by Gill Paul
Mary tried to speak but found it difficult. ‘Won’t,’ she managed, before closing her eyes again, overcome with exhaustion.
When she next woke, she was in what was clearly a hospital, being lifted from a stretcher onto a crisp white bed. The sheets felt cold and the air smelled of disinfectant and starch. She wanted everyone to leave so she could sleep, but a doctor was ordering that she be X-rayed. He spoke with an American accent and Mary wondered if she had been unconscious for a while and had been shipped back to America.
‘Where am I?’ she mumbled, and a nurse in a white headdress replied: ‘You’re at the American Hospital in Neuilly. Your friends thought that was best. We all speak English here.’
Mary nodded. That was good.
After the X-ray, she was taken to a private room, where a doctor shone a light in her eyes, took blood from a vein in her arm, and generally poked and prodded her. She just wanted to sleep, and at some point told them so. She was dimly aware of Wallis and Ernest asking the doctor how she was, and she strained to listen.
‘Damage to spine . . . emergency surgery to remove one kidney . . . condition critical . . . wait and see.’
Ernest, ever practical, was asking the questions and it sounded as though Wallis was still crying. Poor Wallie.
Mary slept again, and wakened in the dead stillness of night. There was no sound apart from a low hum of machinery. Outside the window the sky was dark, without so much as a hint of dawn. She turned her head and realised Wallis was still there, sitting in a chair by her bedside.
‘Mary, darling,’ she whispered. ‘You’re here. I’m so glad you’re awake. Are you in pain?’
Mary shook her head, squeezed Wallis’s fingers. ‘Thank you for staying with me.’
‘Of course I stayed with you!’ Wallis exclaimed. ‘You’re the best friend I ever had and I couldn’t bear to lose you. Do you have any idea how much I need you? I don’t think you do.’ She started crying again. Mary could see in the dim light filtering in from the hallway that her eyes were swollen.
She squeezed Wallis’s hand again. ‘You’re not going to lose me.’
Wallis leant over the bed, sobbing. ‘Promise me,’ she managed to say, her words smothered in Mary’s shoulder.
‘I promise,’ Mary said, before the veil of exhaustion fell again and she drifted off to sleep.
When she opened her eyes, she could tell it was morning from the shafts of brilliant sunlight slanting into the room.
‘Hello, Mary,’ said a man’s voice, and she was startled to see Ernest sitting in the chair beside her. She felt self-conscious that she was wearing only a hospital gown.
‘Where’s Wallis?’ she murmured, her lips parched and throat dry.
‘She’s gone to change but she’ll be back soon. She’s terribly distressed. We all are. I cabled your mother and Jackie, and Jackie wanted to catch the next sailing but I persuaded him to wait until there’s more news of your condition. He has cabled his Aunt Minnie to come and look after you. She’ll be here later in the day.’
Mary frowned. She had only met Jacques’ aunt once before, when she visited New York. She liked her but did not know her well. Still, she supposed Minnie was her closest relative on this side of the Atlantic.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Ernest asked.
‘Water,’ she begged, and he poured a glass from a jug by her bed and held it to her lips while she took a sip. Close up, Mary could see brown shadows under his eyes. Was he worried about her? Ernest was always so self-possessed, it was hard to tell what he was thinking.
‘You’ve given us quite a fright, old girl,’ he said, trying for a lightness of tone. ‘Glad to see you are still with us.’
‘You know me,’ Mary managed to reply. ‘I never like to be the first to leave a good party.’
By the time Aunt Minnie arrived, wearing a voluminous umber dress that swept the ground as she walked, Mary had been pronounced out of danger. There was no need for emergency surgery on her kidneys, which appeared to be functioning again, but the doctor warned that it was likely to be a long, gruelling convalescence because of the spinal injury she had incurred. She had stitches to cuts on her arms and legs, a giant bruise on her forehead, and every part of her body ached.
‘You go join your friends and enjoy your holiday,’ she told Wallis. ‘I’ll be fine. If I’m still here when you’re travelling back to London, drop in and bring me a KT.’
