Dr. Bunbury had given me a pager, which I wore around my neck, and whenever Princess Margaret wanted me, which was pretty much all the time, she would buzz it. A few times, thinking she was asleep, I took the pager off my neck, thrust it at John Harding, darted off down the stairs, and jumped into the sea. While I swam John Harding would stand on the balcony and listen out for Princess Margaret’s call. If she wanted me, he would wave frantically, and out I would get, rushing back up the stairs while wringing out my hair before seeing what the matter was. I was never sure if she timed it to exquisite perfection, waiting for me to have a quick dip but then summoning me back so I had to dash back up the steep steps, putting my clothes on as I skidded into her room, trying to catch my breath.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I would pant, “do you need anything?”
“Where were you, Anne?” she’d reply, rather crossly.
“Just quickly having a swim, Ma’am. I hope you’re all right?”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I’m here now and not going anywhere.”
This went on for almost a fortnight. The Palace confirmed there had been an incident but claimed she was in high spirits, but that was far from true. She was very glum indeed and the only person who cheered her up was the lovely Dr. Bunbury. The minute he left, she would say to me, “Could you ring Dr. Bunbury again? There’s something I forgot to tell him.”
“He’s only just left, Ma’am,” I would say. “Do you think we could leave it for another half an hour or so?”
She did the same to me: as soon as I had done something for her and then left, she would call me back. In the end, I asked her whether she minded if I got into the other single bed in her room and we watched videos while she recovered enough to be moved.
She was thrilled and said, “Oh, Anne, is this like boarding school?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” I smiled. “Except we weren’t allowed to lie in bed and watch films.”
Her feet weren’t improving, but when I suggested we fly back to England to get proper hospital treatment, Princess Margaret refused. “I’m not nearly well enough, Anne,” she said incredulously.
For the only time ever, I contacted Buckingham Palace and asked to speak to the Queen, who listened as I explained the situation and sought her advice. The Queen was wonderfully understanding, concerned, and supportive, and agreed to talk to Princess Margaret. She successfully persuaded her to come home, and her household arranged for us to fly back on Concorde, where I set up a milk crate for Princess Margaret’s feet to stay propped up.
I’d been through a long-haul flight with Princess Margaret in ill health before, taking her from Barbados, where she had had some medical tests, back to London. The whole of the first-class cabin had been emptied of people and the usual setup had been swapped for two lone beds in the bare space. I’d held her hand for most of the journey and remember waking up in the middle of the night to the kindly, rather huge Barbadian doctor looming over her to check her vital signs while she slept. She couldn’t have looked more vulnerable. Although she had recovered that time, I wasn’t so sure she would this time, dreading what the doctors would conclude about whether she would be able to walk properly again.
Once we were back in London, Princess Margaret underwent intense treatment for the burns on her feet. One day she rang up and said, “You’ll never guess what they’re doing to my feet. Come and have lunch and I’ll show you.” So off I went, and after lunch I watched as leeches, which had come from Wales, were taken out of a bag and put on her feet. Fascinated by facts and not at all squeamish, Princess Margaret listened eagerly as the nurse explained that leeches had been used to treat wounds for centuries, dating back to the ancient Egyptians. “The leeches naturally secrete anticoagulants, keeping the blood flowing so they can consume it. But that also helps wounds heal quicker so it’s mutually beneficial,” explained the nurse, obviously impressed with the shining black leeches, which were bulging all the time. While Princess Margaret didn’t mind in the least that the leeches were sucking her blood, I found myself feeling extremely glad they were not attached to me.
Wheelchair-bound, Princess Margaret continued her official engagements but didn’t commit to as many, and her life as she knew it steadily dissolved. Instead of staying up late, laughing and joking until the early hours, after great long evenings of singalongs, she no longer wanted to socialize. Instead I would find her listening to Radio 3 on the wireless in her bedroom.
