Ma’am Darling

by Craig Brown

Cunningly, Lady Gladwyn pre-empted any mischief by informing her guests that either long or short would be fine. It took some time before they discovered which way the Princess would swing. ‘Dinner was at 8.30 and at 8.30 Princess Margaret’s hairdresser arrived, so we waited for hours while he concocted a ghastly coiffure,’ complained Nancy Mitford, who was also present. When she finally emerged, she looked, according to Mitford, ‘like a huge ball of fur on two well-developed legs’.* As for her dress, she had managed to find a loophole. Lady Gladwyn recorded that it was not just short, but too short. According to her, ‘one Frenchman commented, “It began too late and ended too soon.”’ Nancy Mitford was also to repeat this witticism, adding, ‘In fact the whole appearance was excessively common.’

  The Princess was placed next to Jean Cocteau, who recalled, perhaps fancifully, that she had told him, ‘Disobedience is my joy.’ After dinner, the other guests trooped into the ballroom for a performance by the vocal quartet Les Frères Jacques. The Gladwyns and the royal party entered last, by which time the others were all sitting down. At a similar event in Britain, everyone would have greeted the royal party by rising to their feet; but not in France. ‘Being French and republican and democratic and independent, and with nobody giving them the lead to rise, they remained as they were.’

  The Queen Mother, ‘with perfect manners and comprehension of the situation’, didn’t look in the slightest bit put out, but just ‘smiled amiably and moved towards her chair’. Not so Princess Margaret. ‘She exclaimed imperiously, “Look! they’ve sat down!” and showed that she was displeased.’

  Lady Gladwyn had already worked out who should sit on either side of the Princess for the performance, but the Princess was having none of it, plonking herself beside Cocteau, who had already been next to her at dinner. ‘She took such a fancy to him that she would hardly talk to anybody else the whole evening.’ At one point, the former French ambassador in London approached Lady Gladwyn. ‘I really must have a word with the Princess. Can you arrange it?’ She did her best, trying to edge him into the Princess’s little circle, but the Princess refused to catch her eye. ‘She was well aware of my tactics, and determined to ignore them. In the end I gave up.’

  After church on Sunday – at which the Princess accepted a bouquet ‘with noticeable ingratitude, holding it by the stalks, with the heads of the flowers almost touching the pavement’ – Lady Gladwyn had planned a visit to two châteaux, on which several young people had been invited, to keep the Princess company. But shortly before they were due to set off, the Princess wriggled out of it. ‘The Princess came towards me and told me she had a cold and therefore could not come with us. Simultaneously she began clearing her throat, cooked up a few coughs, and said that her voice was going. The Queen Mother turned to me rather sadly and sweetly asked whether it would matter very much.’ Lady Gladwyn bit her lip. ‘Naturally I said that although everybody would be dreadfully disappointed, health was so important that if she felt ill of course she must not attempt to come.’ At this, the Princess disappeared upstairs to bed.

  While Lady Gladwyn was hastily changing from her church clothes into her lunch clothes, her maid, Berthe, told her that the Princess had secretly arranged for Alexandre to come over in the afternoon to do her hair. ‘Clearly Princess Margaret’s cold was a fake,’ she commented huffily in her diary. In the car on the way to the first château, she told the Queen Mother’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Hambleden, about the Princess’s clandestine hair appointment. She was not, replied Lady Hambleden, in the least surprised: they were better off without her, and if the Princess had been dragooned into coming, she would have behaved disagreeably and spoilt the day for everybody else. ‘You will see that this tiresome incident will have no effect on Queen Elizabeth at all. She will enjoy the day as much as though it never happened. Nothing will disturb her happiness.’

  And so it transpired: the day went swimmingly, the Queen Mother never more radiant. On their return to the embassy, Lady Gladwyn accompanied her upstairs to see how the Princess was. ‘Her elaborate coiffure showed that something rich and strange had been done to her. Nevertheless the farce of the cold was still kept up.’ The Princess was not sure whether or not she would feel well enough to come down before dinner.

