Shadows of a Princess

by Patrick Jephson

  From biblical times leprosy has had the power to chill the blood and a leper, real or metaphorical, has always been somebody to be shunned and excluded. Attitudes to leprosy at Sitanala Hospital were more enlightened and therefore, aside from the disfigurement and all-too-visible suffering, the visit was in most respects comparable to many others that the Princess had carried out to countless hospitals. In fact, perhaps because of the nature of the disease and the enlightened attitude that its treatment now enjoys, the atmosphere of the place was positively inspiring.

  Through her later work with the British Leprosy Mission, the Princess came to know the disease quite well, to say nothing of the extraordinary courage both of its victims and of those of who defy so many prejudices to help them. It also seemed to bring to her mind a powerful comparison between the exclusion which was the experience throughout history of too many lepers and her own growing sense of exclusion from the family into which she had married and the establishment of which it was the pinnacle.

  In press terms, of course, it was a bonanza. Even before she left England the Princess was being urged in blaring tabloid headlines to abandon the planned visit. ‘DON’T DO IT, DI!’ screamed one front page, and one tabloid doctor after another curdled the readers’ blood with stories of the disfigurement and loss of limbs that would, they implied, inevitably follow for the beautiful Princess if she shook hands with a patient in the hospital.

  I had, naturally, taken the trouble to check that this was not the case, which enabled the Princess to do herself no harm at all by being photographed making physical contact with the symbolically untouchable. The human touch that she displayed on this and many other occasions, perhaps most famously with AIDS patients, was of incalculable value to those who tried to educate the healthy many about the problems of the afflicted few.

  That touch created an avalanche of publicity, all of it favourable for the Princess and, more importantly, for the causes she was supporting. Yet it seemed disproportionate. It was just a game after all. The world knew – and deep inside herself she also knew – that all she had done was to touch somebody and be photographed. There was no danger. There was no effort. There was not even anything to be said on this occasion, since the patient spoke no English.

  Back at the presidential guest house she was unnaturally subdued. However distressing the day’s images, a few jokes usually helped her cope with the stress, but not this time. She was reluctant to talk about it, but I had a couple of theories. Perhaps she was still affected by the disfigurement and bravery she had witnessed. It certainly still affected me. Or perhaps she was uncomfortably aware of the superficial nature of her visit – a few stories for the papers back home, and a saintly image acquired just by turning up.

  From such misgivings, I believe, grew the Princess’s desire to be more closely involved in the work she saw, even if the practical commitment required was often beyond her. As a compensation, her interest alone was sometimes enough to inspire others – or at least to attract media attention to a deserving cause. Her patronage, the Leprosy Mission, never failed to pay generous tribute to her contribution. Perhaps most memorably, this happened at a House of Commons reception in 1991 when Jill Dando, another – largely unsung – champion of the lepers’ cause, added her own appeal for leprosy’s stigma to be forgotten.

  One thing was for sure, however: as it accumulated over the years, such easy adulation did the Princess no favours. Receiving endless credit for other people’s good works had a noticeably corrosive effect. She came to expect such praise; and it diminished far more than it uplifted – unless you were able genuinely to delight in other people’s successes. The Princess, alas, found it as difficult as the rest of us to do that.

  Nevertheless, to me the Princess’s work with lepers stands as her greatest monument. It would be impossible to find a better example of her ability to transform attitudes, to help the ignorant accept the untouchable. There were no moral overtones to distract from the central message, as there sometimes were in the case of AIDS. This was goodness in a rare form, and if it also made a good photo opportunity, I should really only have been glad.

  The heat and humidity of Indonesia over the following days were at the limit of the Princess’s tolerance. Usually, under a shady hat, she managed to appear the picture of cool. Her loose-fitting cotton dresses looked enviably comfy, especially if you were wearing a suit and tie. In the provincial capital of Yogyakarta, however, she almost fainted while watching a traditional welcome ceremony in the blazing sun. Finding a seat, she struggled to keep her composure while her face ran with perspiration and mascara.

