A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II

by Michael Paterson

  But such things were always, and only, relative. She had by now taken on the patronage, or presidency, of several organisations: the RSPCC, the Royal College of Music, the Life Saving Society, the Red Cross, the Student Nurses’ Association. She already spent her days answering letters, accepting – or declining – invitations, attending lunches, watching demonstrations of industry or military precision or emergency procedure, and making speeches.

  As she settled into this routine of public duties, the qualities that were to characterise her in the future became apparent. She was aware that she lacked her mother’s social gifts, and the smiles she offered to crowds and to photographers were bashful and often unsure. It was known by those close to her that she spent an anxious time before dinners wondering who she would sit next to and what she would talk to them about, and she was soon to make a point of reading notes in advance on people in such situations. There is something rather touching about the notion of a 20-year-old practising conversation. Instead of spontaneity and wit she had diligence and a good memory. She sharpened the skills she possessed in order to make up for those she lacked. She was described, tongue-in-cheek, at this stage of her life as being ‘like a very healthy, sound, responsible prefect in a boarding school, marked out to be head girl’. Her shyness, in any case, endeared her to her father’s subjects.

  The matter about which she felt most reticent was Philip. Her feelings for him had not changed, and her determination to marry him was obvious. The King still had difficulty in accepting that she had fallen for him so quickly and so young. His uncle Lord Mountbatten was persistent in pushing his suit, as he had been since the young people had first met. He had been at Dartmouth on the day of the Royal Family’s visit, and had taken pains to ensure that his nephew was highly conspicuous. It was he who had arranged for Philip to look after the girls.

  Mountbatten was a man of charm and brilliance, but these qualities were almost eclipsed by vanity and ambition. A career naval officer like his father – who had been hounded from office in the First World War because of a German name and background – he was a cousin of the Windsors but his own family (the Battenbergs had anglicised their name) was a very minor and unimportant branch of European royalty, and he passionately wanted to see it grow in prestige and influence. His handsome and personable nephew, with whom he had had few dealings until half-a-dozen years earlier, could be a means of achieving this. The Princess obviously liked Philip but her mother was less impressed. The Queen distrusted Mountbatten, whose motives she recognised, and his sponsorship of Philip did not stand in the young man’s favour. Even the candidate himself became alarmed by the vigour with which his uncle seemed to be forcing matters, pleading in a letter: ‘Please, I beg of you, not too much advice in an affair of the heart or I shall be forced to do the wooing by proxy.’

  If this sounds like some Byzantine plot to capture the throne it is worth remembering that, until within living memory, this is how all dynasties tended to operate. From the time she reached adolescence there had been speculation about Princess Elizabeth’s future husband. It would have been entirely natural that possible candidates for the hand of the Princess should be considered. Any suitable young man could have been discussed, and would have had supporters and detractors. Those who knew the Princess and her parents might have made suggestions, perhaps arranging for her to meet someone in order to see how they got on together. This is by no means unusual behaviour among the Queen’s subjects, many of whom owe happy marriages to precisely that sort of arranged meeting.

  People in the Royal Family were not, as they are today, free to fall in love with ordinary members of the public and marry them. The pool from which a young man could be drawn was by definition very small, for not only were there qualifications of birth but of temperament. Her husband must have credibility with the peoples of the Empire as well as being capable of living a life of unremitting duty. In addition to that, he must actually love her. The days of dynastic marriages – mere political alliances between ruling houses – had ended with the Great War. King George VI, whose own happiness was entirely due to marrying for love, would not have considered letting Elizabeth or Margaret be wed for any other reason. Like any indulgent father he would take a great deal of convincing that any young man was good enough for his daughter.

  The senior aristocracy was seen as the most likely place to find a husband for the Princess and one or two young dukes – Grafton and Rutland – were discreetly considered, though both were soon to make marriage plans of their own.

  The King was fond enough of Philip, whose extrovert nature was in such stark contrast to his own, but a number of his courtiers were not enthusiastic. He was a member of a Royal House but it was not one that was ancient, powerful or stable, and his father – divorced and living hand-to-mouth around Europe – had left an unedifying reputation. Philip himself was the nephew of a marquess – Milford Haven – but showed none of the quiet urbanity that was the ideal of the aristocracy. He had been to a British boarding school but it was not the kind of traditional, top-drawer establishment that would have been taken seriously by courtiers. He obviously had a rebellious streak – it has been suggested that this might have hindered his career had he stayed in the Navy – and officials could sense friction ahead. Again, the fact that Mountbatten, himself something of an outsider, was behind him did his cause little good. He could be blunt and disrespectful toward older people and it was wondered, given his striking looks, overwhelming confidence and social popularity (he enjoyed the friendship of women, and this could be misinterpreted), whether he would be able to resist temptation enough to be a faithful husband. The King’s Private Secretary saw him as: ‘rough, uneducated and [would] probably [be] unfaithful’.

