A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II

by Michael Paterson

  Michael Paterson is the author of several history books, including A Brief History of Life in Victorian Britain, also published by Constable & Robinson.

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  To my god-daughter, Isobel Macauslan

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

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  First published in the UK by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2011

  Copyright © Michael Paterson, 2011

  The right of Michael Paterson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  UK ISBN: 978-1-84901-581-3

  eISBN: 978-1-7803-3074-7

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  First published in the United States in 2011 by Running Press Book Publishers, A Member of the Perseus Books Group

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  US ISBN 978-0-7624-4279-9

  US Library of Congress Control Number: 2010940977

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  CONTENTS

  Preface

  INTRODUCTION

  PRINCESS, 1926–1939

  WARTIME, 1939–1947

  NEW ERA, 1947–1952

  YOUNG QUEEN, 1952–1960

  MATURITY, 1960–1970

  JUBILEE, 1970–1980

  REVIVAL, 1980–1990

  HORRIBILIS, 1990–2000

  MATRIARCH, 2000–2012

  Further Reading

  Index

  I thank my wife Sarah, who by constantly asking: ‘Haven’t you finished that book about the Queen yet?’ galvanised my efforts. I am also most grateful to some very dear friends: Jurgen and Irene Erdmann, and Astrid and Detlef Stollfuss, for most helpful conversations.

  PREFACE

  She is a bit late, and you have been waiting for long minutes. A message came through that she is held up in traffic, but now there has been an announcement: ‘Right, everyone! She’s on her way! Places please!’ and the subdued conversation ceases among your neighbours. They are standing stiffly, patiently, in a long row, not fidgeting.

  You know she has arrived when you hear the sirens, faint at first, then loud enough to fill the street outside. Beyond the distant glass doors you are aware of lights flashing. There is the gunning of motorcycle engines, the crackle of police radios. And there is a flurry of movement at the entrance. Then silence. Somewhere at the far end of the receiving-line she is being greeted, talking to her hosts, having the evening’s event explained to her even though she has known for more than a year that she was coming here tonight. The others, like you, are probably going over what they will say and do when they meet her. There are certain rules that have been explained: when introduced, address her first as ‘Your Majesty’, after that as ‘Ma’am’. ‘Ma’am’ to rhyme with ‘jam’, not ‘marm’ as in ‘marmalade’. Women may curtsy, men may bow from the neck. These gestures are not compulsory. It is, apparently, no longer necessary to make them if you prefer not to. But most still do, as a courtesy toward a lady who merits respect, and out of a sense of occasion. If you don’t, she will certainly give no indication that she minds. You have also been warned not to grab or squeeze her hand when it is offered. And you may not initiate conversation; that is her privilege. Wait to be asked something, and do not give lengthy replies if asked a question. Presumably, if possible, ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ will suffice. It is, after all, more polite not to disagree.

  And now a group of people is coming slowly nearer. You cannot see her from the corner of your eye, because she is hidden behind the large man who is making the introductions. You glimpse a woman, but it is someone else – a lady-in-waiting, perhaps. If you cannot see her, you can at least hear her. The quiet murmur of conversation, the interrogative tone as she gently asks a question. There are pauses as she listens. You catch the quick movement, along the line, of ducking heads and hands thrust out. You can hear the rustle of expensive dresses as ladies curtsy. Odd phrases are audible: ‘Oh!’ ‘Really?’ ‘Is it?’ Some distance away, she seems to be genuinely interested in talking to someone. She asks them several things. The exchange lasts a whole minute or so, longer than she is supposed to want to talk to anyone on these occasions. But it comes to an end. ‘Well . . .’ she says, in a manner that suggests finality, and the little procession continues.

  When presentations are made she does not, as Prince Philip or Prince Charles would do, produce some jocular observation that would provoke polite laughter, perhaps making a detail of a person’s clothing or accessories the basis for a quip. Nor, like them, would she laugh out loud at something said by others. When they meet the public, they are friendly. When she meets them, she is reserved. She is not here to entertain, so she is quiet and serious, polite but definitely not convivial. The point about what she says is that it is always safe, never opinionated or controversial, even though this may make her seem both uninterested and uninteresting. Did her husband not once say that people would rather be bored than offended? The murmuring increases, you hear her host muttering the name of each person, the questions and responses. ‘Had you been there before?’ she asks. ‘Really?’ Although she takes in what is said, she does not react to it, an
d her tone remains neutral, unemotional, unexcited. She is now on the edge of your vision. You have an impression of a long white dress, and see the shimmer of jewellery. She appears to have a halo but it must be a tiara, glinting with reflected light. She looks pleasantly at those she greets, and her tight smile broadens into a grin when someone mentions a country she has recently visited. When making small talk with strangers, such details can be a godsend. ‘What were you doing there?’ she asks, matter-of-factly. ‘Had you been before? Were you? Yes, beautiful.’ Now she is next to you, and then in front of you.

