In that year it seemed the entire façade of royal respectability wobbled and threatened to come crashing down. In March, Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson announced their intention to separate. A matter of weeks later the marriage of Princess Anne and Mark Phillips, who had been apart since 1989, formally ended. Now the relationship of the Waleses was in terminal difficulties and threatened to disintegrate at any moment. The hackneyed term ‘dysfunctional’ appeared with increasing, predictable frequency in press references to the Family. How could the monarchy survive such a pounding from the media and the public? The Queen met with her eldest son and his wife and urged that they keep trying to reconcile, at least to buy time. Her firmness cowed Diana.
At least with the Yorks there was no apparent animosity. Not only Andrew’s naval career but also his newly acquired passion for golf had meant they were too often apart, and Sarah sought diversion. They did, however, remain united by affection for their daughters and a determination to be good parents. Any hope of a reconciliation between them – or the buying of time to spread the burden of bad publicity – was, however, spoiled when in August the Daily Mirror printed on its front page a picture of the Duchess having her toes sucked by a man identifiable as her ‘financial advisor’, an American called John Bryan. Other images made it evident that she was topless and that her girls were nearby. The paper sold out within hours. ‘Fergie is Finished!’ trumpeted the press. This seemed the single greatest humiliation suffered by any member of the Family within the reach of memory. ‘Financial advisor’ became a term loaded with smirking innuendo. The Duchess, who was with the Family at Balmoral when the story broke, left there shortly afterwards.
Another tabloid, the Sun, published material that had been in its possession for some time. This was the script of a tape-recorded conversation between Diana and James Gilbey, a man with whom she was obviously intimate. He addressed her numerous times by the pet-names ‘Squidge’, or ‘Squidgy’, and thus the affair was dubbed ‘Squidgygate’ by the media . It seemed that the conversation had taken place on New Year’s Eve, 1989. Diana was deeply depressed. In the course of reciting her woes she was heard to say: ‘I’m going to do something dramatic because I can’t stand the confines of this marriage.’ Despite this threat, she was not guilty of engineering an embarrassing revelation. It was found, on the contrary, that the most likely source of the leak was a tap on her phone at Sandringham, and it is speculated that this was done by interests favourable to Prince Charles. The discovery that she, too, seemed guilty of adultery cost her at least some of the moral high-ground she had occupied.
And then there were even more revelations. ‘Camillagate’ was the release in the tabloids of transcripts of a telephone conversation between Charles and Mrs Parker Bowles. Much of the content of this dialogue was highly personal and its publication seemed, for the Prince, an all-but-insurmountable humiliation. What was forgotten, amid the storm of public revulsion, was that no one should have been listening in the first place. ‘I know a thing or two about espionage,’ said the thriller writer Frederick Forsyth, ‘and what is being done to the Royal Family is espionage.’
The most vivid in the series of Royal misfortunes took place that winter. Around mid-morning on 20 November 1992 an electric light bulb, left on too close to a curtain, started a blaze in the private chapel in Windsor Castle, and soon flames were visible on the roof of the Brunswick Tower. The fire lasted 24 hours, doing immense – but thankfully not irreparable – damage to the buildings on the north side of the Castle’s Upper Ward. Because these rooms were being rewired, most of the treasures they contained had been removed. Thanks to the quick thinking of staff, almost all the artefacts were saved. Among those who came to the rescue were Prince Andrew, who had been working in the Royal Archives, and the Lord Chamberlain, who personally climbed a ladder to bring down the Lawrence portraits in the Waterloo Chamber. This event proved something of a national trauma. Television news showed a clutter of hosepipes, charred roof-timbers, and soldiers carrying a gigantic, rolled-up carpet. It was much more of a personal tragedy for the Queen, who had driven straight from London on receiving word. She created the lasting image of the day as, dressed in a hooded waterproof coat, she stood among the rubble, peering forlornly at the gutted St George’s Hall. This became a photographer’s dream – a single image that summed up the situation and became a metaphor for the unhappiness of the monarch. It was understandably much used in reviews of that year. Of her five homes this is the one for which she has the greatest affection. Its destruction set the seal on her misery and would prompt the most famous words she had spoken in public since the address on her 21st birthday.
The destruction could have been so much worse. As, in the photograph, she surveys the damaged hall, it is obvious that the walls are still sound and have not even lost their painted decoration. Had the flames travelled a short distance further and reached the Royal Library, the result would have been a major cultural disaster. As it was, significant casualties amounted to two items: a Victorian sideboard thought to be by Pugin, and a huge painting by Sir William Beechey of George III reviewing troops. (Even this latter was not a complete loss to the nation, since the National Army Museum has a very close copy of the canvas by Beechey’s son.) There had been no damage whatever to the parts of the Castle in which the Queen and her family live. Nevertheless, it was tragedy enough. The stench of burnt wood hung over the quadrangle for days, and it was to take five years before the damage was repaired. One of her aides said: ‘I don’t think I’ve seen her as emotionally affected by anything as by the Windsor fire.’
