In December 1992, the Princess held a pre-Christmas drinks reception at Kensington Palace to thank her charities for their work over the course of the year. At the time Diana was president or patron of over 100 organizations including Barnardo’s, Centrepoint, Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital, the Leprosy Mission, the National AIDS Trust, the Royal Marsden Hospital NHS Trust and Help the Aged, to name but a few. She knew how much her involvement meant in terms of monies raised, and she didn’t just serve as a pretty figurehead; she worked tirelessly to help disadvantaged people across all demographics.
An ardent music lover, she liked nothing more than to attend a concert. Verdi’s ‘Requiem’ was her favorite piece of classical music, but she also enjoyed pop and rock. Such evenings out didn’t just provide welcome downtime, they also opened up her social circle to a world of celebrity friends.
It was easy to be intimidated within the environs of a palace, especially when in the presence of royalty. Diana knew there was nothing like a sprinkling of pop stars to make such a reception go with a swing.
My wife and daughter had also been invited. Victoria was still collecting herself from having just entered five steps behind Elton John, when Diana made a beeline toward us saying, ‘Victoria, have you met George Michael?’
My daughter, then 18, replied with a wide-eyed, ‘no…’
Diana leaned in and whispered, ‘Isn’t it a shame he doesn’t like the ladies?’
We hadn’t realized that a rather mischievous eight-year-old Prince Harry was standing right next to her until he tugged on her skirt and asked in a loud voice, ‘Who doesn’t like the ladies, Mummy?’
Mortified, Diana exclaimed in a loud whisper, ‘Shut up, Harry!’ She went on to say to him, ‘Why don’t you take your friend Victoria to meet George Michael?’
‘Who’s my friend Victoria?’ Harry wanted to know.
The Princess pointed to my still-gobsmacked daughter. ‘This is your friend Victoria…now off you go.’
They scurried away, and I neither saw nor heard anything from Victoria until the reception was over. During the short walk home she was like a broken record. ‘George Michael said this, George Michael said that!’
George Michael, as it happened, had said rather a lot…much to her delight.
I, however, was impressed with another young man that night – one that would go on to have a George of his own. The Princess was always well aware of William’s destiny, and began teaching him the ways of kingship from a very early age. Part of that learning included the art of public speaking. To everyone’s delight, as the evening came to a close a ten-year-old Prince William stood to make his first speech. It was a simple statement thanking the staff on behalf of his mother for all their help and support over the past year, but it also represented a major milestone in his young royal life. His mother, so incredibly proud, stood beaming as she hung on his every word.
October 1991 saw Charles and Diana head off for a royal tour to Canada, and I was thrilled when I learned that our base would once again be the royal yacht Britannia. She served as a home-from-home floating palace. By Royal Navy standards she was elegant, comfortable and functional, but by no means luxurious. In fact compared to the multi-million pound super yachts that line the harbours of Saint-Tropez today, she was positively modest. The Queen has never been one for ostentation.
There are two rooms for entertaining – the Royal Dining Room and the Drawing Room and Ante Room, the former decorated with gifts given to the Queen during her numerous visits abroad. There’s a 1738 broadsword presented by the Swedish Navy in 1956, a Narwhal’s tusk presented by former Canadian Prime Minister, Pierre Trudeau, in 1970, and a seven-foot rib bone from a whale found by the Duke of Edinburgh on Deception Island in the South Shetlands, in 1957.
The large mahogany and ebony table, specifically made for the yacht, is the centerpiece of the Royal Dining Room. In the alcoves are smaller tables, two of which came from the second HMY Victoria and Albert (1855 to 1900). These could be added to the larger table to form a ‘U’ formation, which is usually how it was set up for official or state meals.
The Drawing Room and Ante Room were combined, forming a useful, cosy and unpretentious space. The rooms were furnished with gifts from the Swedish Royal Family in 1956. Additional pieces came from the third royal yacht to be called Victoria and Albert (1901 to 1937).
The drawing room was also home to a couple of unique treasures – a baby grand piano said to have once been played by Noël Coward and a tattered white ensign that had flown from Captain Scott’s sledge during his last ill-fated expedition to Antarctica. History doesn’t come more moving than that.
