It was so appalling we had to find it funny. Luckily, we always travel with a bottle of vodka, which often turns out to be completely necessary. Margaret tracked down the taxi driver to get a mixer and returned with a huge jug of fresh cherry juice, which was the most delicious thing we’d ever tasted. We put a chair under the door handle so no men would stumble into our room and drank ourselves into a lovely stupor as the bells rang and the doors banged around us.
The next day, we arrived at the hotel, which was frightfully smart, and I’m sure nobody would ever have guessed where we’d been the night before. Yet again, there I was going from one extreme to another. We couldn’t help but laugh. After all, I’ve grown used to the unexpected, the shocking, and the peculiar.
Most of the time, though, I spend my days poking around in the garden, and up until very recently I still enjoyed sailing from the creeks of Burnham Overy Staithe. I still help run the boathouse. Some of the most fun I’ve ever had is here in Norfolk—the sailing clubs celebrate all Nelson’s victories, of which there were quite a lot. On the two-hundredth anniversary of Trafalgar we were all told our tiny boats could fly the white ensign and the Bishop of Lynn came down to do a blessing, throwing his ring into the water. So the creeks were full of enthusiastic people dressed up in sailor hats.
Everyone, including me, was rather merry on Nelson’s Blood, a cocktail of red wine and brandy. This is the traditional tot given to sailors because when Nelson died his body was kept in a barrel of brandy to preserve him during the voyage home, the contents drunk by his crew when they came ashore. There is a photograph that shows just how jolly I was, with my hand rather rudely on top of somebody’s head, clinging on for balance, as I waved excitedly at the camera.
When I’m not on the water, I enjoy walking next to the creeks and over the dunes, my thoughts inevitably turning to the days of building sandcastles and having picnics with my children, and going back further in time to when I was a child, playing with my Ogilvy cousins and with Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. Holkham beach is still as beautiful as ever, attracting thousands of visitors each season, and is apparently consistently voted the most popular beach in England.
The Royal Family liked Holkham so much that my father gave them a beach hut, although it wasn’t really like those garden sheds painted in a pastel shade squeezed between others that dot the seafront, and was more of a summerhouse. This one stood alone towards the far end of Holkham beach and had a big room, a veranda all the way round it, and a small kitchen. The Queen Mother would come down to the beach hut in the summer at teatime and bring the corgis for a walk along the dunes. Below the hut to the far side, there was, and still is, a nudist beach.
The Queen Mother’s protection officers weren’t too happy with the proximity of the naturists and would often be heard saying, “I don’t think you should go down to the beach today, Ma’am, because there are some nudists out there. It might be a bit embarrassing.”
To which she would reply, “Embarrassing? For whom? I’m longing to see them. Perhaps the corgis will nip their bottoms.”
And off she would go with the corgis. The nudists always seemed to be oblivious of her, the men too busy absorbed in their sport—everything dangling about—and the big-bosomed women sitting in the dunes, knitting. The protection officers learned to accept that there was no question of the Queen Mother not heading in their direction.
The nudist beach was of perennial interest. A few years ago, Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall invited me to Sandringham during the flower show, and in the evening there was a dinner party with guests from the world of entertainment. I had a great conversation with Dame Judi Dench, who told me how much she loved swimming, so I invited her to the beach for a swim. The next day, the Duchess of Cornwall and Judi Dench arrived with some other friends and, despite the gray, windy weather, everybody got into their swimming costumes and jumped into the sea. I only went up to my knees but Judi Dench was intrepid, rushing into the choppy water grinning broadly.
When everybody got out of the sea, I told them about the nudist beach, relaying the story of the Queen Mother and her corgis. Well, of course, just like the Queen Mother, they all peered into the fog, and at that moment a man wearing only a towel and a rucksack came walking along the dunes. Recognizing the Duchess of Cornwall, he said hello. The Duchess struck up a conversation with him and discovered he was a nudist (albeit partially dressed at the time), so everybody piled in and asked him questions. Eager to engage, he told us all about how liberating it was, how he loved being part of the elements, close to nature. At the end of the conversation, the Duchess asked whether he lived and worked locally. “Yes,” he said happily. “I’m headmaster of a school nearby.” When he left, we fell about laughing. Being a headmaster and a nudist somehow didn’t seem to go together.
Holkham Hall still stands, rather glumly in the gray winter fog, magnificently when the sun shines. After Eddy died in 2015, his son, Thomas, became the 8th and current Earl of Leicester. Following tradition, just like my father, he was commissioned into the Scots Guards after going to Eton and became an Equerry to the Duke of Kent. He lives at Holkham Hall with his wife Polly and their four children and, together, they continue the Coke legacy. The estate is flourishing.