But even as clearing up and rebuilding began, her troubles were not over. It was immediately announced by the Secretary of State for National Heritage – before the extent of damage had even been properly estimated – that the repairs to the Castle would be paid for from public funds. The Castle, which of course was not the Queen’s personal property but the nation’s, had not been insured, and the cost was found to be £37 million. There was outrage that, during a savage recession, the world’s richest woman was to be subsidised to this extent. ‘When the Castle stands it is theirs,’ fumed Janet Daley, one of many critical journalists, ‘but when it burns down it is ours.’
The Queen was genuinely, profoundly shocked by the apparent viciousness of these attacks. She had devoted 40 years of her life to selfless public service. She was an exemplary monarch even down to the efforts she made – and which went largely unnoticed – to save taxpayers’ money. She did her job well, she knew it, and everyone told her so. Other than a few cranks, she was greeted everywhere she went by smiling faces, and thus could have had no notion that she would be so unpopular. Neither had her Prime Minister, John Major, who announced the news in the Commons. It was bewildering and extremely hurtful even if, as was usual, she concealed her feelings. Members of her family had made themselves unpopular through their behaviour, but she had not previously had the venom of the public turned on her like this. She has rightly prided herself on her ability to judge the public mood, to understand what her subjects think and want. In the 1990s, however, there were two occasions on which her judgement let her down. The first was her expectation that the public would automatically be willing to pay for the rebuilding of her home. The second was her response to the death of Diana.
Where she had read the national mood correctly was in the matter of income tax. Her exemption from this was causing increasing resentment, and she had known for some time that it was necessary to change the way things were done. She was willing, but the matter had not yet been resolved when the fire began. The announcement within days that both she and Prince Charles would pay the tax – though only on public income and not on investments – made it look as if she were frightened of the public.
Only four days after the fire, she made a speech at London’s Guildhall that set the seal on her misery. Memorably – and it was indeed her most notable utterance for a generation – she used the phrase annus horribilis to describe the pre
vious 12 months, though with characteristic humour she expressed this in understatement: ‘This is not a year on which I will look back with undiluted pleasure,’ she said. She addressed, indirectly, those who attack the monarchy, from bar-room critics to the newspaper empire of the anti-monarchist Rupert Murdoch, and asked for their indulgence. Like every speech the Queen has ever made, this was written beforehand and read from notes. She does not extemporise, even when speaking from the heart. This was a speech without precedent, a plea for public sympathy.
She said:
‘In the words of one of my more sympathetic correspondents it has been an Annus Horribilis. History will take a more moderate view of the events of this year than contemporary commentators. He who has never failed to reach perfection has the right to be the sharpest critic. No institution, including the monarchy, should expect to be free from scrutiny. It can be just as effective if it is made with a touch of gentleness and understanding.’
This was unprecedented. Although she had sounded vulnerable before (‘I shall not be able to bear the burden . . .’), it was the first time she had pleaded for her people’s compassion, and it was the nearest she had come to being emotional in any public statement. As John Major, who was present, was to comment: ‘It drew from people an understanding that, monarch or not, here was someone who wasn’t isolated and insulated from the normal problems and vicissitudes of life.’ Although undoubtedly bloodied by the year’s events, she remained unbowed. In public she continued to behave with characteristic stoicism. Her public duties continued and she smiled as graciously as ever.
* * *
The following autumn, while the Family was at Balmoral, Buckingham Palace opened to the public for the first time in its history. Since the dispute over Windsor Castle had ended with Her Majesty receiving most of the bill, the ticket sales for one royal residence would now go to pay for the rebuilding of another. Only the ceremonial areas could be seen, for the Queen had decided what would be on show, and there would be no question of any family rooms being open. Tickets were expensive, and so were the items in the souvenir shop, but there was no lack of customers either then or thereafter, and the necessary capital began to accumulate.
While this represented a change at home, there were far more significant things happening abroad. The collapse of the Communist Bloc at the end of the 1980s was the biggest change the world had seen since 1945, necessitating a large-scale rethink of commercial, diplomatic and military relations with both allies and former adversaries. As a personification of the older democracies and of Britain’s desire to sponsor political and economic development, the Queen was much in evidence. Once Germany had reunited, she visited Berlin and walked through the Brandenburg Gate before laying a wreath at the monument to those killed while trying to cross the Wall. She went to Dresden, a city so heavily damaged by Allied bombing in the war that it was seen as symbol of both the horrors of war and the possibility of reconciliation. Although protesters threw eggs, she presented the community with a replacement weathervane for its Frauenkirche – a destroyed and rebuilt church. This had been paid for entirely through funds raised in Britain.
At home she received visitors from the Eastern Bloc – Lech Walesa from Poland and Václav Havel from Czechoslovakia. Not only their countries, but also both of these men in person, had suffered as a result of Soviet control. They must have mused on the good fortune of the British Isles, to whom the narrow defensive ditch of the Channel had given centuries of protection – a place free from outside interference for a thousand years, which greeted official visitors with costumed pomp and whose Head of State had presided over it for longer than any other in Europe. One of these eastern visitors, President Boris Yeltsin of Russia, invited Her Majesty – in the course of lunch at Buckingham Palace – to pay a state visit to Russia.