  Philip was to mature into a phlegmatic, often charming but frequently outspoken man. His accent and appearance, his attitudes and his sporting interests all epitomise the English aristocracy. He would come to personify the British Establishment. It is strange to think that he was once disapproved of by that same Establishment for not fitting with its notion of what was proper. Many decades later, when Princess Diana felt harassed by the expectations of senior courtiers, it surprised some people to learn that she had had support from Prince Philip. He, too, had run the gauntlet of snobbish disapproval.

  As shown, he had the support of Queen Mary. She had known him since his childhood – she used to invite him to tea at the Palace – and had cherished the hope that he would marry her granddaughter. Although some rough corners might have to be knocked off, she saw in him qualities of drive, energy and confidence that would be useful to the monarchy, a counterbalance to the modesty of her son and granddaughter.

  The British public proved surprisingly reluctant to take to him. Once he had been seen in public with the Princess – the first occasion was the wedding of Patricia Mountbatten – the press began to speculate openly. As the question of an engagement hovered, assumed but unspoken and unconfirmed (the Palace kept issuing denials when the matter was raised), there remained a feeling that Elizabeth could do better. However handsome he might be, whatever his war-record might have been, opinion would have preferred that the Princess marry a compatriot. Philip was seen as a foreigner in spite of his education, service and connections. A photograph of him, taken during the war and showing him with a beard (Elizabeth had kept the picture on her desk) was published and in that clean-shaven era it made him look like some Ruritanian grandee and certainly not like a man to be taken seriously. A poll of readers carried out by the Sunday Pictorial found that 40 per cent disapproved of a match between them.

  Elizabeth would naturally have found it humiliating to have her relationship debated in the national press and, feeling that it was no one’s business but her own, she could be nettled if even well-wishers brought up the matter. She was shocked when, during a visit to a factory, someone called out: ‘Where’s Philip?’ ‘That was horrible!’ she said. ‘Poor Lil,’ her sister commiserated. ‘Nothing of your own. Not even your
love affair.’

  In the autumn of 1946, Philip was invited to Balmoral. In a sense he, too, was waiting to see what would happen. He has given the impression that the understanding between them gradually deepened into certainty, and perhaps the whole Household was in suspense awaiting the news. The purpose of his stay there was, at least partly, to give him a final and thorough vetting as to his suitability for life in the Royal Family. It has been speculated that there is what is called ‘the Balmoral test’. Any prospective spouse who fails to enjoy the spartan surroundings, or the tiring days spent tramping the hills in the rain, will not do. One who immediately passed this had been Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, while a conspicuous failure was her sister-in-law, Wallis Simpson (on first glimpsing the tartan carpets, she had exclaimed: ‘Those will have to go!’). If there is such a test, there was little danger that Philip would be found wanting. As a schoolboy at Gordonstoun he was already accustomed to living in northern Scotland. He was keen on outdoor pursuits, and adapted without difficulty to the shooting-and-stalking culture of Deeside.

  Philip and Elizabeth became engaged at some point during those weeks. Royal betrothals are not always secret – we know exactly when and where Victoria proposed to Albert, and even what was said – but in this case both partners have kept the details to themselves.

  Yet there was no public announcement. The King wanted to delay the news until after a visit to South Africa that would be made early in 1947. All four members of the immediate Royal Family were to go, and they would be away for four months. Elizabeth, for the second and last time in her life, collided with the wishes of her parents. The first time, over the issue of joining the ATS, she had got her way, though with a compromise – having to live at home – that robbed the experience of much of its value. Now she wished to marry sooner rather than later. Despite her stubbornness, she gave way to her parents. It cost her some anguish to do so, but she not only accepted her father’s request to delay, she also – once she had married and the waiting was over – wrote to the King and told him that he had been right to insist on this. In comparison with the arguments that many young women have with their parents, these contretemps seem mild indeed, even though the issues at stake were significant. They show both what a placid and conciliatory nature the Princess had, and what a loving family she belonged to.

  Why was the King so intent on secrecy? There were several reasons. First of all, Elizabeth was not yet 21, and the King wanted her to have passed that milestone – to have officially left childhood for adulthood – before the question of her marriage was made public. Secondly, the man she wished to marry was not a British citizen, although he had served in the British Forces. He was in the process of becoming naturalised, but even his Royal connections could not speed up the wheels of bureaucracy, and his papers had not come through until 7 February – after the time the tour had begun (somewhat absurdly he was, through Hanoverian descent, eligible for automatic citizenship all along). Thirdly, the King was a doting parent who did not wish to part with his daughter. He had so greatly valued the compact little unit that was his family that he dreaded its breaking up, and he was to some extent putting off the moment of parting. Fourthly, he wanted to be sure that Elizabeth was certain. Because of her high public profile there could be no mistakes. If she became engaged and then met someone she liked more, there would be very considerable embarrassment. He felt it better if nothing was said for the present. He wanted his daughter to have several months in which to search her heart and see if her fondness was genuine. He knew that the young people wrote to each other continuously and that the public already considered them a couple, but still he resisted. Once the family was home a decision could be made.