‘Yes, you go,’ Aunt Minnie urged. ‘I’ll rent an apartment near the hospital and stay with Mary until she’s well enough to sail home.’
‘I can’t . . . I feel as though the accident was my fault,’ Wallis insisted. ‘It should have been me.’
Mary smiled. ‘What kind of twisted logic is that, Wallie? You should have stepped in front of me and got hit instead? You prize idiot! No, I insist you have your holiday. I’ll write and describe my progress in tedious detail.’
Later that afternoon, two nurses held Mary as she swung her legs to the floor to try and stand for the first time. There was a sickening pain on either side of her lower back and pins and needles shot down her legs, worse on the right side. She willed her feet to move one in front of the other but it felt as if the signals from her brain were not getting through. Eventually she managed one step before collapsing back onto the bed.
‘One step today, two tomorrow,’ Minnie soothed. ‘We’ll get through this. Never fear.’
Ernest came that evening to say goodbye. He had to return to London for work the following morning. Everyone else had left the room so they managed a few words alone.
‘What will you do when you get back to New York?’ he asked. ‘About your marriage, I mean.’
In the forty-eight hours since her accident there had already been several heartfelt cables from Jacques, saying how much he loved her, that he couldn’t lose her, and promising the earth if she would just come back to him.
‘I’m going to see if it can be fixed,’ she said.
He nodded and cleared his throat, but did not meet her eyes.
Chapter 32
West Sussex, 21 October 1997
ON TUESDAY MORNING, RACHEL AGREED TO DRIVE ALEX to Susie’s house near Chichester, while the cameraman and sound man travelled from London with their equipment. Her car was a 1938 Lancia with sleek curves and diagonal grilles on the wings, like the gills on a fish. It was a beautiful vehicle, with a taupe exterior and pale grey leather seats, but something of a money pit that spent a lot of time in the garage for repairs, and this particular morning it was reluctant to start.
‘For God’s sake, when are you going to trade it in for one that actually works?’ Alex huffed, glancing at his watch.
‘It’s not worth much unless I could afford to put in a new engine. The original number plates were valuable but I sold them to finance the last repairs I had done to the bodywork. Besides, I love my car.’
Patience was the best tactic when it wouldn’t start. It was easy to flood the engine with repeated attempts, but after waiting a few minutes she was able to coax the motor to turn over and they set off.
Since the car crash in Paris she always felt a flutter of anxiety about driving, remembering the way Diana and Dodi’s Mercedes had crumpled on impact with the tunnel wall, like tissue paper in a fist. She turned on an easy-listening radio station for distraction. Alex was busy scribbling in the notebook he carried while she hummed along to Fleetwood Mac and Simon & Garfunkel.
Suddenly she thought of the first time she took Alex out in the car, a grey January day when on a whim they drove to Whitstable to eat oysters at a restaurant on the beach. He’d ordered an expensive bottle of wine and they sat getting drunk and talking for hours then had to find a room for the night because she was way over the limit. A gale was blowing as they walked the dark streets, wrapped in each other’s arms, shrieking with laughter as they were buffeted in the wind, and it came to her in a flash of clarity that she was in love. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. She glanced roun
d at Alex and smiled at the memory.
Susie came out to meet them as they scrunched to a halt in her gravel-covered driveway, and Rachel made the introductions. The crew were already waiting inside.
‘Have you been on television before?’ Alex asked as they walked into the entrance hall. Susie said no, never, and he seemed surprised. ‘You’ve chosen the perfect outfit: I love the simple neckline of your dress with the lovely red colour complementing your hair. It will look terrific on screen.’
‘Thank you.’
It was true: the sienna shade of her dress went well with her highlighted blonde hair, which she wore in a short feathered style, not dissimilar to the cut Diana used to have.
He stopped in the wood-panelled hallway. ‘Is this oak? I love the curve of the banister. The house looks like a Sir John Soane design. Am I right?’