There are two such visits each year, and they take about two years to arrange. It was 1994 before the Royal Yacht dropped anchor in the Neva, the river on whose islands St Petersburg was built. There are reasons for such a long period of preparation. An itinerary has to be worked out, an exercise that involves the Palace, the host government and the British Embassy. It must be decided in minute detail what Her Majesty will see, the people she will meet and the places she will go. A typical visit would last for three days. It would involve, on arrival, a drive through the capital to let Her Majesty and the populace see each other. There would be visits – extremely brief ones – to museums, factories or other institutions of which her hosts were especially proud. There would be several receptions at which both the eminent and the socially ambitious would meet her for the duration of a brief handshake. There would be a gala theatre performance and there would be a round of calls on hospitals, schools or similarly worthy establishments. In countries with a rich folk tradition, whether in Africa, Asia or Europe, there would be displays of dancing and music. There would also be the returning of hospitality by the Queen, who would give a dinner at her Embassy, at a hotel or – as was commonplace – aboard Britannia. For this event, absolutely everything needed – cutlery, crockery, glassware, tablecloths, menus, and so on – will be provided by the Palace. The waiting staff and the chefs will also come from there. The amount of materials involved in such an operation is considerable, and therefore so is the detailed planning that must precede it.
Wherever the Queen is to go, an advance party will investigate. It will work out exactly where she is going and how long it will take to get there – to the minute. She brings her own car and chauffeur, and will be driven slowly so that she can be seen. On her trip to Russia her Rolls-Royce was delivered in advance, but her hosts discovered at the last minute that they had no suitable ramps to unload it. A frantic search of railway sidings, the night before the car was needed, provided what was necessary.
Her staff will visit every place she will stay, measuring doorways and rooms and beds. It will work out the length of time she will stay in each place, how she will enter and exit, and will even factor in the length of speeches. It will take careful note of the colour schemes. She cannot arrive wearing shades that will clash with wallpaper, with the uniforms of a guard of honour or with the sash and ribbon of an order with which she is to be invested – not least because she will be extensively photographed. Meanwhile, at the start of each year while she is at Sandringham, she will begin the extensive reading that is necessary for the visits she will make. She works her way through books, articles, reports – anything her staff feel will help her grasp the essence of the place and the people she is going to meet.
The making and fitting of the clothes she wears will have begun at least a year ahead. As well as avoiding certain colours, her dressmakers will look for ways of paying compliment. This can be done by incorporating the colours of the national flag, or more commonly by having a decorative pattern that incorporates an indigenous flower. Such measures will be taken whether she is going to a foreign country or to one of her own overseas realms. In Canada it can be guaranteed that the maple leaf will appear somewhere, in New Zealand the fern, in Australia the wattle flower. These devices will be particularly noticeable on the evening gowns she wears for state dinners. Otherwise, her wardrobe naturally also has to take account of the climate and the time of year at which she is visiting, as well as making it possible to travel in different types of vehicle – everything from a canoe to a howdah – as well as being easy to do up and to get in and out of, for she will have several changes of clothing a day. Apart from ensuring that she does not wilt in heat or freeze in cold – and also that she is prepared for sudden or unseasonable changes of conditions – garments must as always ensure that she can be seen from a distance.
She also takes with her a number of travel essentials: Malvern water, which she drinks every day; chocolate mints; Dundee cake; Earl Grey tea; her personal kettle; a thermos; a hot water bottle and pillows (how many people cannot sleep comfortably away from home?); barley sugar to ward off travel sickness; and her own soap.
Everything is tr
ansported in distinctive blue trunks. Yellow labels are fixed to the Queen’s, to mark them out from those of others in her party. There are also hatboxes, jewel-cases and other items. A specialist servant, the Travelling Yeoman, is tasked with looking after the luggage. One of his problems is disembarking the trunks after she has arrived at her destination, and getting them to the Embassy, or the hotel, before she reaches it. Fortunately this is not as difficult as it sounds. Welcoming ceremonies and speeches are often lengthy enough to allow a head start.
If she is staying in a hotel, which is not uncommon, an entire floor will be rented for her and her suite. When in 1968 she visited Vienna, 40 rooms of the Imperial Hotel were allocated to her. She and Prince Philip occupied seven of them, their staff – typically there would be about 30 travelling with them – and their baggage had the rest. Her Majesty’s rooms were refurnished specially. Not for her the bland decor and reproduction paintings seen even in expensive hotels. Her suite was filled with baroque treasures that had belonged to the Empress Maria Theresa, brought out of government store and magnificent enough to be coveted by any museum. A direct telephone link was installed with Buckingham Palace, and two guards, quite apart from the Queen’s own protection officers, were stationed outside all day and night. For her hosts, as for her Household, a visit by the Queen is not something that can be arranged and prepared for in the space of a few days.
A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II Page 20