by Pamela Hicks
Such was the depth of my feelings for George and our desire to see each other as often as we could that I chose to follow my heart and not accompany my mother on a trip to Delhi to see Panditji. He teased me in a subsequent letter: ‘It’s been a joy to have your mother here, when you have deserted us and not come this way.’ But I could tell he was pleased that I was happy and I knew that I would be seeing him later that year for, some sixteen months after the death of King George VI, the Queen’s coronation was due to take place. While the Queen had indeed been declared Sovereign the moment her father had died on 6 February 1952, it had taken sixteen months to organise the coronation. As tradition declared that the monarch has to be crowned in sight of ‘all of the people’, a great many heads of state from all over the world had been invited to attend. Of course, this had a knock-on effect as the seating capacity inside Westminster Abbey had to be pretty much expanded threefold to accommodate the eight thousand or so guests. There had been some concern that the death of the Queen’s grandmother on 24 April, just a few weeks before the coronation, would mean that it would have to be postponed, but Queen Mary had thoughtfully made known her desire that no one must be in mourning during the coronation.
And so, on 2 June 1953, the world witnessed the most public of coronations. To begin with, it was the first time that television cameras had been allowed inside Westminster Abbey and it was also the first time that a great event had been broadcast live throughout the nation. An estimated forty million people across the world would be able to watch it on television in addition to another eleven million who would listen in on the wireless. As such there were many rehearsals before the great day, the Duchess of Norfolk deputising for the Queen, though Queen Elizabeth did have to practise wearing the crown the day before as the St Stephen’s Crown weighed a colossal seven pounds. Anne Glenconner later told me that she and the other maids of honour had to keep putting the brakes on when they walked behind the Queen carrying her train to avoid running into each other, as everything was so much slower than they had rehearsed it.
The more than eight thousand guests in attendance included royalty and dignitaries from all over the world. Every crowned head was given a carriage in which to arrive at the abbey, and as there were so many people to get in, several peers processed to their seats with sandwiches concealed beneath their coronets. My mother, Patricia, John and I had been instructed by the Lord Chamberlain to arrive only an hour before the ceremony began so we did not have too long to wait. My father had a rather unsettling ride behind the coronation coach, on a horse that was so fresh it pranced around and would not keep to a dignified walk. When he dismounted at the abbey and the Life Guard trooper approached to take the reins, my father told him, somewhat tetchily – and unrealistically – to take the horse away and exercise it.
The Queen was dressed in a white satin gown designed for her by Norman Hartnell. The full skirt was embroidered with beaded emblems of the United Kingdom and all the Commonwealth countries, including a rose, a thistle, a shamrock, a maple leaf, a fern and the lotus flower of India picked out in diamante and seed pearls. This dress had taken over three thousand hours of handiwork to complete. As she processed into the abbey, her long crimson velvet train was borne by her six maids of honour, their stunning dresses completing the tableau. The whole effect was magical.
I knew that, for the Queen, the coronation ceremony meant a great deal, particularly the anointing, for which she had requested the cameras be turned off. This was the most moving part of the rite, and when it came, the maids of honour stepped forward to take her velvet robes and jewellery. When they then covered her coronation dress with the simple white linen overdress, I was struck by how young, vulnerable and alone the Queen appeared. There was a hushed stillness, a sense of gravity and occasion, as the Archbishop of Canterbury anointed her hands, her head and her heart with the consecrated oil that symbolised her divine right to rule. And while she may have looked fragile, the certainty in her voice as she said her vows was inspiring. During the investiture, the Lord Chamberlain presented her with golden spurs, the symbol of chivalry, after which the archbishop offered a jewelled sword and armills, golden bracelets denoting sincerity and wisdom. Then the Imperial Mantle, the gold royal robe that had been used by her father in his coronation, was placed over the white linen robe and she received the orb, the coronation ring, the glove and the sceptre. As the new Queen was crowned, the abbey resounded with the dramatic and thunderous acclamations of ‘Long Live the Queen!’ and ‘God Save the Queen!’