‘I think it was an imitator rather than the great man himself, and bits have been added over the years. It’s rather a mish-mash.’ Susie glanced around with obvious pride.
‘It doesn’t look it to me. Now, did you have an idea of where you would like to sit for the interview? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind giving me a mini tour?’
Susie was happy to show him around, and Rachel followed, fascinated to see bits of the house she hadn’t visited before. The main drawing room had ceiling-height picture windows looking over the sweeping lawn, and a huge fireplace with carved marble pillars on either side; the long dining-room table, which would easily seat twenty, was overlooked by a tapestry featuring a unicorn in a forest; the morning room had a window seat scattered with blue cushions that looked like a comfortable place to curl up with a novel or the morning paper. None of the rooms had a television set, she noticed. All except the kitchen were furnished largely in eighteenth-century style.
They settled on a corner of the drawing room beneath a portrait Susie told them was of her grandmother, a woman in a high-necked brown dress with a cameo brooch at the collar, her hair pulled into a severe bun. ‘It was painted by my late grandfather,’ Susie told them, and Rachel saw the signature R. Hargreaves in one corner and the date ’32.
Rachel could tell Susie liked Alex. She seemed relaxed as he talked her through the procedures, laughing at the little jokes that Rachel guessed he used on every interviewee.
‘If I ask some questions twice,’ Alex explained, ‘don’t assume it’s early-onset dementia. Just answer as though I haven’t asked you before and we’ll choose the best take.’
His cameraman, Kenny, took light readings, and the sound man, Pete, attached a tiny microphone to the collar of Susie’s dress.
‘Let me powder your forehead and nose,’ Alex said, then patted her face with a giant puff. ‘We don’t want you too shiny.’
‘Shall I leave the room?’ Rachel asked, wondering if Susie might feel self-conscious.
‘I’ll be fine so long as you don’t heckle.’ Susie smiled.
The camera was switched on and Alex positioned himself out of shot, where he would ask the questions.
‘I wonder if you could tell me how you and Princess Diana met?’ he began.
‘I’ve known her all my life,’ Susie replied in her Home Counties accent. ‘Our mothers came out together back in 1953 – at a time when that phrase meant something quite different than it does now.’ She chuckled.
‘They were debutantes,’ Alex prompted.
‘Yes, then they remained friends once they were married and had babies. They didn’t live close – the Spencers were in Norfolk – but we visited from time to time, or they visited us. Mostly in summer. Duch and I were the same age and we liked playing with dolls. Both of us loved animals, so that was a bond.’
‘Duch – is that what you called Diana?’
Rachel was fascinated to see Alex in professional mode, already thinking about how each answer would work in the final programme.
‘Everyone called her Duch when she was little. Short for Duchess, I suppose. It suited her.’
‘And you maintained that friendship as adults?’
Susie nodded. ‘Diana was a tremendously loyal friend. If she heard you were ill, there were always flowers and fruit baskets delivered, and she wrote the most touching notes. Of course, she was terribly busy after she got married, so years went by when we scarcely saw each other, but recently we were both working for the Leprosy Mission.’
‘Tell me about your work there,’ Alex prompted, and she spoke passionately about the possibility of eradicating the disease one day, while providing support for current sufferers. Rachel guessed he would not be using this section of the interview in his programme, and it made her cross on Susie’s behalf.
‘The news of her death must have come as a terrible shock,’ Alex said. ‘Could you tell me how you heard?’
Susie looked down, composing herself for a few moments before she answered. ‘I don’t watch television or read newspapers so I didn’t know until the following morning, when a friend rang to offer condolences. I couldn’t believe it at first. I was sure she must be mistaken, but I rang Ken Palace and they confirmed it.’
Her voice was very quiet and the sound man glanced at Alex, but he shook his head slightly. It wasn’t a good time for a retake.
‘When did you last speak to her?’
Susie was clearly emotional when she answered, her voice wobbling. ‘A couple of weeks before she died. She was happy. Said she was having the most wonderful summer.’