  Following the First World War, the then Prince of Wales had made extensive tours of the Empire to thank its member states for their contribution. Something of the same order was envisaged after the Second World War, but not as a sweep through an entire hemisphere or chain of countries. On this occasion the Royal Family would visit only one Dominion – South Africa – and all of them would go. The sovereign himself was suffering the stress of recent years. He needed a rest, and the voyage to the Cape would provide it. His daughters, who had never been outside Britain, were old enough to be shown to his peoples.

  For the occasion, Elizabeth and Margaret were given an allotment of extra clothing coupons. Despite the wartime restrictions still in place, it was expected that Royals always be immaculate and wear a variety of costume. One formal dress each would not have sufficed.

  They sailed aboard HMS Vanguard, the Royal Navy’s largest battleship. Elizabeth knew the ship. She had attended its launching when its completion was rushed to enable it to take part in the expected invasion of Japan. The Princess was photographed wearing a feminine version of a sailor’s cap with the ship’s tally on its band. She and Margaret were also photographed skylarking with young officers on deck, and practising shooting with their parents, lying prone and aiming rifles. Photographs published at home showed the Royals relaxing like any other family on a cruise and the King, whom his subjects were accustomed to seeing in naval uniform, appeared in shorts and knee-socks. As always with the Royal Family, however, there was work to do. In this case it was necessary to rehearse speeches and phrases in Afrikaans, and to study the country’s history and culture. The voyage was pleasant – the seas became increasingly warm as they travelled south, and they were escaping a particularly nasty winter at home – but it was not idyllic. Elizabeth was a poor sailor, and suffered on the way through the Bay of Biscay. ‘I, for one, would gladly have died,’ she wrote afterward. The Princess who during the war had pondered: ‘Are we too happy?’ felt guilty at being under balmy skies while her father’s subjects were suffering sub-zero temperatures, as well as a coal shortage, and her letters home were filled with commiseration and enquiries about conditions. She showed especial concern for the elderly and for those who could not afford adequate heating.

  In April, the Princess celebrated her 21st birthday. Her hosts, the government of South Africa, presented her with a necklace of 21 diamonds – which she was shortly to wear at her wedding. She marked the occasion by making the second important radio address of her life, and she prepared for it with customary diligence. She wrote the rough draft during a day’s relaxation on the coast. While the King and Princess Margaret swam in the sea, she worked on it under a canvas awning, ignoring the temptation to join them. Later, aboard the royal train, she went over the speech and rehearsed it with her sister as audience. It was very simple: ‘I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of the great Imperial Commonwealth to which we all belong. But I shall not have strength to carry out this resolution unless you join in it with me, as I now invite you to do. I know that your support will be unfailingly given. God bless all of you who are willing to share it.’ The ‘great Imperial Commonwealth’ was to get smaller. Before the end of the year, India was to become an independent republic. Burma would, within two years, sever all connections with Britain, and South Africa itself would eventually leave the Commonwealth for an entire generation. Nevertheless, the speech was highly impressive. The words were tidied up by the King’s Private Secretary but the sentiments had been her own. They were sincerely held and have guided her ever since. They have been frequently quoted, and indeed make up the Queen’s most well-known speech. The young woman who had been thrilled by her namesake’s address to the troops at Tilbury had now uttered stirring and memorable words of her own. It is said that she herself was moved to tears when reading the final draft.

  And there were noble gestures as well as words. In Basutoland she and Margaret inspected several hundred Girl Guides. Afterward she asked if they had seen all of those who had come for the event. Apparently they had not, for there was a busload of leper girls nearby. The Princess immediately asked to meet them. Taking Margaret, she went over and greeted them, making a point of walking round the bus so that they
were seen by everyone.

  When the Royals arrived home, Philip was forbidden to appear among the welcoming party, for his presence would have sent an immediate signal to the public. Still living on his naval officer’s pay, he had been saving up for an engagement ring, but in the event his mother provided the necessary jewels from family sources, including her own ring. The result was an arrangement with a solitaire diamond that had five smaller diamonds each side, set in platinum. The princess was given this at the beginning of July and wore it from then on. The wedding ring itself would not prove a financial setback, for the people of Wales donated one made from Welsh gold. The date was set for 20 November 1947. The actual engagement had been long – over a year – but the official one was to be short.

  ‘Philip of Greece’ had now become Lt Philip Mountbatten. His uncle’s desire to see the family name linked with that of a reigning dynasty had very nearly been fulfilled.

  It was felt by both the Palace and the Labour Government that the wedding should take place at St George’s Chapel, Windsor. The country was still in a process of painful economic and material recovery from the war, and a low-key ceremony was considered in keeping with the times. As arrangements began to be discussed in the press, however, it quickly became clear that Parliament and the Royal Family had misread the national mood. After years of drabness and hardship the public longed to have spectacle again, and they wanted the bands and bunting they had not seen since the Coronation a decade before. The chapel, set in the Lower Ward of Windsor Castle and some 20 miles from London, was far too inaccessible and much too small for the crowds that wanted to join in the celebrations. These were quickly re-planned for Westminster Abbey. Expectations built up to such an extent that the wedding became a major state occasion. The Palace had to ask the Ministry of Food for extra rations to feed the foreign guests who would be coming.