawyer, who, they thought, stood a better chance against the opposition. Instead Colin became chairman of the constituency, and Glen continued to hold Burns Night dinners for the SNP.
Colin turned his attention to new business ventures, buying a company that produced stamps. “The smaller the island, the bigger the stamp!” he would say, as his new passion developed. It just so happened that one of the places he was producing stamps for was the small islands of Tuvalu in the South Pacific.
In 1978, Princess Margaret was to go there, on behalf of the Queen, to give the islands their independence. These tiny atolls are not much more than a sand bar so it was an obscure coincidence that Colin happened to have an office there. Excited, he contacted Princess Margaret and said, “I thought you might want to use my office on Tuvalu because it’s the only air-conditioned place on the islands.”
“Thank you very much,” replied Princess Margaret. “And seeing as you know the place, I think perhaps you had better come too.”
Colin was thrilled. I, on the other hand, was somewhat nervous at the prospect of him coming with us although, ironically, he was known for his impeccable manners when in formal situations. Davina Alexander came as the official Lady in Waiting on that occasion, and I went along with Colin to help, more as a friend than anything else.
We arrived to a welcoming party of swaying ladies, dressed in golden grass skirts and not much else. Over our heads went the leis: garlands that are signs of love and affection. Although they were very pretty, they were also soaking wet, much to Princess Margret’s irritation: “It will ruin my dress,” she muttered, taking hers off as quickly as she could.
At the welcoming dinner we all had to sit on the floor with our legs crossed. Princess Margaret refused, saying she couldn’t sit like that, and sat sideways. Colin was good in these situations, charming everybody and taking to the exotic customs with ease, embracing the green-leaf service. The still-swaying ladies approached from behind us, slapping down a mound of gray matter onto our leaves. Princess Margaret and I were used to eating things that didn’t necessarily appeal to us through our experience on royal tours and Mustique. The heat was also something we were used to, although the air-conditioning in Colin’s office was welcome and we used to congregate there. The cool on the frigate where Princess Margaret was staying, supplied by the Royal New Zealand Navy, was also a huge relief.
Unfortunately, the going backwards and forwards between the extreme temperature of the climate and the air-conditioning led to Princess Margaret falling ill, and on the final day, when the independence celebration was due to take place, she was very ill, finding it difficult to breathe. This was alarming because she had gone to bed fine and suddenly there we were, looking after her on a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific, wondering which hospital to get her to. Nigel Napier sprang into action, not only giving Tuvalu its independence, but also contacting the Royal Australian Air Force, who provided a troop-carrier aircraft to collect the Princess, bolting down a bed in the empty transport plane, which took us all to Australia.
Once we arrived, Princess Margaret went to stay at Government House in Sydney where she was seen by doctors, who confirmed she had pneumonia.
Princess Margaret was supposed to go to the Philippines and then on to Hong Kong. Instead of canceling them, she asked me to go on her behalf so I could explain the reason for her absence face-to-face in the hope that my presence would show respect and concern over the efforts that had been made for her. I was to pass on a letter of apology written by her to the First Lady, Madame Marcos, and her dictator husband, Ferdinand Marcos, before adopting the same strategy in Hong Kong. This wasn’t official protocol but Princess Margaret was aware that Madame Marcos was especially sensitive and might think that the cancellation was a snub.
I had never been asked to go anywhere on Princess Margaret’s behalf, let alone two different countries, so I was apprehensive but excited, intrigued by Madame Marcos.
I embarked on the journey with only Colin, who Princess Margaret thought might be a help, especially since the maids and dressers were staying behind with her. We flew first class to the Philippines, not quite sure what to expect. We were met by the British Ambassador, who had been warned that Princess Margaret wouldn’t be there, as had Madame Marcos, and were whisked off to one of the houses they had in the complex of Malacañang Palace. It was slightly eerie as there was no one in sight. The neighborhood had been made private for fear of protesters after martial law had been declared a few years before.
We were told that Madame Marcos got up very early so we were to be ready to leave at eight o’clock the following morning to start the tour of Manila. And, sure enough, at eight o’clock she came to collect us in a huge bus. She was extremely smiley and friendly, although very disappointed Princess Margaret hadn’t come. She undoubtedly thought that having a member of the British Royal Family to stay in the Philippines would cement her and her husband’s status further.
She welcomed us onto her bus like a very glamorous tour guide, and took us to lots of different places in Manila—to a shell museum, which Princess Margaret would have loved, and a hospital she proudly showed off, which seemed to be just for her and the family. There were a few token patients but the rest of it was pristine, full of state-of-the-art equipment and doctors, but mostly empty, just ready in case of emergency.
As we drove through the city, Colin and I had the impression we were being shown exactly what she wanted us to see—there were glimpses of the slums, but we only went to the smart neighborhoods. Madame Marcos seemed very popular: the traffic wardens and street cleaners, who were all women, known as “meter maids,” wore blue dresses with yellow sashes and waved their brooms frantically when the bus drove past, and her equivalent to Ladies in Waiting, known as “blue ladies” because they wore blue dresses, were extremely attentive, quizzing me about my role, eager to pick up tips.
After a frantic day we were given half an hour to change for the evening. Then Madame Marcos reappeared to take us off to what felt, to both of us, like every hotel in the city. Colin and I would follow Madame Marcos into the ballroom of each hotel, where a band would be playing to the guests. The minute people saw her, everyone was waving, whereupon she walked up to the stage and started singing. When she did this for the first time, Colin and I were astonished. I couldn’t imagine other First Ladies behaving like that. She actually had quite a good voice and I have to say I admired her audacity. We wondered if this was something she did for our benefit, although it did seem more for her own enjoyment.
The singing sprees carried on until 3 a.m., when she would drop us off at the house, only to arrive again at eight the next day. Colin continued to be an asset, although after enduring a few days of Madame Marcos’s intense entertainment, he declared, “I simply can’t stand this anymore. This is the most exhausting thing I’ve ever done. I’m going home.”
Bound by my duties to Princess Margaret, I didn’t have the option of leaving so was left with Madame Marcos, keeping to her hectic schedule for a further four days, during which she took me to several golf clubs. I had sat next to her husband at a somewhat uncomfortable dinner, challenging for me because the conversation didn’t flow at all.
Although I came to like Madame Marcos, who was very friendly and so full of energy, it was clear her life revolved around spending vast amounts of money. Her pièce-de-résistance was her shoe collection,
which she proudly showed me around. It was so big that a whole house was dedicated to it. I walked around, amazed by the thousands of pounds’ worth of high heels, a lot of which had clearly never been worn.
It didn’t come as a surprise to me when, years later, she was convicted on corruption charges for the greatest robbery of any government, totalling billions of dollars of ill-gotten wealth, after her husband was overthrown in the 1986 People Power Revolution, fleeing to Hawaii.
From the Philippines, I went to Hong Kong, delivering the same message of explanation and apology on behalf of Princess Margaret. This trip was almost as surreal as my time with Madame Marcos had been, because the army took me out at night, complete with night-vision binoculars, to see scores of people desperately trying to get over the border of mainland China into Hong Kong. I watched as the Gurkhas, who were guarding the border, stopped anyone getting across. The Gurkhas were terrifying, but the people never gave up trying to make it across, and I was left wondering whether any of them would be successful and what would happen to them all.
As if things couldn’t get more bizarre, I was also taken to Macau to see the famous casinos, which were full of very old ladies, dripping with jewels and with the longest fingernails I’ve ever seen. It was the sort of place perfect for a James Bond film: it had a slightly sinister air about it.
Fortunately, Hong Kong was the last destination on the trip, and I was pleased to be returning home. By this time Princess Margaret had recovered and was back in London and I was looking forward to debriefing her about Madame Marcos’s karaoke sessions and the James Bond casinos of Macau.
I like to think that after that tour I was as good as Princess Margaret at adapting to every unique country and culture, getting on with it all unfazed. Even when faced with challenging circumstances, she had to grin and bear it: to complain would have been rude and ungrateful, and she taught me how to take strange customs and manners in my stride. This attitude was going to be necessary for many tours abroad. The tour to Swaziland, now eSwatini, in southern Africa was no exception.
There, Princess Margaret was to present King Sobhuza II with an order from the Queen in celebration of his eightieth birthday. In return for this honor, he had promised to build Princess Margaret a straw village for her stay. We did wonder how a straw village would be equipped with bathrooms, and imagined how funny Princess Margaret would look coming out of a straw hut wearing a tiara.
When we arrived, the straw village hadn’t been finished so we were shown to a house reassuringly made from bricks. I was unpacking when there was a knock on the door from Princess Margaret. “Anne,” she said, “could you come and have a look at my room? There’s something strange about it.” I was getting used to the oddities on these tours but there was something particularly strange about this place. Apart from the butler, who appeared to be listening outside the door at all times, the bedside tables were very far apart as though there had been a gigantic bed there before. We peered around the room suspiciously and at the same time we discovered a two-way mirror.
Later, we found out that, in those days, brothels were not allowed in South Africa, so people would come to Swaziland to fulfill their desires. We were horrified but it would have gone against protocol to undermine the arrangements that had been made for us so we did nothing about it.
There we were, as though we were part of the strangest of films, going from a brothel to greet King Sobhuza II, looking very English in buttoned-up coats and hats. The King was wearing his national dress, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. He wore no shirt at all, a sort of leather apron, and had long feathers in his hair. We went to several engagements during the few days before the main event—to ambassadors’ houses for lunches and dinners when King Sobhuza II would either wear his traditional dress or a military uniform.
We began to wonder what he would be wearing for the celebration, and Princess Margaret expressed to me her concern as to where she would be able to pin the order from the Queen, which took the form of a ribbon, that she was to bestow on him during the celebrations. “If he doesn’t wear a top of any sort, I don’t know where I will put it!” she exclaimed, somewhat bemused. “And if he wears feathers, how am I supposed to get the ribbon over his head?”