As the house is open for visitors, attracting thousands of people a year, sometimes I slip in. Whenever I go, I see the visitors who have come from all over the world staring up the marble staircase where I stood for my coming-out dance in my parachute dress, and for my wedding in my Norman Hartnell dress. On they go, busy with chatter and interest, often talking about the film The Duchess, starring Keira Knightley and Ralph Fiennes, because much of it was shot at Holkham.
But while they see the dark red silk damasked walls and the splendid gold-decorated ceilings, I see Tommy Kinsman setting up his band, to the delight of the Queen Mother, and Princess Margaret being spun around the room by Billy Wallace. In the state bedrooms, I don’t just admire the four-poster bed, but am reminded of Lord Stair, who always slept there. As I walk through the corridors, I see the childlike forms of Princess Margaret and I pedaling our trikes, hearing our laughter carry down the halls, and the doorways where we’d jump out at the footmen. As the visitors snap away with their camera phones, little do they know that they are capturing the spot where the Queen used to stand as a little girl, scolding me and Princess Margaret for getting up to mischief.
But what I love more than anything is when the house is all shut up to visitors and when the family are away because I feel it is part of me again. I look at the top middle window on the left-hand side—my old bedroom—and think of my teenage self, sitting at my desk scribbling letters to my friends or daydreaming about Heathcliff, from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, as I looked into the park.
Recently a little note, written by Carey to me when we were children, was found in the attic by one of Tom’s children. It was a touching reminder of the times we shared together because, very sadly, Carey died in May 2018, aged eighty-four. I was so sad when she died, remembering so vividly what she was like when she was a golden-haired little girl shouting, “Cowardy custard!” and teasing me no end. This catchphrase was such a huge part of our childhood that our cousin James Ogilvy mentioned it fondly in a reading at her funeral.
No longer being able to reminisce with Carey, and with Sarah being that much younger, my early childhood secrets and memories are wrapped up in the house and grounds, binding me to Holkham forever. My parents and Carey are buried in the churchyard at St. Withburga’s, which stands in the middle of Holkham park above the lake, surrounded by a herd of fallow deer. This was my father’s absolute favorite place in the world and when he died, in 1976, the gamekeepers carried his coffin all the way up the hill, from the house to the church. One day I will be buried there too.
Although my father’s death marked the end of the line for our particular branch of the Coke family, my children and grandchildren are our legacy. None of my direct descendants will become
the next Earl of Leicester, but my high-spirited family is alive and well, ready, like me, to cope with whatever life throws at them.
Amy has traveled the world and settled back in East Anglia, with May and Anton just down the road with their two daughters, Honor and Greta. Christopher is still happily married to Johanna, who has become a significant part of my life too, because they now live just down the road from me.
I took Christopher to a lecture the other day and thought, God, I’m lucky—he’s just sitting here beside me, enjoying life. There’s nothing wrong with his brain or his mind. He’s such an asset, and I often think about what might have happened, so relieved there is a happy ending. I don’t think anyone can ever know how they will react under terrible circumstances until something catastrophic happens but, thank goodness, I didn’t listen to the doctor who told me to go home and forget about him.
While I am so proud of my three children, it’s still painful to think about Henry and Charlie. I am now twice as old as Charlie was when he died, and three times as old as Henry. The pain of losing your children never goes away. But I try not to dwell on the sad things in my past, instead concentrating on the present, trying to make the most of my life. Fortunately, I still have great friends who share this attitude and we have continued to travel the world on great adventures.
The eighty-seven years I’ve lived on this earth have been many things, good and bad, but above all, extraordinary. I have had to adapt continuously throughout my life but now I can relax and, perhaps surprisingly, I have no regrets. I am very much at my happiest and intend to live to a hundred, although still always wondering, “Whatever next?”
