by Craig Brown
A thirty-four-year-old secretary, a spinster, was less equivocal: ‘I really do think that a man of his age & experience need not have allowed the equivalent of a schoolgirl crush to develop into a grand passion. The man’s a Cad.’
A librarian aged fifty was profoundly upset: ‘I’m deeply distressed by her decision. It came as almost a physical shock. It was as if we had suddenly started to move back towards the darkness of some primitive jungle – as if a beautiful young girl had been sacrificed to its gods.’
On hearing the news, the author and politician Harold Nicolson felt nothing but admiration for the Princess. ‘This is a great act of self-sacrifice, and the country will admire and love her for it. I feel rather moved,’ he wrote in his diary. But, like so many other people, he was soon focusing on how the news might affect his own social arrangements: ‘It will be awkward meeting the Duke of Windsor at dinner after this.’
On Wednesday, 2 November 1955, the Daily Mirror ran the headline across half its front page: ‘THIS MUST NOT WRECK TWO LIVES’, trumpeting an opinion piece by Keith Waterhouse, soon to become famous as the author of Billy Liar.
Today, as the self-satisfied chorus dies down, I would like to say something about the future of these two people who reached for happiness and found only a stone … Without doubt the magnifying glasses are out in Whitehall today as the bureaucrats search for unlikely places at the end of the earth where Peter Townsend could be banished.
This must not happen.
The stiff-collar classes are already crowing in their clubs that Peter Townsend has been shown the door.
THESE ARE THE PEOPLE who would have bowed the lowest if he had married Princess Margaret.
THESE ARE THE PEOPLE who will want Peter Townsend plucked up and removed by jet plane whenever there is the slightest chance that Princess Margaret may come within a hundred miles of him.
THESE ARE THE PEOPLE who, from now on, will watch Princess Margaret like hawks crossed with vultures …
That these two lives have not been wrecked already is due to the courage and immense strength of character of them both …
LET THEM LIVE IN PEACE AND, IF THEY CAN FIND IT APART, HAPPINESS.*
Two days later, on Friday, 4 November, the Daily Express printed a ‘We, the Undersigned’ letter about the recent announcement from a mixed bag of figures from the arts world, including Lindsay Anderson, Humphrey Lyttelton, Wolf Mankowitz, Ronald Searle and Kenneth Tynan:
First, it has revived the old issue of class distinctions in public life.
Second, it has shown us ‘The Establishment’ in full cry, that pious group of potentates who so loudly applauded the Princess’s decision.
Third, it has exposed the true extent of our national hypocrisy.
But above all the Townsend affair brings up the general question of ‘national dignity’, and its encroachments on personal freedom.
The final name on the list of the undersigned was that of Sandy Wilson, the writer and composer of the 1953 hit musical The Boy Friend. Princess Margaret had attended its original production. Among the show’s catchiest numbers was ‘I Could Be Happy With You’:
I could be happy with you
If you could be happy with me.
I’d be contented to live anywhere
What would I care –
As long as you were there?
These anti-Establishment types got on the nerves of the Princess’s lifelong though not wholly uncritical supporter, Noël Coward. A week before the announcement, he had affected boredom with the whole affair: ‘I have noticed in the Press certain references to Princess Margaret wishing to marry someone or other,’ he wrote in his diary on 24 October. ‘I really must try to control this yawning.’ But within a fortnight his interest had revived: ‘Poor Princess Margaret has made a sorrowful, touching statement that she will not marry Peter Townsend. This is a fine slap in the chops for the bloody Press which has been persecuting her for so long. I am really glad that she has at last made the decision but I do wish there hadn’t been such a hideous hullabaloo about it.’
Coward complained that ‘It has all been a silly, mismanaged lash-up and I cannot imagine how the Queen and the Queen Mother and Prince Philip allowed it to get into such a tangle. At least she hasn’t betrayed her position and her responsibilities, but that is arid comfort for her with half the world religiously exulting and the other half pouring out a spate of treacly sentimentality.’ He looked to the future, though with trepidation: ‘I hope she will not take to religion in a big way and become a frustrated maiden princess. I also hope that they had the sense to hop into bed a couple of times at least, but this I doubt.’