  Lying in her pre-dinner bath, Lady Gladwyn took a phone call from Lady Hambleden. A little apologetically, she explained that Her Royal Highness wished to know the names of anyone of importance who would be coming. Lady Gladwyn replied, tersely, that there was a list in all the rooms, that she was at present in her bath, and that she really could not be expected to trot out the names of all thirty guests off the top of her head. However, she did know that the French prime minister, foreign minister and ex-president would all be there. Presently, word arrived that the Princess’s voice had miraculously improved; she now felt well enough to come down to dinner.

  ‘We must at least give her credit for being a good actress, for she played the role of somebody with a loss of voice effectively, even though her occasional cough, more difficult to simulate, was less effective.’ Every now and then, forgetting she was meant to be ill, she began to speak perfectly normally. ‘But what was really remarkable,’ noted the undeceived Lady G., ‘was her lack of desire to please.’

  She was due to return to London on Monday morning, after an early fitting for her dress by Dior. Accordingly, Lady Gladwyn put in a request to say goodbye. Princess Margaret told her to come to her room at 10 a.m.

  As she entered, she found the Princess wearing a beautiful sweeping negligée. How was she feeling? Much better, said the Princess. By this time, Lady Gladwyn considered that she had earned the right to the last word.

  ‘As I curtseyed, I could not resist remarking, “I’m so glad, Ma’am, that having your hair shampooed did not make your cold worse.”’

  * Of all the adjectives used to describe the Queen Mother, ‘radiant’ is surely the most frequent. During her lifetime it almost became part of her title, like Screamin’ Jay Hawkins or Shakin’ Stevens. Radiant this, radiant that: she might have popped out of the womb radiant, and continued radiating morning, noon and night. As time went on, it became hard to imagine her ever unradiant, but then again, she never had to put out the bins, or book a ticket online, or trudge around a supermarket with a twelve-pack of toilet paper. She seems to have achieved her perpetual radiance by ring-fencing herself from anything unpleasant or – a favourite word, this – ‘unhelpful’. She was singular in her pursuit of happiness, banishing anything upsetting from her walled garden of delight. She rarely attended funerals or memorial services, even of old friends, and was a stranger to deathbeds. Hugo Vickers cites a particularly chilling example of her ruthless contentment. When Sir Martin Gilliat, her loyal private secretary for thirty-seven years, was dying, she never once visited him. ‘Before he died, perhaps because of the pain of his terminal illness, or perhaps because, due to Queen Elizabeth’s ingrained dislike of dying friends, she had not gone to see him, Gilliat railed against his employer, declaring that he had wasted the best years of his life in her service.’

  * Four years later, in a letter to Violet Hammersley written on 28 April 1963, Nancy Mitford varied the imagery slightly. ‘Pss M unspeakable, like a hedgehog all in primroses,’ she observed after seeing her at a wedding in County Waterford.

  31

  But might there be a different story? It has been said that history is written by the victors,* but, on the most basic level, this is not quite true: it is written by the writers. In her skirmish with Princess Margaret, this makes Cynthia Gladwyn the clear victor. But another story might as easily have been told, a story in which the beautiful young Princess is envied and resented in roughly equal measures by the catty middle-aged ambassadress. A less snooty, more easy-going hostess might have praised the Princess for her humility and common sense in wearing a ‘distinctly ordinary coat and skirt’ for her arrival in Paris. And, instead of condemning her for looking ‘far from radiant’, Lady Gladwyn might have complimented Princes
s Margaret on ‘taking her responsibilities extremely seriously’.

  Aged twenty-eight, did the Princess not show a refreshingly modern, independent outlook in refusing to bow to the dress regulations laid down by the dull old guard? Were Cynthia Gladwyn and Nancy Mitford the Ugly Sisters, seething with envy at this pert young Princess with her unabashed glamour and sex appeal? Given the choice, which of us would not rather sit next to Jean Cocteau than to a former French ambassador to London? And, when you are feeling below par, what could be worse than a middle-aged woman you’ve never previously met tut-tutting and raising her eyebrows and implying, in bitchy asides, that you are simply putting it on?