‘Was that because of Dodi Al-Fayed?’
Susie nodded slowly. ‘I think so.’
‘Was she in love with him?’
Susie frowned. ‘She was clearly enjoying herself. That’s all I know.’
‘Do you think it’s true they were engaged?’ Alex’s tone invited confidence.
‘I have no idea.’ Rachel could tell Susie was uncomfortable because she was fidgeting with her sleeve.
Alex asked: ‘Do you think she could have been pregnant?’
Her head snapped up and she glowered at him. ‘Absolutely not. Do you really think the mother of the heir to the throne would not be scrupulously careful about that? She was far smarter than any of you lot give her credit for . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about this. Can we move on?’
Alex signalled to Kenny to stop the camera. ‘Let’s take a break for a moment. You’re doing a great job, Susie: you’re speaking naturally and managing to ignore the camera. Most people are terribly self-conscious at first, but this is wonderful. I know it must be difficult for you.’ He moved his chair closer. ‘Would you like a glass of water before we carry on?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you.’ She looked at Alex. ‘Rachel told me you were in the tunnel and that you went to the car to translate for Diana. I wonder if you could tell me what you said? How she was?’
‘Of course,’ Alex agreed. He paused to gather his thoughts, then began. ‘She was conscious when I got there. Her eyelashes were flickering as she breathed through an oxygen mask the doctor had placed over her face, and occasionally she opened her eyes slightly. The doctor told her she had been in a car accident and I added: “Don’t worry, Your Royal Highness; you’re not seriously hurt.”’
Susie gave a little squeak and a solitary tear trickled down her cheek. ‘Carry on.’
‘The doctor reassured her that an ambulance was on the way. I guessed she would be able to tell that the photographers were there and would be worried about the pictures getting out, so I told her the police were rounding them up and taking their film away.’
At that, Susie started crying properly and Rachel hurried over to hand her a tissue. She was surprised Alex hadn’t mentioned this to her at the time.
‘After that I just kept telling her to stay calm and that she would be fine. I continued reassuring her until the ambulance crew took over.’
Susie blew her nose. ‘She would be happy you called her HRH. It was outrageous that she was stripped of the title after her divorce. I’m sorry about th
e waterworks. I’m still finding it hard to accept.’
‘She wasn’t in any pain,’ Alex said quietly.
That was the final straw. Susie burst into fits of sobbing, covering her face with her hands. Alex put a hand on her shoulder and let her cry.
‘Shall I go and make tea for everyone?’ Rachel suggested. She couldn’t bear to watch Susie’s distress from the sidelines, but she knew Alex would not thank her for intervening. It was his show. Susie nodded agreement, dabbing her eyes with the tissue, clearly struggling to control herself.
Rachel left the room, and when she returned five minutes later with a tray, Susie was composed, her make-up had been touched up and the interview was under way again. Pete put a finger to his lips as she tiptoed into the room and placed the tray on a table with a slight rattle of cups.
Alex had reached the controversial area of his questioning. ‘Because of her relationship with Dodi, some sources are suggesting that Diana could have been killed by people who did not want her to marry a Muslim. What do you make of that?’
Rachel blinked. How would Susie know?
‘She did worry that she might be bumped off, but not because of the religion of her boyfriend. Her divorce got rather heated and she was anxious that what she called “grey men” might try to get rid of her one day – but that was patently ridiculous.’
‘She didn’t mention that any anti-Muslim sentiments had been expressed to her?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Alex consulted his notes, turned a page in his book. ‘On arrival in Paris, Diana and Dodi went to the Villa Windsor, the Duchess of Windsor’s old house. Do you have any idea why?’
Susie placed a hand over her mouth and seemed on the verge of tears again. Alex continued with his questioning. ‘Do you think she and Dodi were considering living there?’
‘I don’t know why you are asking me about this . . . How would I know?’
Susie stood up suddenly, tugging at the microphone. Pete leapt forward to help her, scared she might break it.