Despite it all, he felt the Princess had come to the right decision. ‘Apart from church and royal considerations, it would have been an unsuitable marriage anyway. She cannot know, poor girl, being young and in love, that love dies soon and that a future with two strapping stepsons and a man eighteen years older than herself would not really be very rosy.’
Jessica Mitford was staying with her sister Nancy in Paris. ‘On the Margaret thing,’ she wrote to her husband Bob Treuhaft, who was back in America, ‘the general consensus seemed to be that she is now one-up on the Windsors.* The Fr. papers were full of the incroyable attitude of the Anglais towards l’amour.’ In the same letter she told her husband that, just before Princess Margaret’s statement, she had heard that ‘the Windsors have a new dog named Peter Townsend, my dear quel mauvais gout’.*
Three years later, the Duchess of Windsor was talking to James Pope-Hennessy, who was busy researching his authorised biography of her late mother-in-law, Queen Mary. While they chatted, the Duchess’s three pugs gambolled about. Their names, she said, were Disraeli, Trooper and Davey Crockett. ‘We did have a fourth called Peter Townsend,’ she added with what Pope-Hennessy describes as ‘her least nice grin’, ‘but we gave the Group Captain away.’
* Waterhouse’s valiant deed was never reciprocated. At a reception thirty years later, he noticed Princess Margaret’s ash growing longer and longer, so he reached across her to grab an ashtray. ‘She simply flicked her ash into my open palm as it passed,’ he recalled. ‘Thank God she hadn’t decided to stub it out.’
* i.e. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.
* ‘What bad taste.’
28
Mrs Peter Townsend, the former HRH the Princess Margaret (b.21 August 1930), died yesterday at her modest farmhouse outside Paris.
The younger sister of HM Queen Elizabeth II, she renounced her right of succession to the throne on 31 October 1955, issuing her famous statement: ‘I would like it to be known that I have decided to marry Group Captain Peter Townsend. I am aware that, by seeking to contract a civil marriage, I must first renounce my rights to the succession, and this I have done. I continue to pledge allegiance to my sister, The Queen, who has been a great comfort to me during this difficult time. From this point on, I shall be participating no more in public affairs, but I shall continue to offer my support to Her Majesty in every way that I can.’
The Princess became Mrs Peter Townsend on 4 January 1956 in a private ceremony at Marylebone Register Office. Following a small luncheon party hosted by Noël Coward, the couple flew to their new home in France.
In addition to Townsend’s two sons from a previous marriage, the couple had two children of their own, David, born in 1961, and Sarah, born in 1964.
In their self-imposed exile, the Townsends became regular visitors to the home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor within the Bois de Boulogne. ‘They had much in common,’ observed a close friend. ‘Margaret used to love gossiping with her uncle about the family they had both left behind, and the Duchess was always eager to join in, clapping her hands in delight at Margaret’s waspish remarks. “Oh, but Margot, darling – you really shouldn’t!” But poor old Peter would find their habitual sniping at those he still regarded with loyalty and affection a little awkward, and so would occasionally take himself off for a discreet walk.’
/> The Townsends’ marriage ended in divorce in September 1972. Friends said they had been growing apart for some time. Margaret had never been wholly reconciled to her loss of status, and would entertain only those who were content to curtsey and address her as ‘Ma’am’. While she was drawn to the artistic community, her husband, who worked in the wine trade, was said to prefer the company of those from military or business backgrounds. Sometimes, when her husband was talking, Margaret could be spotted yawning theatrically. Inevitably, Paris society buzzed with rumours of her romances with, among others, Yves Montand, Jacques Brel and Charles Aznavour. The latter’s chart-topping 1974 hit ‘She’ was often said to be about her:
She may be the beauty or the beast,
May be the famine or the feast,
May turn each day into a
Heaven or a hell.
In November 1972, Peter Townsend married Marie-Luce Jamagne, the former wife of high-society party photographer Antony Armstrong-Jones. Margaret Townsend never remarried. Towards the end of her life she returned to England, where she lived in a small apartment in Kensington Palace, along with two pugs, Betty and Pip, inherited from the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.