Prince Philip was the first to do obeisance to her, bowing and kissing her cheek. His mother, Aunt Alice, led the royal family’s procession out of the abbey towards the West Door amid the glorious music that echoed round the nave. I was so used to seeing her dressed in a workaday grey jacket and skirt and short nun’s veil – she had founded a nursing order of Greek Orthodox nuns in 1949, modelled on the convent set up by my Great Aunt Ella, Grand Duchess Elizabeth of Russia – that it was a surprise to see her looking so dignified and regal in her finely woven floor-length woollen cloak and flowing veil.
During the procession back to Buckingham Palace, the Queen wore the newly made velvet Purple Robe of State, edged with ermine and embroidered around the border in gold, the work of twelve seamstresses from the Royal School of Needlework. The route to the palace had been designed so that as many people as possible could see the Queen, and because of the large number of people taking part – just under thirty thousand officers, not to mention the vast number of royals from all over the world – it was three kilometres long and took two hours to complete. The Queen of Tonga won the hearts of the public by not putting up the cover over her carriage, despite the rain. But what sent the press into overdrive was Princess Margaret’s gesture of brushing a piece of lint from the jacket of Captain Peter Townsend, the late Queen’s equerry and a divorced man.
Following the procession, the Queen came out on to the balcony of the palace to wave to the crowds and watch the fly-past. In the evening, as ‘the lights of London’ came on all the way down the Mall, to the National Gallery and down to the Tower of London, we watched the firework display with Panditji. He took a seat next to my mother, with my father on the other side, and I sat behind them. It soon became clear that the people sitting next to me did not realise my connection, for a woman behind me exclaimed to her neighbour, ‘Golly, look – there is Lady Mountbatten. And that’s the Indian Nehru next to her. How can she let him sit so near?’ At that moment, Nehru, in the familiar way he had with everyone, put his hand on my mother’s arm to point something out. The effect on the couple behind me was immediate: ‘Look, he is touching her. How can she let him? It’s disgusting.’ Hearing this sent a shiver down my spine.
I listened intently that evening as the Queen made a speech to her subjects around the world, speaking of her wish to unite her people. When she said ‘I have in sincerity pledged myself to your service, as so many of you are pledged to mine. Throughout my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust. In this resolve I have my husband to support me. He shares my ideals and my affection for you,’ I knew this to be true.
16
The Commonwealth Tour was to resume in early November 1953. Once again I was not happy at the thought of going away for nearly six months as I was still very much in love with George and wanted to see him as much as possible. I had a sense that my parents were relieved I was going away, for while they liked George, they felt I wouldn’t be happy living in Lebanon. My mother thought he was a ‘sweet man with impeccable manners’, but my father teased me that George always wore fingerless leather gloves for waterskiing and a similar pair for driving and he was puzzled by the fact that George always dressed entirely in black. It would be even longer than usual before George and I could meet again. We were used to writing long, detailed, intimate letters and I consoled myself that, so far, our feelings for each other had not been changed by spending so much time apart. He was such a romantic, but
after I refused another of his marriage proposals he ended one of his letters by saying that I had a ‘pumping machine instead of a heart’. I was somewhat affronted but it soon became a joke between us.
I had to prepare for the tour, and while this time I already had a wardrobe full of dresses, bags, hats and gloves, now that the princess was Queen, the whole thing was on a much grander scale. Henriette had remarried, so the other lady-in-waiting was to be Lady Alice Egerton, whom I knew from Malta. We were to take turns at being in attendance unless we were both required for very formal occasions such as the opening of Parliament. I liked Alice, who I knew would be a caustic and amusing companion, but I still felt forlorn and lonely at the prospect of the tour and was grateful to Patricia for coming down to the King George V Dock to see me off. This time I was not flying out to Bermuda and going on to Jamaica with the Queen and Prince Philip but instead was part of the advance party sailing out on board SS Gothic. As soon as I embarked I could see that the party on board Gothic consisted of several senior members of the royal household I scarcely knew and an atmosphere redolent of Buckingham Palace prevailed. This time we would be in the presence of Sir Michael Adeane, the Queen’s private secretary, who held the same rank as a cabinet minister. Martin Charteris, her assistant private secretary, was flying out to Bermuda with her. It was a bit like the first day at a new school, and I was once again filled with dread at the prospect of being away for so long. I decided to hide in my cabin until we left the dock, but as it turned out, owing to the presence of the formidable Miss Bramford, this unsettled me even more.