  At five foot three she is small, but perhaps not as small as you expected, for in the media she is often pictured standing next to men who tower over her. Recent American presidents, for instance, seem to have been particularly lofty. She is a-dazzle with diamonds. Her hair is very white and her eyes are very blue. Her complexion is legendary for its purity, and this is still true though she is in her eighties. Her posture is as straight as that of her Guardsmen. Her high-heeled shoes are gold and so is her handbag, which is hung from her elbow so that her hand is free. Her smile – a polite baring of the teeth – is hesitant but warm. It is sometimes complained that she does not smile enough but in fact she does so often, especially when listening. She is told your name – there is no reason why she should need to know, yet she frowns slightly as if memorising it – and what your reason is for being present. You look sharply down at your toes, then up again. She offers her hand – a limp touch of gloved fingertips. She holds out only four fingers, not the pinkie. Her voice is low and slightly husky, her speech slow, her diction precise and her accent that of the pre-war upper class. She asks something and you reply: ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ Her expression acknowledges this. But your answer was a conversational cul-de-sac. There is nothing further to say. And in any case, you sense your time is up. She knows just how long to spend with each person. She nods and moves on, as do the gaggle of people that surrounds her. She is already talking to someone else: ‘Was that the first time you’d been there?’ You let out a long breath, thankful you made no mistakes. It does not occur to you, even though you had heard that she finds small talk difficult, that she too might feel relief when such an encounter is over.

  Were it not for her jewels and the entourage that follows her, she could have been the benign, retired headmistress of a girls’ school. There is about her just that element of what the army calls ‘command presence’, more than a hint of a brisk and businesslike personality. Nevertheless because her personal reserve is palpable, there was a sense that she was making a particular effort to talk to you, and that is very endearing. You wonder why she has this. After all, she once had Khrushchev to tea, and the Ceausescus to stay. If she could deal with them, why would you and your colleagues present a challenge? But it is not the same. With world leaders there are gifts to give and receive and exclaim over, palaces to show them round, important topics to discuss, and there is opportunity to get to know them. Here, there is barely time to exchange greetings with people she will never see again. Yet she does it diligently, sincerely, as if it matters to her.

  And then it dawns on you: this is not really shyness anyway. After all, she looked you straight in the eye, and clearly does not lack self-possession. It is a reticence that is carefully calibrated, a well-drilled economy of speech and emotion. There is about her a studied professionalism – after such a long reign you would expect no less – in which dignity, graciousness, interest and friendliness are commodities she measures out and deploys as needed.

  Some people would like to see in her public manner more warmth, more humour, more animation. They may even assume, if they know little about her, that the seeming lack of these is due to a cold and formal personality. She is not short of humour, or opinions, but what she cannot afford is to say or do anything controversial. She is well aware how easily any remark or even expression could be misrepresented, misquoted or seen out of context by the media. She will therefore not disagree with anyone, voice strident or even firm views or look in the least disapproving. She is not, in any case, running for office so she does not glad-hand, slap backs, laugh at others’ jokes or pretend an interest she does not feel. Politicians do all that, because they must. She does not need to.

  She will not, because of the constraints on her time, give you more than minutes or even seconds. What you have just had, in other words, is what everyone gets. She looks earnest and serious, interested, perhaps amused, when performing this task and, for the brief time that she is in conversation, she treats you as the only person in the room. There is none of the self-important person’s habit of looking past you, or behaving as if you are not important enough to notice. She is genuinely, if distantly, charming and it is difficult not to be enchanted. You remember reading somewhere how her father told her that anyone who met her would remember the experience for the rest of their life, and you realise that you will.