  When you are a Princess, every little step you take, no matter how small or insignificant, can be interpreted in any number of different ways, from comic to tragic, and all points in between.

  * Oddly enough, no one can agree on who wrote ‘History is written by the victors.’ Some say Churchill, others Hitler, Napoleon, Machiavelli, George Orwell or Walter Benjamin.

  32

  ‘A story is told that Princess Margaret, having read Richard Holmes’s biography of Coleridge, craved to see Nether Stowey. Accordingly she instructed her pilot on the way back from an official chore to circle several times around the Somerset cottage.’

  TOBY BARNARD in the TLS, reviewing The Oxford Guide to Literary Britain and Ireland, third edition

  Journalistic

  Close friends are expressing ‘deep concern’ that in recent weeks Princess Margaret has become ‘totally besotted’ by an opium-addicted eighteenth-century poet who anxious friends described as a hellraiser.

  The Queen is said to be suffering ‘sleepless nights’ over her sister’s infatuation. Shocked onlookers who witnessed her appearance on an official visit said she looked ‘dreadfully haunted’, and that she could be seen ‘performing endless “waving” gestures with her right hand’.

  ‘This type of compulsive-obsessive behaviour is often a cry for help,’ says a leading psychiatrist.

  Fears increased yesterday after the Princess demanded a private plane, funded by the British taxpayer, to fly her high above the poet’s West Country love-nest.

  But as the plane arrived at the closely-guarded four-bedroom luxury hideaway, valued at over £1 million, the Princess was seen to be behaving erratically.

  She refused to allow the plane to descend, instead peering longingly at the poet’s bedroom window, say distressed onlookers.

  Against all advice, the unhappy-in-love Princess then ordered the pilot – a married man – to fly around and around in terrifying circles. This led some traumatised villagers to describe the unexplained expedition as ‘a nailbiting life-and-death journey to hell and back’.

  There is no firm evidence that the Princess is addicted to hard drugs, but friends say she has found it hard to overcome rumours that she continues to struggle with cellulite.

  ‘This was a wholly unsuitable expedition for anyone so close to the throne,’ said one royal expert last night. ‘Princess Margaret’s behaviour continues to offer cause for concern.’

  She seems to have it all. Wealth. Fame. Glamour. The most famous sister in the world.

  But will she ever find true happiness?

  Comic

  Stop me if I’ve told you, but there was this Princess, see, and she’d just read this totally mind-boggling book about a poet, right, and so this Princess, she says, ‘You know what I’m going to do, I’m going to get into this plane, and I’m going to say to the pilot, “Take me to the poet’s cottage – and circle around and around until I say ‘Whoah!’”’ And that, my friends, is exactly what she did – only what the poor woman didn’t realise was that the poet was dead and buried! Whoops!

  Statistical

  Princess Margaret (1930–2002) read Coleridge: Early Visions by Richard Holmes (1989), which was 409 pages long.

  She was flying in a Cessna 172P Skyhawk, with a full, two-tube Lycomin O-320-D2J engine. They were cruising at about 201 mph at 3,000 feet.

  It was a 73 per cent clear day. She looked down on the village of Nether Stowey (OS grid reference STI94308), with its population of 1,373. This was where the third most prolific Romantic poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, lived between 1797 and 1799.

  The plane came in to land against a north-westerly wind at 16.36 hours precisely.

  Discreet

  Someone, who must remain nameless, was visiting the town or village of X in the West Country.* He or she had read somewhere that something had happened at a particular location,* and somehow managed to get another person to convey them by a certain means of transport to a location in some way related to it.* But for God’s sake, this must remain strictly between ourselves.

  Alliterative

  The poems pondered and the pretty pointless parading partaken, the pert Princess primed the pertinacious pilot to pursue a path promptly to the pothead poet’s pastoral pad to peruse the priceless panorama, perhaps pleading too pooped to pop out and participate in a painstaking potter.