In the summer of 1999, I went up to Balmoral with her for her birthday, which coincided with the annual visit of the Prime Minister, who at the time was Tony Blair. I was asked to look after his wife, Cherie. She was wearing a crumpled trouser suit and didn’t give the impression she was overly pleased to be there. When I asked whether she wanted to see her room, she replied, “What for?”
I explained that every guest has their own maid who waits in the room to meet them to make sure everything is in order. Rather reluctantly, she followed me upstairs. When we were in her room, I explained that she would have breakfast in bed, because all the ladies do, and that Tony would join the men downstairs. She looked at me, confused. “But Tony will have breakfast with me,” she said.
At that point, Tony appeared and remarked, “Breakfast downstairs sounds really great,” obviously trying to ease the tension.
Tony did go down for breakfast the following day, but directly afterwards I was extremely surprised to see him with Cherie, changed into Lycra running outfits and halfway up the glen, with their security detail behind. Every morning while they were there I would look out of my window and see two brightly colored dots jogging up the hillside.
Cherie Blair cheered up over the course of the visit, especially when I took her to the shop, coming out with packets of Balmoral shortbread and fudge. This particular trip to Balmoral ended up making headlines when Cherie announced later that she was unexpectedly pregnant and divulging that she had forgotten her “contraception equipment” so must have conceived during her stay. Princess Margaret and I enjoyed the commentary in the newspapers but her health continued to go downhill.
In the years that followed, Princess Margaret had one or two more strokes and then her eyesight started to fail. Very quickly she lost it almost entirely. Having loved being surrounded by men, she now refused their company, even Colin’s, only feeling comfortable with a few female companions.
A few of us would regularly read to her and sometimes I would stay the night. Her taste in reading material was eclectic to say the least. On one visit, I arrived to find her extremely animated. “I’ve got a new book,” she said excitedly. “Would you read it to me? It’s all about seeds.” My heart sank. A whole book about plant seeds. What could be more boring? I thought, but Roddy had given it to her, and not only was she thrilled but she was clearly genuinely interested. I got as far as a chapter on potatoes before saying, “Ma’am, are you really interested in this book? Should I carry on? Isn’t it rather boring?”
“Keep going, Anne,” she said, without missing a beat. “It’s fascinating.” So, on I ploughed through that beastly book, but not without her stopping me and questioning my pronunciation, which she was always correcting. This was a habit of hers.
When I finally got through the blasted book some days later, I began reading a book about different religions to her, which I much preferred. I was mid-flow reading about Hinduism, when she started to interrupt, asking me if I was sure such-and-such word were “pronounced like that.” By then I’d been to India many times. “Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, somewhat testily. “Of course it is. As you know, I’ve been to India twenty-six times.” She knew I wasn’t exaggerating about the number of times I’d been, but we both also knew I had no idea how to pronounce some of the words.
One day, the Queen came to tea with Princess Margaret. I stayed in the drawing room so they could have some time together and she went off to the bedroom to find Princess Margaret. Quite soon after she had gone in, she reappeared.
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br /> “Oh, Ma’am, is everything all right?” I asked.
“No, it isn’t,” the Queen replied. “Margaret is listening to The Archers and every time I try to say something she just says, ‘Shh!’”
I wasn’t surprised. Princess Margaret’s defiant streak extended to her sister, despite her being the Queen. I had always noticed that she had a very subtle strategy for one-upmanship, which contributed to the bickering that went on between her and the Queen Mother.
I said, “Let’s go back up together.”
When we got into the bedroom, I said to Princess Margaret, “Ma’am, the Queen is here, and she can’t stay all that long. Would you like me to help pour the tea?” I switched off the wireless, made sure they both had a cup, and left the room.
I visited Princess Margaret every day for several months. She wanted the company and we both knew she wasn’t recovering. In fact, as the days progressed, it was clear her health was declining rapidly so I wanted to spend time with her and make sure she was as comfortable as she could be.