The greatest disappointment. My christening in 1932, held by my father, surrounded by the 3rd Earl of Leicester, left, and Viscount Coke, right. I had tried so hard to be a boy. Author’s collection
Having fun with my mother and sister Carey, right. Author’s collection
My Ogilvy cousins David and Angus, left, Princess Elizabeth frowning as Princess Margaret stares enviously at my silver shoes. Author’s collection
Checking stock in the Holkham Pottery, which became one of North Norfolk’s most successful industries and gave me my first taste of independence. Author’s collection
Prince Charles holding my son Henry at Holkham. Princess Anne looks on, with my mother in the background. Author’s collection
My mother’s photograph of Carey and me dressed up as maids and posing for Prince Philip. Author’s collection
Proud moment as we keep pace with the Queen and move as one in the Coronation procession through the Abbey. I’m the second Maid of Honor on the right. Alamy
Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, waving and smiling at my wedding with Princess Margaret and my father. The Queen was away celebrating her birthday, a clash which my father only later realized. Alamy
At my youngest sister Sarah’s coming-out dance at Holkham, June 1962. I’m on the far right next to Sarah. My mother and sister Carey are on the left. Only the married women are wearing tiaras. Author’s collection
In the thick undergrowth of our early days on Mustique. Author’s collection
Colin in one of his favorite suits, which he called “the gathering of the clans” because it was made from different tartans. Next to him is a statue of Rob Roy, a Scottish folk hero. Author’s collection
Colin’s house on Mustique, 1980. Author’s collection
Princess Margaret as my personal stylist. I’m not sure my hairdresser, Simon, would have approved. Author’s collection
A cold day on the beach at Holkham with Henry and Charlie. Author’s collection
Enjoying a musical evening at Glen in 1975. Princess Margaret, Henry, Colin, and Roddy. Author’s collection
With Princess Margaret at Sandringham. I laughed more with her than anyone else. Author’s collection
With a happy Prince Philip on Mustique in 1977. Author’s collection
Roddy Llewellyn, Princess Margaret, me, and Charlie. Author’s collection
Center of attention with Mick Jagger and Rupert Everett on Mustique in the mid-eighties. Author’s collection
At the Peacock Ball in 1986 just after I’m told by Colin that Henry has HIV. Charlie looking at me anxiously. I’m not sure how I got through the evening. Author’s collection
All our children together at Hill Lodge in 1986. Left to right: Henry, May, Charlie, Christopher, and Amy. Author’s collection
With Madame Marcos in the Philippines in 1978. Author’s collection
King Sobhuza II of Swaziland, center left, arriving in his traditional dress in 1978 to receive an order from the Queen—and posing a problem for Princess Margaret as to where to pin it. Author’s collection
With Colin on our fiftieth wedding anniversary in 2006. Author’s collection
The 200th anniversary of Trafalgar at Burnham Overy Staithe in Norfolk in 2005—after Nelson’s Blood cocktails. Author’s collection
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I WOULD FIRST like to thank Tom Perrin for asking me to write this book and for encouraging and helping me along the way.
Hugo Vickers has also been a source of wise advice and encouragement—he was invaluable in finding out obscure facts about my Hardwicke grandfather. Hugo also introduced me to Hannah Bourne-Taylor who became indispensable, holding my hand throughout and putting in order and sorting out my memories as we sat for hours together.
I would also like to say how much I appreciated everyone from Hodder and Stoughton and Zuleika. Firstly, Rowena Webb: nothing was too much trouble for her; and secondly, Juliet Brightmore, who had the difficult task of choosing the photographs with me. I would also like to mention Lucy Hale, Eleni Lawrence, Rebecca Mundy, Rebecca Folland, Hazel Orme, and Ian Wong. A very big thank-you to Simon Elliot who rightly insisted I should have an agent and found me the charming and efficient Gordon Wise.
Lastly, the two most important people in supporting me that I would like to thank are Johanna Tennant, my daughter-in-law, who became my go-between arriving each morning with messages, reading the first draft, and checking up that I was all right, and my best friend Tim Leese who encouraged me and provided wonderful suppers for us through the writing of this book. And, of course, I would also like to thank my daughters Amy and May and my son Christopher for their invaluable contributions.
PICTURE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
All photo insert pictures courtesy of the author’s collection, except for the images here and here, which are courtesy of Alamy.
Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders, but if there are any errors or omissions, Hachette Books will be pleased to insert the appropriate acknowledgment in any subsequent printings or editions.
Discover Your Next Great Read
Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.
Tap here to learn more.
More praise for
LADY IN WAITING
The Times’ 2019 Memoir of the Year
“Astounding memoir.”
—India Knight
“[An] upfront account of her life… [you’ll] laugh out loud, exclaim in shock, and cry as [you] read it.… An amazing read. There’s so much humanity… as well as stories of glitz and glamour and royalty… it’s a life fully lived.”
—Nightlife, ABC Radio
“A record, funny and sometimes dazzling, of a way of life now almost disappeared.”
—Rachel Cooke, Observer
“[It’s] a total hoot—I can’t put it down.”
—Janet Street-Porter, Daily Mail
“I hooted my way through Anne Glenconner’s Lady in Waiting.… Glenconner’s memoir of three decades as Princess Margaret’s chief courtier is matter-of-fact about her bonkers life, making it all the more amusing.”
—Marcus Field, Evening Standard
“Extraordinary.”
—Loose Women
“Rollicking… a fascinating, anthropological portrait of the… privilege-soaked wor
ld of the British aristocracy.… Extraordinary anecdotes.… Lady Anne’s book paints such a rich picture of the aristocracy it’s impossible not to marvel at the institution, both in admiration and horror.”
—The Sydney Morning Herald
“A romp of an autobiography.”
—The Times
Lady in Waiting Page 27