  As soon as she has gone there is an outburst of noise and excitement all around you. ‘Thank you all!’ bellows whoever was in charge, ‘that seemed to go well.’ ‘So dignified!’ people gush. ‘Wasn’t she charming?’ Some are even skittish, light-headed: ‘What did she say to you?’ they ask each other. No one says, ‘Well, that was an ordeal!’ because they were all caught up, willingly or otherwise, in the thrill of the moment. Even those who are indifferent to the monarchy can be overcome at meeting the most famous woman of our time, and without exception they found the experience inspiring, intriguing or at the very least deeply interesting. It is a milestone in their lives, deserving of a whole page in the photograph-album of memory. There is, after all, something marvellous about being noticed, acknowledged, spoken to by the Head of State, knowing that with all she has to do and all the important people she has met, she has given you her time and attention, if only for an instant. ‘Pinch me, someone!’ says a person nearby. Inanity, of course, but that is what a brush with magic is like, and you feel it even if you’re a little surprised at yourself for doing so. When you, and the others, get home there will be questions to answer about what she was wearing and what she said, and you will be glad to spread the magic, to sprinkle farther some of the stardust. From now on when anyone asks you: ‘Have you ever met the Queen?’ you can say yes. If, however, they then enquired: ‘What is she like?’, how would you answer them? For you still don’t know.

  INTRODUCTION

  Queen Elizabeth II is, by a considerable margin, the most important woman in the world. By virtue of position, longevity, personality, exposure and influence she has outdistanced and outlasted any other who might have claims on public awareness. Some have undoubtedly held the world’s attention, shaped events, demonstrated compassion, led social trends or – briefly – had more ‘news value’ in terms of the media: Eva Perón, Jacqueline Kennedy, Golda Meir, Indira Gandhi, Margaret Thatcher, Mother Teresa. None has had anything like the position on the world stage occupied by the Queen. Her nearest competitor in the 20th century has been, ironically, her own mother, who died in 2002 at the age of 101. As regards her place in world history Elizabeth II is, without question, going to rank with the great female rulers: Queen Victoria, Catherine the Great, Maria Theresa and the first Elizabeth. Although all of these – even Victoria – wielded greater power than she does, her influence is probably just as great. She is, after all, Head of State in a quarter of the globe and ruler of more independent territories than any sovereign in history.

  Careers in public life usually last no more than a decade or two. Politicians are, to a surprising extent, quickly forgotten. It seems extraordinary – and it is – that when Elizabeth II came to the throne Winston Churchill was Prime Minister, Harry Truman was President of the USA and Russia was ruled by Stalin. She has known – and shared the stage with – a host of other figures who many know only from history books and archive film: Charles de Gaulle, John F. Kennedy, Richard Nixon, Harold Macmillan. For the past 60 years she been privy to every national secret and has worked with every British government an
d with the leaders of Commonwealth states, as well as travelling to most of the countries in the world. Through her own experience she is linked to many of the great personalities of the later 20th century, and her contact with them has been both formal and light-hearted: when she visited Washington during Eisenhower’s presidency she could remind him that a decade earlier, when he was a general and she was a princess, she had taught him to dance an eightsome reel. Through her family she is entwined with even more international events: her husband’s mother was honoured by Israel as ‘Righteous Among the Nations’ for sheltering Jews in Athens during the Holocaust, though it also happens that one of her cousins, the Duke of Coburg, was a Nazi Gauleiter. Further back in history, the chain of coincidence is equally intriguing. Her Majesty is not only descended from King George III but from his American antagonist, George Washington.

  She is, by nature, quietly dutiful. The British have come to regard this as normal in sovereigns, for George V and VI have also been of this type. While this gives journalists less to write about, it makes the monarchy inoffensive – therefore popular – and provides society with a feeling of stability. Queen Elizabeth is, to a large extent, taken for granted by many of her own subjects. None of them under the age of 60 will have known any other ruler. She has been there all their lives, and appears ageless – at any rate she continues to pursue an active and demanding round of duties. She remains ubiquitous in British life – broadcasting every Christmas Day, appearing in the news as she opens something or tours a city or welcomes a visiting Head of State. Her face is a national icon, endlessly seen on postcards and plates and tea towels. It is on every stamp her subjects stick and on every coin they spend – and the number of these runs into billions. Occasionally she is criticised in the media for looking glum or for dressing unimaginatively, but if this is true it is not enough to threaten national approval ratings that consistently stay between 80 and 90 per cent. Mostly, coverage of her is respectful, and therefore may seem dull.