Miss Bramford was to be my lady’s maid, inherited from a previous lady-in-waiting. I had never had a lady’s maid but had been told that it was essential for the tour because of the crowded programme of official events, timed to the minute, that required many changes of clothing, with no time for packing, unpacking, ironing crumpled dresses or finding the appropriate accessories. Miss Bramford was small, late middle aged and extremely well spoken, and I was immediately intimidated by her presence as she bustled around my cabin. I went up on deck, where, shivering and homesick already, I had a strong urge to jump ashore and take the first plane out to Malta or Ethiopia, where my parents were visiting Emperor Haile Selassie with the Mediterranean Fleet. When Admiral Sir Conolly Abel Smith came to tell me that my father had sent a lovely farewell signal, I wobbled all over again.
Going out of the dock through the lock into the mouth of the Thames took us over an hour. The passage was so narrow that from the centre of the deck you couldn’t see the water at all, which gave the disconcerting impression of sailing over land. Our departure was neither romantic nor impressive. The water was dirty and the docks were deserted, bleak and cold, the scene made all the more desolate by a knot of five or six children who had come with their parents to wave us off. They stood forlornly huddled, together with a photographer whose occasional flash lit up the dirt and drabness of the dock. I waved with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, though not terribly heartily, I am sorry to say. It was only when we passed through and the surrounding lights played on the water that the outline of the docks began to look rather lovely. I went down below, hoping that Miss Bramford had retired to bed.
We were to be at sea for a fortnight before meeting up with the rest of our party, and this certainly gave everyone on board Gothic a chance to get to know each other. I found that the senior members of the royal household were much less pompous and intimidating than they had at first appeared. Apart from members of the royal household, those on board consisted of the Royal Navy party (of which Conolly was in charge); the officers and crew of Gothic; and the press party, an essential element of the tour’s PR. There were six senior press representatives on board for the trip to Jamaica, including my old friends from the previous tour, John Turner, the newsreel cameraman, and the very tall broadcast journalist Godfrey Talbot – he of the very British voice. It soon became clear that they all shared a lively passion for taking photographs and they were endlessly pursuing us around the deck with their Brownies and colour film cameras, which became somewhat tiresome. But all in all they were a great team, and contributed an enormous amount of fun to the general melee.
It took me a while to find my sea legs, but by the third day we had all begun to engage in tremendous bouts of deck tennis, quoits and deck croquet, which we played with wooden blocks instead of balls. In the afternoons, there were terrific canasta sessions, at which I was rather good, and also liar dice, at which I was extraordinarily bad. Nearly every night there was a cocktail party before dinner. And so, as our so-called relaxed programme continued, I began to believe – incorrectly as it turned out – that the actual programme of the tour would come as a rest cure.
During the second week, I spent much of the time impersonating the Queen. As regular worship was an important part of the royal couple’s life, it was felt that we should rehearse a church service – as well as several other types of occasion – and for this I was asked to represent the Queen. Unfortunately, as we took up our positions, the ship lurched sideways and I couldn’t make up my mind whether ‘the Queen’ should stand firmly with her feet wide apart during the national anthem or stand with her feet together and risk falling over. To begin with, Jeremy Hall, the naval equerry from New Zealand, stood in for Prince Philip, but he reduced me to helpless giggles and nobody could take the rehearsal seriously. The next time, my old friend Mike Cowan, the Queen’s Australian equerry, stood in for the prince and he made sure everyone took it seriously, and two unsuspecting stand-ins and the stills photographer were made to do deep bows when presented to me. The rehearsals turned out to be a good idea, as none of the stewards knew how to deal with a formal dinner party. Oulton, the sergeant footman, watched as we staged a mock party, hissing instructions from the wings and making us feel as though we were actors in a rather bad play.