  Other hazards lurked too. On the recce one of us had eaten a particular type of local nut. After it had spent an uneasy couple of hours in his stomach it reappeared, along with much else besides, in the back of a hot and airless Embassy minibus. The same sharp-eyed official was present at the Governor’s lunch in Yogyakarta and was horrified to see a bowl of the same nuts sitting in front of the Princess. She reached out a hand to take a nut, but such were her powers of observation that even across a crowded room her eye was caught by her alarmed employee’s body language.

  It was hard to miss. Almost standing on his chair and waving his hands above his head, he dramatically mimed the action of swallowing the nut and then vomiting violently. She got the message – as did several hundred other people, including the Governor, seated next to her, who followed the performance with a furrowed brow. It was with a certain amount of relief that we set off in due course for Hong Kong.

  ‘Is this where they keep their bathing togs?’ asked the Princess, peering into a recess in the colonnade.

  ‘No, Ma’am. They swim in the traditional Roman style – naked!’

  The Princess looked intrigued and then wrinkled her nose. ‘What do you keep in these pots?’ she said, indicating a row of congs set conveniently at waist height.

  ‘Urine!’ came the reply, delivered with all the relish that comes from being legitimately allowed to talk dirty to royalty.

  Walking towards the drug rehabilitation centre’s dining hall, I caught a glimpse through the trees of a pagoda far below on a rocky outcrop. Beyond it, the South China Sea sparkled in the sunlight. I could still just hear the music above the rattling of the bamboo trees in a sudden gust of sweet-scented breeze.

  Hong Kong in 1989 still had almost a decade to run under British administration. A visit from the heir to the British throne and his wife was therefore (at least in theory) akin to the son of the big house visiting a far-flung corner of the family estate. To students of history or politics – and I was an amateur at both – or indeed to anyone with a romantic imagination, such a demonstration of proprietorship held quaint but intriguing imperial overtones.

  Once just a pinprick in a world quarter bathed in the pink of British rule, by 1989 Hong Kong constituted in population terms by far the largest and most important part of all that remained of Britain’s overseas possessions. I do not imagine that the vast majority of the population looked up from the main business of making money for long enough to register that we had even been in town – but for those who wanted to look, all the signs of a royal visit were there, complete with vestigial imperial trappings which, I suppose, brought forth reactions of nostalgia or contempt according to taste.

  Having survived rather than triumphed in Indonesia, the royal couple flew on from Jakarta to Hong Kong’s old Kai Tak airport in an impressively large and ancient aircraft of the Royal Air Force. They were received by His Excellency the Governor and then set out in the Governor’s ceremonial barge – the Lady Maureen, also impressively large and antique – for the short voyage across one of the world’s most spectacular natural harbours to the metropolis of Victoria, named after the Queen-Empress, the visiting heir’s great-great-great-grandmother.

  As dusk fell and lights blazed down from the skyscrapers that lined the surrounding hills, helicopters of the Royal Air Force could be seen collecting Their Royal Highnesses’ considerable qua
ntities of baggage and whisking them with an impressive clatter of rotors and expenditure of government kerosene to Her Majesty’s naval base. There Her Majesty’s yacht Britannia, her beautiful lines bathed from stem to stern in golden floodlighting, was waiting to receive the royal suitcases and shortly also the royal visitors. Meanwhile, patrol boats of the Royal Navy and the Royal Hong Kong Police kept a watchful eye out for unsympathetic gatecrashers.

  At Queen’s Pier a spectacular welcome awaited. The General Commanding British Forces in the colony presented the commanding officer of the Hong Kong Regiment (The Volunteers), a guard of honour gave the Royal Salute and the band of the Royal Hong Kong Police played a rousing version of the national anthem. Then, while a specially composed musical tribute brought a lump to the throat, hundreds of Chinese schoolchildren danced an elaborate welcome, military standards were dipped in salute and the royal visitors received traditional tributes from a dancing lion which knelt at their feet in homage.

  During the next few days the Prince and Princess were busy with a programme that took them all over the colony. From the Governor’s residence to remote corners of the New Territories, the visitors enjoyed a formidably organized post-imperial tour.

  So it was that the Princess found herself having the surreal experience of visiting the island drug rehabilitation centre run by Dr Barry Hollinrake on the island of Shek Kwu Chau and, in particular, admiring the centre’s ‘Roman’ baths. She had never seen anything like this. The superintendent was plainly dedicated to the task of returning reformed addicts to society as useful members of their community, but he had chosen methods which perhaps matched his own rather eccentric style.

  The rocky, cone-shaped island rose out of the South China Sea among countless others in the south-western Hong Kong archipelago. On its summit space had been cleared for a helicopter landing pad and from there a twisting road meandered through thick foliage to the main settlement. All the accommodation, the medical centre, the assembly hall, the kitchens and every other building had been constructed by the island’s inmates, who contributed whatever skills they had to the common need, in the style of all the best co-operatives.

  Small groups of inhabitants observed the Princess’s arrival inscrutably. The predominant uniform seemed to be blue shorts tied up with string and white T-shirts. They murmured quietly among themselves as they watched this latest manifestation of colonial rule. Dr Hollinrake led the Princess into the centre’s gardens to show her the island’s crowning engineering achievement. Under a canopy of green fronds and surrounded by carefully tended plants in huge earthenware pots, the inhabitants had constructed an exact replica of an ancient Roman bath, complete with colonnades and statues and numerous Latin inscriptions.

  I stared at these for a few moments with all the effortless familiarity of one who had narrowly achieved a Latin O level 20 years previously. ‘I put those in to confuse future archaeologists,’ said Dr Hollinrake, smirking contentedly. Chinese music twanged and trilled quietly from loudspeakers concealed among the bushes.

  ‘What a wonderfully peaceful place you’ve made here,’ said the Princess. ‘I’m not surprised your rehabilitation programme is such a success.’

  ‘The philosophy is simple, Ma’am,’ replied Dr Hollinrake. ‘Once my clients are removed from the temptations and troubles of the mainland, in most cases the cause of their addiction is also removed.’

  Suddenly misty eyed, the Princess looked wistfully at the inmates now crowding into the hall to watch a ritual dragon dance performed in her honour. I was only guessing from the expression on her face, but how many of them, I wondered, might imagine that for just an instant they were envied by the Princess of Wales?

  In organizational terms, the best thing about reaching Hong Kong was the floating palace that was waiting for us alongside in the naval base HMS Tamar. For a weary tour party far from home, the royal yacht was a haven of tranquillity and comfort. Now decommissioned, in 1989 Britannia was still very much a floating home from home, steeped in the ambience and technology of 1950’s Britain. Accustomed to the simpler surroundings of a cramped antisubmarine frigate, I perhaps enjoyed the comforts of the yacht more than some of my companions. ‘This is the way to go to sea,’ I thought to myself as I sank into what must have been one the softest bunks afloat.

  On the evening after their arrival, as was customary, the Prince and Princess held a reception and dinner party on board for the colony’s great and good. After the outward calm of Indonesia, there now seemed to be only an uneasy truce between the royal couple. They did what was expected of them in front of both cameras and guests, but I saw no repeat of either the tentative intimacy or the overt estrangement which had been noticeable on the Gulf tour.

  The strain was telling on them both, however. The Princess in particular was counting down the hours until she flew home. As in the Gulf, she was returning to London before the Prince. He was due to stay on in Hong Kong for a few days’ holiday and to lay the wreath at the colony’s Remembrance Day service. As in the Gulf, I was also staying behind.

  ‘God, Patrick!’ she said to me. ‘I can’t wait to get on that plane. Get home and see my boys.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Pity you can’t come back with me. I expect you’ll be dragged round housing schemes …’

  ‘Something like that, Ma’am.’

  ‘… and Chinese medicine shops. Looking for tigers’ bits. Ha!’

  The necessity to reconcile their differing styles – at working a room crowded with guests, for example – demanded a hundred little concessions from each of them just to begin and end at the same time. Making concessions was not always at the top of their agenda. Once again, as I observed that evening on Britannia, the Princess’s tactic was to out-charm, out-chat and out-flirt her husband. He was left to look pedestrian and dull by comparison, as people – especially tall, handsome men – seemed to gravitate in her direction. Even the women tended to find her a distraction as they surreptitiously compared their warpaint with hers. That was far from being the whole picture, of course. The fact was that the Prince’s calm dignity valuably offset his wife’s more eye-catching style, but it must have looked different through his eyes and we all knew he found it provocative. That, after all, was the intention.

  As in the Gulf, I rather enviously watched my boss and the rest of the advance return party settle themselves into a homeward-bound jumbo jet. Once again I returned on my own to the Prince and his personal staff, feeling rather subdued.

  My spirits were improved by the knowledge that the next few days almost counted as holiday. Instead of the doubtful delights of Saudi Arabia, this time we faced only the appealing prospect of cruising in the royal yacht round the eastern islands of the Hong Kong group before returning to Victoria for the Remembrance Sunday services at the Cenotaph on the waterfront. The yacht anchored in Double Haven, a natural harbour surrounded by picturesque islets and with a view onto the mainland of the New Territories so devoid of human habitation that it seemed impossible that downtown Hong Kong lay just a few miles round the corner. Our holiday mood took its cue from the Prince, who as usual spent much of his time at his easel. The covering illustration for one of his published collections of watercolours dates from this time.

  It turned out to be another valuable opportunity to see something of the Prince’s personality, so different from that of the Princess. With her, there was a sense that you had to read the music as you went along and hope not to hit too many wrong notes. By contrast, with the Prince the performance followed a recognizable score, the orchestra was not expected to extemporize much and solo performers seldom held the stage for long, to the relief of performer and royal audience alike.

  On our return to Victoria, the public ceremonies to mark Remembrance Day proved to be a good example of the colonial power’s continuing ability to put on a good show to impress everyone taking part, as well as any watching media, if not to any great extent the local population.

  To my delight
Governor Wilson wore his full ceremonial uniform for the occasion, including his ostrich-plumed hat, while his ADC wore a solar topee which could have come straight from the Raj. The Prince, in Royal Navy Captain’s uniform, and I, a respectful distance behind him holding his wreath, were positioned behind the Governor who symbolically represented the Queen.

  The Prince was not greatly impressed with this. I was surprised by the strength of his objections to the Governor’s insistence on performing his part in the proceedings as if he were the monarch. As her representative, he was technically entitled to do this, but the monarch’s son seemed to think that the Governor’s hair-splitting adherence to protocol was unnecessary and inappropriate. Here, after all, was the next best thing to the sovereign, present in person and embodying all the necessary regal qualities.

  The Governor stuck to his guns, however, and laid his own wreath on behalf of the Prince’s mother. I was then supposed to make the long and lonely march to where the Prince was standing on his allocated mark, a couple of paces behind His Excellency. I had to salute and hand him his wreath, turn about and march back to my place without dropping my sword.

  To the uninitiated, this is not as straightforward as it looks. By long tradition, when in their scabbards naval swords swing on the end of two lengths of leather strap attached to the sword belt. Gathering up the sword to the correct position for marching is a complicated manoeuvre, known as ‘flicking up’, which has to be conducted with fingertip precision. Not even a single nervous downward glance is allowed and it is only too easy for the whole clattering apparatus to become tangled in your legs. The thought of such a disaster befalling me in front of the large and interested audience brought me out in a cold sweat.