  Confrontational

  ‘So you claim to have heard this story, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You read it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ha! One moment you claim you heard it, and the next you claim you read it! I put it to you, sir, that you cannot have done both!’

  ‘But I –’

  ‘Very well. Let us now turn to the “story” itself. Did you or did you not suggest that it involved the late Princess Margaret, who is, I might add, in no position to defend herself?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘And did you, furthermore, claim that a mysterious pilot was in some way involved?’

  ‘Yes, but I –’

  ‘Even though you don’t know his name, and you haven’t the foggiest idea what he looked like?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘And yet you are seriously asking us to believe that the late Princess Margaret, a devoted mother of two, ordered this unknown pilot to fly over a wholly unremarkable cottage! And all because she had just read a book!’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that …’

  ‘Yes, I do indeed put it like that.’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘No further questions, m’lud!’

  Gastronomic

  1 Princess Margaret

  1 Biography of Coleridge

  1 Nether Stowey

  1 Pilot

  1 Plane

  First, pour biography into Princess Margaret.

  Mix well.

  Place Princess Margaret in the plane with the pilot.

  Wait until the mixture has risen.

  Now, fly the plane over the village.

  Add spice.

  Serve with garnish, sauce, flavouring.

  Chinese Whispers

  ‘Princess Margaret flew in a plane over Coleridge’s cottage.’

  ‘Princes more regretfully play over coal ridge’s cold itch.’

  ‘Print cess replay overcoat rich cod id.’

  ‘Priceless repair coat Trish curd.’

  ‘Prepare catty skirt.’

  Argumentative

  I don’t know who told this story and frankly I don’t fucking care. Do you have an issue with that? Well, do you?

  Just let me finish, for once. Whatever nutter told this load of bullshit said that Princess Margaret – God, I mean, who really gives a fuck about Princess Margaret, for Chrissake? – that Princess so-called Margaret once read Richard Holmes’s unbelievably tedious biography of Coleridge, who honestly must be the most overrated so-called poet who ever lived. As the sister of the most boring and overpaid woman in the world, she then thought it perfectly reasonable to order her pig-ignorant pilot to destroy the ozone layer just that little bit more by circling around and around Nether Stowey, which, let’s face it, is the single most boring place in the world, and if you don’t agree with that then you’re even more of a moron than you look. Do you have an issue with that? Well – do you? Typical!


  Blurb

  For the very first time, the extraordinary death-defying tale of Princess Margaret’s secret flight to Nether Stowey can now be told.

  The crazed poet who could never say no.

  The pilot chasing his dreams.

  The rebel Princess who had loved and lost.

  And the legendary biographer who prompted her insatiable craving for the adventure of a lifetime.

  Follow the tragic Princess on her amazing quest, and you will never be the same again. This landmark story of tragedy and triumph will change your life.

  Forever.

  Footnote

  * Princess Margaret, HRH the (1930–2002). Sister of HM Queen Elizabeth II.

  † Coleridge: Early Visions by Richard Holmes (Hodder & Stoughton, 1989).

  ‡ Nether Stowey, pop. 1,373.

  § The name of the pilot is unknown.

  ¥ Private information.

  Haiku

  Princess Margaret

  Having read Coleridge flew

  Over his cottage.

  Oleaginous

  This is one of the most marvellously touching of the many delightful stories that are told about that most beautiful of all Royal Princesses. Her Royal Highness was, of course, an inveterate book-lover, in fact one of the best-read women I have ever had the privilege of knowing, and she had simply adored lovely Dickie Holmes’s quite wonderful life of Coleridge, as had we all. So lively was her curiosity, so quick her intelligence, that the divine Margaret managed to persuade her pilot (who, incidentally simply adored her) to fly his brilliantly nippy little plane over the delightful village of Nether Stowey. And thus, with characteristic wit, style and elegance did our most gracious of Princesses pay handsome tribute to the very greatest of poets.

  Hypochondriacal

  Her back hurt dreadfully and her ankles swelled to bursting as the frail plane spluttered and choked its exhausted way through the bruised skies.