We arrived in Jamaica twelve days after leaving London. In the light of dawn, Kingston harbour was a remarkable sight – a narrow stretch of sand and grass lay beyond the water and very steep hills, covered in dense vegetation, rose up dramatically behind. I had imagined Kingston to be a sprawling city, so was surprised to discover that it was nothing more than a shanty town consisting of a couple of long main streets. Coming ashore, I was a little apprehensive as the governor, Sir Hugh Foot, had signalled to the ship some days earlier to say that as soon as we landed he wanted to ‘kidnap’ Johnny Althorp, the Queen’s equerry, and me, and take us to King’s House for discussions with him and Lady Foot. Arriving at the house, I was stopped in my tracks by the beauty of its setting – the lawns were a vibrant green following the rainy season, and the flowerbeds were vivid with pink and white bougainvillea, red poinsettia and the many colours of cannas. At the end of the garden, beyond the ‘Royal Cotton tree – so called because of its immense size – was a superb view of the foothills of the Blue Mountains.
The governor and Lady Foot – mischievously nicknamed ‘The Feet’ by Princess Margaret on a previous visit – had pushed Jamaica into a complete state of panic. Preparations for the tour had been going on for the past nine months and there had been intensive rehearsals for every single function. Now our arrival had thrown everyone into ecstasies of excitement, and with a heavy sense of doom, Johnny and I realised that we were to be seized and ‘rehearsed with’ throughout our stay.
Lady Foot was charming but imperious. As soon as I arrived she took me on a tour of inspection of the house as the Queen and Prince Philip would be staying with her and her husband. The layout was so simple that even I, who always managed to get myself lost, felt confident I had committed it to memory, and yet Lady Foot told me to retrace my steps to ensure that I knew every corner. Minutes later, she informed me how many times a day the Queen would be changing her dress. When I assured her that the Queen would have no intention of changing three times in one morning, she was driven to exclaim, ‘But we can’t have a crumpled Queen!’ Lady Foot then took me to the Queen’s bedroom and asked whether it was c
orrect for the governor’s wife to show the Queen into her bedroom or whether she must remain on the threshold and so presumably shout out directions as to the geography of the room from a distance. I tried to indicate that formality should not outweigh practicality, but she obviously felt that no detail was too small to discuss. This, then, was my initiation into the strange behaviour, or the total loss of common sense, that occurs during a royal tour. I had been warned by the other, more experienced members of the party that often people went into complete overdrive.
The governor came from an influential left-wing family – his brother was the Labour MP Michael Foot – and he was a charismatic man, with a progressive attitude. After my experiences in India, it was refreshing to hear him say that it never occurred to either the white or black inhabitants of the island that parties should not be mixed. I found him fascinating to talk to; nevertheless, after a day’s conscientious observance of the Foots’ enthusiastic rehearsal schedule, I made a bold bid for freedom, asking the governor to lend Conolly and me two ponies. He was somewhat shocked that I should want to ride ‘at a time like this’ but he acquiesced. Being used to my own company, I desperately needed to escape from all the people and overwhelming preparations, and as the admiral and I rode through the grounds of King’s House, around two enormous fields of waist-high grasses, I began to feel calmer. My pony was called Admiral and the admiral’s pony was Sailor Boy, something I found infinitely funnier than he did. Conolly had taken it upon himself to stand in loco parentis for me, which was touching but also somewhat frustrating. Once he knew that I would be arriving back on board Gothic after him following a night out in Kingston, he told Commander Colin Madden to send a boat back to shore to wait for me. Colin had passed the order on to the officer of the watch, adding, ‘When Lady Pamela comes on board, tell her that she’s a damn nuisance and I’m very angry.’ The officer of the watch that night happened to be the sixth officer, the baby of the party. No sooner had I stepped on board than he came up and with a tremendous salute took a deep breath and said: ‘Ma’am. Commander Madden says that you’re a damned nuisance and he’s very angry. Thank you, ma’am.’