29
Two and a half years after the Princess’s brief statement announcing her decision not to marry Group Captain Peter Townsend, her silky young footman, David John Payne, was summoned to her sitting room. ‘John, I am expecting a very special guest to take tea with me this afternoon. Lay three places in here because Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth will be taking tea with us.’
Payne set out the white china tea service with pale-blue edging on a card table in the centre of the room. At 4.25 p.m., he was stationed by the main door as a chauffeur-driven green saloon car drove up. ‘To my utter astonishment, I recognized the suntanned figure of the passenger as that of Peter Townsend.’ As he was leading Townsend down the corridor to Princess Margaret’s sitting room, Payne received his next surprise. ‘In complete abandonment of the usual Royal rules’, the Princess and her mother were walking towards them, ‘their faces smiling with anticipation’.
The Princess and the Group Captain had not seen each other since their parting. According to the fanciful Payne, Margaret ran to meet Townsend, put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him ‘firmly, full on the lips. They lingered over this kiss, neither wanting to draw back … At last they parted and Margaret leaned back, taking his hands but keeping them still on her waist. Only then, for the first time that afternoon, did she speak. “Oh Peter …” was all she said. And I was close enough to hear the sigh in her voice and see the liquid sparkle in her eyes. Then: “It’s wonderful to see you again.”’
The couple were, at this most private moment, being keenly observed. First, by Payne (‘I never saw two people lost in the magic of a moment like that. It lasted less than a minute, I suppose, though it seemed like a golden age to me at the time’). Second, by the Queen Mother, who was herself being observed by Payne. ‘Only when they parted did it occur to me that throughout, the Queen Mother had been standing watching three paces away, having walked quietly after her daughter … As Margaret and Townsend parted, she smiled fondly.’
The Queen Mother greeted Townsend. ‘Good afternoon, Peter. It’s been a very long time. It’s so very lovely to have you here again.’ Around this time, it began to dawn on the three participants in the drama – the Queen Mother, Townsend, and Princess Margaret – that there was someone else present: the ubiquitous Payne.
Up until this moment, I had been an unnoticed observer, and the three had been oblivious of me. It was the Queen Mother who broke the magic spell for me. She released Townsend’s hand and looked at me, half in surprise. With a warm smile, she said simply: ‘I’m sure tea is quite ready now.’
Payne led them through to the sitting room, where their afternoon tea of cakes and sandwiches was waiting for them. He then retired to the pantry, and smoked a couple of cigarettes, ‘musing on the scenes I had been privileged to witness’. He worked out – or later claimed to have worked out – that ‘the real significance of this visit’ was that it was ‘Margaret’s opportunity to say her final goodbye to Townsend before any other romance, this time of a permanent nature, prevented her from so doing’.
Half an hour later, the bell in the pantry rang. ‘Our guest is ready to leave,’ announced the Queen Mother. Payne watched as Margaret and Townsend walked ‘slowly, almost reluctantly’ out of the room, hand in hand. ‘As they passed I smelled the exquisite perfume that Margaret had used … something extra special, perhaps, I speculated.’
Outside, Townsend’s car was waiting for him. ‘With an audible sigh’, Townsend turned away from Margaret towards her mother, and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Your Majesty, I … I am so happy to have seen you again, yet so sorry to be leaving you.’
The Queen Mother did not reply, but stepped back. All the time, Payne had been looking on. ‘I watched, and I admit I felt the sting of tears in my eyes … I am not ashamed to say that I have rarely been so moved, so afflicted by the sadness of others on that day, that hot day at the unromantic hour of teatime.’
Townsend took Margaret by the hand and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘He seemed overcome … As Peter Townsend kissed Margaret, I caught sight of the Queen Mother. She was watching them, a gentle look in her eyes. Then, at the moment of their kiss, she turned away. It was a truly majestic move, signifying that she approved and wished the star-crossed couple to embrace without the restraint of her stare.’ Payne followed suit. ‘I, too, lowered my eyes and stood impassively as I knew a Royal servant must. Yet I shall always remember Margaret best as I saw her in that moment.’