Over Christmas 2001, when I was in Norfolk and Princess Margaret was at Sandringham, I was contacted by one of the Queen’s Ladies in Waiting because Princess Margaret was refusing to eat and seemed to have rather given up on life. I went at once and found Princess Margaret in bed, with the covers tucked right the way up to her chin—I could hardly see her. Deciding to be firm, just as she would have been, I ignored the dreary atmosphere and greeted her enthusiastically. “Ma’am, Antiques Roadshow will be on in a minute. Let’s go and watch it while we have some tea.” Her face lit up a little bit and she agreed to get out of bed. I wheeled her along the corridor for a change of scene and we settled down in front of one of Princess Margaret’s favorite programs. I stayed with her for the evening and managed to get her to eat a little bit of the tea, leaving her in better spirits.
When I went downstairs the corgis, dozing in the hall, barked as they saw me, which in turn summoned the Queen, who asked how the visit had gone. “Ma’am, it went quite well. Princess Margaret did manage to eat a jam tart.”
“A jam tart!” replied the Queen, the emphasis reminiscent of Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest, so surprised was she to hear Princess Margaret had agreed to eat anything.
After Christmas, Princess Margaret returned to Kensington Palace but as 2001 ended and the new year began, she declined further. I kept up my visits, reading to her and listening to the wireless with her, but on the evening of February 8, 2002, her Private Secretary, Viscount Ullswater (who had taken over from Nigel Napier), rang. He told me she had suffered another stroke that afternoon and the outlook wasn’t good. I never saw her again.
Princess Margaret died early the next morning in King Edward VII’s Hospital in Marylebone. In the aftermath of her death, I found myself extremely sad, lost in some ways without her in my life. We had been such good friends, spent so much of our lives together, that it was difficult to believe I wouldn’t see her again. While I was relieved she was no longer suffering and was now at peace, her absence left an enormous hole in my life.
Princess Margaret’s funeral took place in St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, on February 15, fifty years to the day since her father’s funeral in the same place. As well as being full of sorrow, I was apprehensive about the other guests. Not only would her ex-husband be there but so would Roddy. Considering the affair had sparked such scandal and the Royal Family had not approved of it at the time, I felt nervous in case there was an awkward atmosphere as a result. What also felt really strange was that Colin had refused to come. He had adored Princess Margaret, but he couldn’t face the farewell and didn’t want to risk appearing emotional in public.
I sat with the other Ladies in Waiting in the front of the nave, the rose-covered coffin already at the altar as the congregation arrived. Princess Margaret had chosen the music herself, and although I love singing and wanted to give her a good send-off, I could hardly sing a note.
At the end of the service, as the coffin was accompanied down the aisle, the Queen Mother, who was a hundred and one and in a wheelchair, managed to get up and stand, bowing her head as her daughter passed.
Eight sergeants from the Royal Highland Fusiliers—Princess Margaret had been their Colonel-in-Chief since the regiment’s conception in 1959—carried the tiny coffin, wearing red Erskine tartan and piper’s plaids, and took Princess Margaret away. The organist eventually stopped playing, assuming people would have gone, but instead the whole congregation sat unmoving, in mournful silence.
When the congregation finally left the chapel after the service, we went to the wake in Windsor Castle where the Queen thanked me for all I had done for Princess Margaret. She acknowledged the positive impact Roddy had had on Princess Margaret and how glad she was that Les Jolies Eaux and Mustique had made Princess Margaret so happy. I was left feeling very touched by the Queen’s words.
Very sadly, Princess Margaret’s funeral was the Queen Mother’s last outing. Less than two months later, she, too, died. Losing both of them in such a short space of time had a deep impact on me. All those happy weekends spent with both of them at Royal Lodge—the laughter in Whistler’s drawing room, the Queen Mother, glittering in a crinoline dress, raising her glass over her head or lowering it under the table in her hilarious toasting game, and endless singalongs with Princess Margaret.
While the Queen Mother’s final resting place had been reserved next to her husband, King George VI, in St. George’s Chapel, there was no such space for Princess Margaret. Desperately wanting to be buried with her beloved father, she was cremated so she could fit beside him. Her ashes were kept in the royal vault until the Queen Mother died, and when she was buried, Princess Margaret’s ashes were put into the grave.
The months after her death felt very quiet without Princess Margaret. She really was an extraordinary woman: if someone was anxious about something, she would always see the problem in an entirely different way, from a new angle, which would often help in finding a solution. Even now, when I’m faced with a problem, I wish she was here to tell me what she would do. Right up to the end, she stayed interested in the world around her. Life has not been the same without her, especially when I go to Mustique.
Every time I visit, I can hear the years of our laughter ring out and I miss the many little routines we always had together. Whenever I sit at Basil’s Bar, at sunset, I half watch for the green flash, but it’s not the same without her. Les Jolies Eaux is now owned by a charming Canadian family, and while they have made some wonderful improvements to the house, the front looks just the same. On a visit in February 2018, I felt Princess Margaret’s spirit around me, and I stood there for a while, thinking she might walk out of one of the rooms, or if I turned the corner, I would see her in her favorite place looking out to sea.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Until Death Us Do Part
BY THE MILLENNIUM, Colin had spent most of the previous forty years in the West Indies, returning to England less and less.
In 1983, when his father died, and he inherited the title 3rd Baron Glenconner, he became a member of the House of Lords, taking the Liberal whip, staying true to his family’s Liberal roots. Over the years, he used his peerage to try to support the Caribbean and its people, seeking to cross boundaries, achieve equality, and improve living standards. In 1992, he gave his maiden speech in the House and, without notes, started talking about the need to support the viable crops traditionally grown in the Caribbean. Having seen sugar cane swapped for sugar beet and the cotton trade become extinct—he pointed out that the clothes he was wearing were made from the last of the Sea Island cotton grown on Mustique—he stressed the need to support the dwindling banana trade. He was articulate and charismatic, and while the Chamber had been empty when he started, by the end it was packed. I was proud to be his wife.
When Colin was visiting England, shortly after he moved permanently to St. Lucia in the early nineties, he saw an advertisement for an elephant for sale at Dublin Zo
o and spontaneously bought it, organizing its shipment to St. Lucia at once. “What shall we call the elephant?” he asked the twins, as he happened to be in the car with them on another of his trips, this time to Brighton Pavilion. Amy happened to look out of the window as the car passed a BUPA medical center. Seeing “BUPA” and thinking it sounded like the trumpeting noise an elephant makes, she said, “What about ‘Boopa,’ Dad?”
“Brilliant!” Colin replied.
Colin and I went back to St. Lucia in time for Boopa’s arrival, which was a big event because she was the first elephant to come to the Caribbean. Everybody flocked to the beach when she arrived on a ship importing bricks, and I watched as she got off, interested in her new surroundings, not startled by the huge crowd of people who had flocked excitedly to the port.
Many of the young men on the island wanted to be her keeper and were bustling and waving to try to get Colin’s attention as he surveyed the crowd. Among them, he saw a boy with very big ears and picked him on the spot. “Boopa will feel very much at home with you,” he said. The boy was delighted, grinning from ear to ear.
The boy’s name was Kent. He was very friendly, and immediately bonded with Boopa, who settled in well, enjoying being allowed to walk free, making her big personality known when she started helping the fishermen by dragging the little fishing boats in with her trunk.
At night she was put into a wooden outhouse to keep her out of harm’s way. Knowing that elephants need company, Colin tried to get another. He went to Africa with Christopher and the twins to buy a pair, which were shipped to St. Lucia, only to be denied entry. Having allowed Boopa ashore, officials had decided one elephant was enough, so the new elephants made their way back to Africa, leaving Boopa still in need of a friend. In the end we settled for pigs and, although it might sound like an unlikely combination, Boopa bonded with them instantly.
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