At the dinner the night before the celebrations, I raised Princess Margaret’s concerns directly with the King. “Your Majesty, Princess Margaret does hope that you will be wearing your uniform tomorrow.” The King smiled, nodded and said nothing. With no straight answer, both Princess Margaret and I were left wondering what to expect the next day.
We had to wait hours at the Mbabane Arena before the King appeared. The stadium was full of people, some of whom had walked for up to three weeks from their rural communities to catch a glimpse of him. The atmosphere was electric, the crowds bursting with anticipation.
Prince Kabani sat next to me so I asked him what his father would be wearing, but he was noncommittal. There was no choice: we just had to wait until the King appeared to find out.
Princess Margaret and I sat there, stifling in our English clothes, watching the different things happening in front of us. There were many dance troupes, who moved in perfect unison, and I admired the clothes they wore, knowing how much Colin would have liked to wear feathers in his hair and parade around to a loud drumbeat.
Meanwhile, the King continued to keep his own time so we waited and waited, while Princess Margaret became more and more tetchy. She kept looking at me, pointing at her watch.
Finally, a shining black stretch limo came to a halt in front of us. Out got King Sobhuza II. He was wearing a similar outfit to the previous day: huge feathers in his hair and nothing on except his leather apron. I could see Princess Margaret’s mood sinking further, a look of despair in her eyes.
The King’s daughters followed their father out of the limo. They, too, wore nothing on their torsos and were rather large, emerging from the car with their big bare bosoms and wide smiles. The crowd was delighted to see them and erupted into cheers. At this point, Princess Margaret beckoned to me, mouthing, “Can you ask Prince Kabani to do something about the King’s feathers? Otherwise I won’t be able to get the ribbon over his head.”
I passed the message on and the Prince nodded, but nothing happened. We continued to stand for hours, as more people danced past us, and Swaziland’s army put on an extensive display. Eventually the moment came where Princess Margaret was to present the King with the ribbon and the order and, luckily, moments before, Prince Kabani took quite a few of the feathers out of the headdress to make it easier for Princess Margaret. However, while the ribbon went over his head all right, she then had to fumble around his groin, working out where best to place the order. When we finally left the stadium, she turned to me, looking completely fed up, and said, “I’m going to tell the Queen that I shall never again give any of her orders to anybody who isn’t properly dressed.”
Before we left Swaziland, as is British royal custom when visiting all countries, she gave various presents to the King. As was usual, she then waited to receive presents from him. Nothing happened. Nigel Napier went to investigate and was told that the boy with the key to the safe had gone missing. But Princess Margaret didn’t believe this story, convinced that she wasn’t being given any presents because the King hadn’t liked the presents she had given to him. However, as we were leaving, the King’s ceremonial mother, whose official title was “The Great She-Elephant,” gave Princess Margaret a clay vase. It felt very much like an afterthought but Princess Margaret accepted it graciously and I was in charge of its safekeeping. Since it was delicate and hadn’t been wrapped up, I kept it on my lap on the plane back to London, making every effort to ensure nothing awful happened to it. Had I known what would become of it, I wouldn’t have worried as much as I did about keeping it safe from harm.
About six weeks after we got back to England, I was having lunch with Princess Margaret in her apartment. There, on the windowsill, was the Great She-Elephant’s pot.
Princess Margaret saw me glance at it and said, “Now, Anne, I think this pot is going to have a little accident soon.” Sure enough, that was the last time I saw it. I felt rather sad, having looked after it so carefully, all the way back from Swaziland.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Year at Kensington Palace
WHILE I ACCOMPANIED Princess Margaret on royal engagements, and provided sanctuary for her in Norfolk, Glen, and Mustique, she would invite Colin and me to spend weekends with her at Balmoral and Royal Lodge, the Queen Mother’s house in Windsor.
The Royal Family are very fond of picnics, although their idea of a picnic goes over and above most people’s. According to Princess Margaret, “You can’t possibly have a picnic without your butler.” As for the Queen, she has her own meticulous way of doing things. One summer we were staying at Balmoral for Princess Margaret’s birthday. Every evening during our visit, the Royal Family—the Queen, the Duke of Edinburgh and their children, Princess Margaret, and the Queen Mother—took us and the other guests to a shooting lodge on the estate. The dinner would arrive in a specially made mobile kitchen—a picnic on wheels, which looked like a small caravan and was towed behind a Land Rover. Inside this wonderful contraption, everything had a set place. The Queen supervised the whole thing, getting everything out of the mobile kitchen and laying the table, and after dinner she put on her Marigold gloves to clean up.
The first time we went to one of these grand picnics, Colin and I started to carry things back to the mobile kitchen, helping to clear up. Suddenly from behind we heard Princess Anne bellowing at us: “What are you doing?”
Lady in Waiting Page 18