But Payne’s eyes were evidently not quite so lowered as they might have been, as he managed to snatch a good peek at their embrace. ‘Her chin, held high and proudly, trembled ever so slightly. I knew she was near to tears and I could almost feel the fight she was putting up to prevent them from filling her eyes.’
He opened the car door for Townsend. ‘As I bent to shut the door, his eyes met mine and I read a chapter of despair in his look.’ Glancing upwards, Payne noticed the windows of Clarence House dotted with the faces of his fellow servants, ‘straining for a glimpse of the famous visitor’. At this point in his narrative, Payne grows self-righteous at the memory of others barging in on his grandstand view. ‘And so the magic of the moment of farewell was lost. I felt I wanted to get the whole thing over, to urge Townsend to go, to shut the doors of Clarence House on the rest of the world and to allow my Princess to be alone with her thoughts.’ Or at least alone with her thoughts and those of her footman.
With Townsend gone, the Princess and her mother disappeared into the sitting room and shut the door. ‘To hell with the teacups, I thought. To intrude at such a moment would be ghastly.’ Instead, he went up to his room and threw himself on his bed. ‘It was ridiculous, I reasoned with myself, to feel so miserable at something which really had nothing to do with me. But had it nothing to do with me? For the first time, I examined my thoughts and feelings about the relationship between Margaret and her personal footman.’ He had, he claimed, become ‘emotionally bound up with my Princess. That day there was no escape from my enforced sharing of her sadness.’
Half an hour later, the bell rang. As he entered, Margaret was sitting at her desk, writing. ‘When I drew near her, I saw that three-quarters of a page of her personal diary was filled with neat handwriting.’
Margaret barely looked up. ‘I shall be dining with Her Majesty tonight,’ she said quietly.
Dinner took place in complete silence. ‘When I scraped a spoon over a silver salver, it sounded like thunder. That meal remains quite the strangest I ever saw. It was almost eerie.’
Margaret sat by herself, playing classical music on the gramophone, before going to bed. Payne took the opportunity to go into her sitting room, ‘the air … heavy with cigarette smoke’. On her desk was a glass of whisky and an ashtray containing half a dozen cigarette stubs, as well as her diary. ‘Wh
at had she written against that day, I wondered?’ He stared at it for two or three minutes. ‘I knew temptation then, for it would have been simple to have opened that diary and read it.’ But he resisted the temptation: ‘It would be sacrilege.’ Instead, he poured himself a glass of the Princess’s whisky, drank it down with one gulp, and raised his eyes ‘to where, through the bricks and mortar, Margaret would be sleeping’.
Life at Clarence House continued, its stately path paved with routines both big and small. In the first few moments of any given day, Payne would gauge the Princess’s mood. ‘The first words she spoke were the barometer of her temper … My heart would sink if she stepped briskly out of the elevator, her head held high, glancing at me with a slight lift of an eyebrow but not a word before marching along to the sitting room. Then, I knew, things might be a little difficult. On really black days, she hurried into her room and gave the door a resounding slam.’
He would wait for the bell to sound. ‘It was a fair guess that she would want a drink – vodka and orange juice it would be … Just a short nip of this lethal drink, liberally laced with orange juice, would suffice her and she rapidly returned to her normal, pleasant self.’ Executing one of his Misery-ish about-turns, he adds, ‘Princess Margaret is really one of the sweetest people I have ever met and I can honestly say that it was always – or very nearly always – a joy for me to work for her.’
Payne seeks to paint a portrait of himself as the Princess’s loyal knight in a hostile world. The most effective way to do this is first to repeat the world’s most hostile gossip, and then to be gravely offended by it. ‘I felt my blood boil to hear people make cheap and nasty remarks about Margaret. Only too easily they believed she was a spoiled, pampered and petulant girl who had no knowledge of the Royal Palace. Often I wanted to defend my Princess against these ill-mannered remarks.’ This passage comes in the middle of his own hour-by-hour description of her slovenly daily routine: