Shadows of a Princess

by Patrick Jephson

  Given that they were still so young, and given her frequently expressed wish to be in control of their care, the Princess naturally assumed priority in parental dealings with ‘my boys’, as she called them. In that, she was just like most mothers. In the same quite unexceptional way, her husband’s work commitments and disposition perhaps aligned him with the many fathers who are content to let the mother’s influence take precedence, in the early years at least.

  In common with most aristocratic English families, the Waleses’ contact with their children was primarily social rather than a necessity. Every normal chore of parenthood, from laundry, cooking and housework to transport, education, security and finance, was taken care of by others. Had she so wished, the Princess could have opted to be far less involved in the practicalities of motherhood – yet she was not averse to the extensive domestic organization taking the strain when public duty or private convenience intervened.

  This option being available, and quite normal in her experience, she can hardly be criticized for taking it. Nonetheless, it does add a degree of balance to the popular image of idealized motherhood which has grown up around her. This was an image she was happy to encourage, of course, with well-timed photo coups such as the Alton Towers water splash or the much publicized reunion with her sons on the upper deck of Britannia in Canada. Less visible that day, but no less sincere, was their father’s greeting which followed in private. Equally shielded from intruding eyes has been all the time he has spent with them on outdoor pursuits on the royal estates.

  From these few observations I was already able to draw some inferences about the Princess’s relationship with her sons. Her affection for them was unmistakable. She was warm, expressive and tactile. Very obviously, she wanted neither her boys nor anybody else to be in any doubt about her love for them. If this determination was sometimes expressed over enthusiastically, that was usually because they gave her so much to be enthusiastic about. It may also have been because she did not want them to suffer through any lack of visibly expressed love.

  Less often, it was also designed to assert a publicly recognized degree of ownership. Her position as an ineradicable part of the Windsor line was now a genetic fact. Unfortunately, she perceived that this obvious truth was unwelcome to some. It was no secret towards the end of her life that reactionary elements in the royal establishment were questioning her desirability as a mentor in the art of kingship. It was therefore small wonder that she sometimes saw a valuable role for her sons as the living, breathing proof of her suitability to raise Princes. She certainly felt she had little to learn on the subject from recent history.

  Evenings away from her children were usually taken up with work. Throughout this period of change and jostling for position, the Princess’s patronage of the arts was growing. Night after night I would accompany her to Covent Garden, the Albert Hall, Sadler’s Wells, the Coliseum, the Barbican and a dozen other venues as she carried out her duties as a conscientious patron of a whole variety of artistic organizations.

  Quite apart from their cultural attractions, such occasions were always a great excuse for putting on the grandest style – the jewellery, the latest dress – and playing to perfection the role of glamorous Princess out on the town, eclipsing any glitterati who had also ventured out that night. Conveniently, most of the performances the Princess attended were also in aid of one or other of her charities, so there was a reassuring element of selfless dedication to good causes to leaven the general air of self-indulgence.

  Stars came to bathe in her reflected light and, it is true, she bathed in theirs. Her initial attitude when meeting top-division celebrities was exaggeratedly calm, as if encountering a rival or competitor. This would be rapidly replaced by coquettish banter once mutual recognition of each other’s rarefied status had been exchanged.

  Such was her own, innate star quality that she had little difficulty establishing her ascendancy. For one thing, many of those she met were men and therefore easy prey. For another, her stardom – unlike most of theirs – had not been grafted on by Hollywood publicity machines, a process that often left exposed the uncertain actor beneath the on-screen image. And for another, she was so much taller than most of them.

  This happy fact was hard to miss, especially when she met Michael Douglas at the premiere of Wall Street. ‘Patrick! Did you notice – his trousers were six inches too long!’

  Others were more royal than royalty. Barbra Streisand would only be photographed with the Princess if the cameras had a shot of her left – or was it her right? – profile. ‘All through the film she kept asking me if I liked it …’

  Some stars just made her feel at ease. Elton John and Liza Minnelli were particular favourites. ‘They understand what it’s like to be famous. They just accept me.’ Clint Eastwood was another. After the premiere of The Fugitive, he hosted a private supper party at The Savoy. ‘A girl’s dream date,’ she said, and spent a rapt evening basking in his reserved charm – and his height.

  Clint Eastwood later shared her thorough approval with Tom Hanks, and probably for similar reasons. Hanks appeared at a special preview screening of Apollo 13 in aid of Turning Point and, unusually, gave a short speech in support of the work of the charity, about which he had taken the trouble to acquaint himself. This earned him high marks in her book, to which he added at the subsequent dinner in The Greenhouse by revealing himself to be as modest as he was talented. Surrounded so often by people who forgot their modesty in her presence – if they ever had any to forget – she found this especially attractive.

  One evening she attended a royal gala preview performance of Bits and Pieces by Wayne Sleep. The Princess’s love of dance is well known and she often reminded us that she would have liked to be a ballet dancer had she not grown so tall. This was a standing joke between herself and the diminutive Wayne. ‘And I’ve got huge feet!’ she would complain, waving the offending extremities around as if to invite contradiction. The preview evening was full of exuberant fun, not least when the Princess went backstage afterwards. In introducing the company, Wayne almost eclipsed the dramatic performance he had produced on stage. That engagement was a rare example of one where the Princess genuinely entered into the spirit of the performance she was seeing.

  For her own pleasure in private she played the piano with enthusiasm, if without much technical brilliance, and the sounds of opera or great choral works were as likely to echo through the private apartments at KP as any offering by the pop groups she was popularly believed to love. I sat through enough evenings of worthy cultural activity to grow to laugh at the irony of portraying her as the disco-mad Princess while her husband was the solemn man of classical music. In my last year with her I calculated that he had actually attended more pop concerts than she had. This was not necessarily because he liked pop music more than she did, merely that she had such an aversion to the tabloid label of ‘Disco Di’ that she would go to almost any lengths to prove it was obsolete.

  As if she herself was a film star, when dealing with the Princess it was generally necessary to allow some latitude for the artistic temperament. The essential aim was to spot potential sources of royal displeasure and pre-empt the trouble by taking appropriate avoiding action.

  This was my chance to forestall ominous remarks such as, ‘If I’d known the Duchess of X was going to be here I’d never have worn this dress,’ or, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that man was going to be there?’ or, worst of all, ‘I simply don’t know why I had to visit that place/meet all those people/ stand in front of the cameras for so long/get home so late …’

  Allow such comments to accumulate, however charmingly delivered, and you knew you were dicing with disfavour. When that happened, it was always useful to be able to point out respectfully that all such questions had been answered in the briefing notes you had sent up in the Bag the previous night. In exceptional cases, however, even the black-and-white evidence of your foresight could be dismissed by a royal employer unwilling to change
an opinion for the sake of a few facts.

  With this ever-present danger in the back of my mind, I would always take great care over the briefing notes. I invariably asked for comprehensive briefing material from the host organizations, which I would then repackage into a familiar format – extensively rewritten if necessary – for the Princess to study the evening before the engagement.

  Assembling the briefing and extracting the important bits for a covering aide-mémoire was an art that developed with practice. If I could find any to put in, jokes were always a welcome addition and helped prolong the sometimes fleeting royal attention span. ‘On YRH’s right at lunch will be Minister X. As you may have noticed (press clipping attached) he’s in a spot of bother at the moment, so better not talk about actresses … unless you really want to, of course.’ I lived in daily dread of such a scurrilous – and often libellous – document falling into the wrong hands.

  The risk was slight, as it happened. The Princess was usually very security conscious and took care to keep such sensitive documents safely stuffed in her handbag or handed them to me to carry. When one day, uncharacteristically, she did leave a wad of this typewritten dynamite in the seat pocket of an airliner, it took the combined efforts of three police forces and the air traffic control staff to get it retrieved from the flight, which was preparing to take a full load of passengers back to London. Quite properly, everybody – including me – agreed that it was my fault.

  Genuine innocence counted for little when guilt could be sprayed casually at you like hair lacquer. Then you were in real trouble. As you suffered your punishment (usually an icy ostracism, but it could get worse) you could silently rail at the injustice of a system that did not even have a higher authority to whom you could appeal. Royal infallibility was just a medieval myth, of course, but only when they admitted it first. After all, who was going to tell the glamorous Princess with the world at her feet that she had got it wrong?

  The star image was inescapable. She may not consciously have invited it, but having been invested with it by the public, she slipped effortlessly into its world of distorted values and perspectives. For one thing, it underlined how different she was from her in-laws, some of whom – notably her husband – actively courted celebrities when it suited them. The difference was that she outshone them all, as anyone who saw her in the company of supermodels would testify.

  As supermodels would certainly appreciate, no star image is complete without a collection of stunning photographs, and the Princess gave increasing consideration to hers. Not long after I became her private secretary, I found myself arranging a formal photo shoot.

  I have already described the importance attached to the gifts which were handed out at the end of overseas tours. Usually these were portrait photographs, signed and dated in the royal hand and issued in one of three sizes, depending on the perceived importance of the recipient. In Ambassadors’ residences, administrative offices and private homes all over the world, collections of these prized objects were accumulated on pianos and mantelpieces, to draw discreet gasps of admiration from impressionable visitors – or discreet winces, as the case may be.

  The Princess also presented such photographs to commanding officers of her affiliated Armed Forces units when they moved on to new appointments, to retiring directors of her charities when they called to take their leave and, on a fairly random basis, to almost anyone who incurred her gratitude or admiration or whom she thought might be an influential recruit. The same applied to other objects in her small range of gifts, including her distinctive blue cuff links which can even now be seen decorating important wrists in corridors of power all over the world.

  As far as her employees were concerned, these gifts only made an appearance when it was time to take our leave. No matter how acrimonious the parting, or its cause, the convention was that with a photograph of herself, a set of cuff links, or even a briefcase in especially favoured farewells, all debts were paid and bygones would be bygones. The expression ‘You nearly had your cuff links there, mate’ was our equivalent of the civilian employee being threatened with his ‘cards’.

  The portrait photographs had to be changed on a regular basis because, in addition to the above uses, they were also available for purchase (not as gifts, note) to charities and other organizations which the Princess favoured with a visit. Almost as a condition of departure the Princess had to sign one of these photographs, together with a visitors’ book, before she could leave any building she had been inspecting.

  Someone as conscious of her image as the Princess took very great care over the selection of photographer, and equally close and critical interest in the results of their time together. Snowdon, Demarchelier, Donovan, Moore and a handful of others all had their turn at composing the ultimate portrait of the world’s most photographed woman. Some succeeded better than others but none, I felt, as well as the unposed shots snapped by news photographers during day-to-day engagements.

  As time went by, the process became more sophisticated and before long, what had been quite brief sessions had acquired all the accoutrements of a full-blown fashion shoot. Hairdressers, make-up girls, lighting technicians – all had a part to play, as well as the master lensman himself and, of course, all the resources of a professional studio. A whole day had to be allocated for this exacting process, and why not? The results went on to give enormous pleasure to Ambassadors, charity workers and media-hyped child-heroes around the world. As she would probably have been the first to admit, the whole business also gave the Princess a lot of fun. She was so often described by her critics as a brainless clotheshorse, obsessed with her appearance and the contents of her wardrobe, and here at last was a day when she could play at being the dumb fashion model of their sniping remarks.

  She was very democratic about making the final decisions. Within a few days of the shoot, large boxes of contact sheets would be delivered to KP for her perusal and usually within the hour they arrived in the office, so the girls could share in the enjoyable task of picking out the three or four winners which would go on to be our standard portrait shots.

  The only snag was that, as time passed, one or two of the selected few would fall into disfavour. There was always a fair chance that the portrait I had so presciently slipped into my briefcase, so that she could make the all-important spontaneous presentation when the mood took her, would be one of those she had grown to detest. Disposing of these rejects kept the office incinerator busy for some time.

  Unless they really offended her, portrait photographers usually remained in the Princess’s good books. In the case of someone like Patrick Demarchelier, the favour was extended as she gave him permission to reproduce her pictures in his arty photo books. The chemistry they created produced some of the most inspired images ever taken of her.

  Not so lucky, however, were most of the royal portrait-painters. For them there was no exciting wardrobe selection, or experiments with make-up, wind machines or lighting. All they demanded was a regal background, clothes to match the image they had in mind, patience, immobility and enormous amounts of time. It was not always a winning combination as far as the Princess was concerned.

  The results were for others to judge, but I thought some captured certain aspects of her complex personality quite well. Perhaps most notable was Nelson Shanks’s 1994 portrait of a woman pausing at the door of some unknown destiny. It is tempting to conclude that the photographer, working fast, inevitably found sympathy for someone so immediately pleasing to the lens. The artist, on the other hand, with a protracted mission to capture the inner person, had a more demanding task and in pursuing it might too often have stumbled on royal defences and shortcomings hidden from the less penetrating eye.

  TWELVE

  SPHINX

  Nelson Shanks’s image of unknown destiny was still several years in the future. At the beginning of 1992 no such doubt, theoretically, existed about the Princess’s long-term role. It was still possible to believe that the Prince and Pri
ncess of Wales could reach an accommodation that would enable the public appearance of togetherness to be maintained.

  After all, we had by now amicably arranged the separation of their offices and they themselves had fallen into a routine which saw the Prince spend as much time as possible at Highgrove and the Princess do the same at Kensington Palace. Although KP was surprisingly small, a bit of clever internal redesign – with the co-operation of their neighbours – could even have enabled them to carry on under the same roof a life of public respectability and private acceptance of each other’s need for time apart.

  It was not to be. The story of the year is one of inexorable decline from the relatively optimistic pragmatism of its opening to the open bloodshed and separation which marked its end. This was the annus horribilis.

  My own observation was that the Prince had in fact arranged his life so that it would have been relatively easy to create the rather worldly but realistic arrangement I have described above. It was, after all, one to which his ancestors had been accustomed, and many wives – particularly those of a certain English tradition – might have taken the opportunity to devote themselves to the children and public good works as a substitute for cosy domesticity, if not with gratitude then at least with public stoicism. Such an arrangement would also have allowed both partners the benefit of a blind eye being turned to any extramarital affairs, if that was their wish.

  For a number of reasons, the Princess did not conform to this pattern. At one level she was still the idealistic girl, still in love with the idea of being in love and at times still seeming desperately anxious to preserve the appearance of stability which even a dysfunctional marriage could allow. Also, not least due to her work as patron of Relate, she had a keen appreciation of the effects such a separation would have on the children.

  In addition, she found it irresistible to play the wronged wife. As I often saw, however, her lines lacked conviction. ‘Really, my husband’s just a child. Honestly, it’s as if I had three boys …’ Acting out this role set up a particularly confusing internal conflict for her as she contemplated the reality of her affair with James Hewitt. To surrender the moral high ground was bad enough, but to surrender it for a love that failed was intolerable. She was suffering the guilt of having had an affair, but, unlike her husband, she no longer had the object of her affections to console her.