Along with the equerry and protection officer, I had been on the ground for two days prior to the Prince and Princess. On the eve of their arrival, FORY (Flag Officer Royal Yacht – effectively the captain) held a dinner for the assembled group. FORY, Rear Admiral Bob Woodard, was a man with the warmest and most incredible sense of humour. In his inimitable way he kept us wildly entertained throughout the meal. He turned over the floor on occasion, and this particular night he asked each of us what our favorite food was.
Not being a foodie, I was a little stumped until I remembered how I used to breakfast on Christmas Day in the old days back in Rhodesia. As Christmas fell mid-summer, breakfast was taken outside by the pool. My festive menu consisted of a whole grapefruit, followed by kippers and toast, all washed down with champagne.
‘Champagne in Rhodesia?’ Bob said, stunned. ‘Good God! Sounds like the high-life. Weren’t they under sanctions back then?’
‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘Indeed they were.’
We even had a royal navy frigate patrolling the waters outside the Port of Beira just in case anyone peddling sanctioned goods managed to find a way in. It made not the slightest difference. We never seemed to run short of life’s little luxuries, including champagne at Christmas.
We retired to the drawing room for a nightcap and I thought nothing more of it.
The next day would be a busy one, preparing for the arrival of the Prince and Princess, followed by a jam-packed schedule for the ensuing six days. With that in mind, I toddled off to bed and awoke the next morning eager to begin.
Breakfast was served in the Royal Dining Room, and as I approached I was hit by an aroma that took me back a good 25 years. Alongside the usual cereals, bacon and sausages were grapefruit and kippers. Placed on a side table nearby was an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne.
It took all of two seconds to calculate that with the royal flight not arriving until teatime, we could all indulge in a glass of bubbly as we sat down to savour an unforgettable breakfast. Bob did us proud.
Half term saw the arrival of Princes William and Harry, along with their nanny, Jessie Webb. Their arrival 36 hours before their parents brought with it everything you’d expect when two young boys, aged nine and seven respectively, find themselves corralled in a relatively confined space. Their laughter, energy and contagious lust for life reverberated throughout the yacht. It was my first occasion witnessing the family together in such close quarters, and I was struck by the close bond that both parents had with their children.
The Princes had clearly enjoyed their time in Canada with their nanny, but it was obvious how much they were looking forward to seeing their mum and dad. They lined up on deck ready for their parents’ appearance at the port, offering the occasional wave to well-wishers crowding the dock. We could all feel their barely-contained excitement and sense of anticipation. The Princess, eager to see her sons, was the first out of the car. Acknowledging a salute from the Officer of the Watch and a bow from the Admiral, she rushed with outstretched arms towards William and hugged him tightly. The Prince, who had been in Scotland before joining the Princess for the flight to Canada, hadn’t seen his sons in a month and was equally keen to see the boys. He held Harry close before parents and children swapped, and the family retired arm-in-arm into the yacht.
For a relatively ordi
nary event – parents greeting their children – it made for a particularly moving moment. The demands of royal life often require parents to be separated from their children for long stretches of time, which makes reunions that much more poignant.
But the media tends to have a hard heart. The photos that flashed around the world only told half the story. There was no picture of Charles hugging William or Harry, just one of the Princess greeting William, arms wide open. The press was actively speculating about the state of the royal marriage, but to deliberately distort what was clearly a family affair was to my mind very sad. Whatever the accusations lobbed at the Prince – and there were many – to insinuate by omission that he was a less than devoted father felt very unjust.
This had, however, become par for the course, and we knew there was only more to come.
CHAPTER 10
A Picture Tells a Thousand Words
February 1992
Prince Charles had visited India as a single man of 32 in 1980. Sitting on a stone bench beneath the Taj Mahal, the iconic symbol of love, he had vowed to return one day with the woman he loved. Twelve years later his comments were uppermost in our minds as we began to plan for the Prince and Princess of Wales’s joint tour to the country. The ripples of concern about their marriage had escalated into much bigger waves, and I was beginning to suspect the worst. All marriages go through bad patches, but I knew this union well and was aware that the cracks were probably getting too great to be papered over.
I didn’t cover Prince Charles’s solo visit to India, but everyone knew that the stone bench in front of the Taj Mahal was the customary place for VIPs to be photographed when visiting the monument. Arguably India’s most well-known and revered tourist attraction, the white marble mausoleum was one of the must-sees that the Indian authorities insisted on incorporating into any high profile tour.
Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan built the temple to serve as a private mausoleum in memory of his beloved third wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who had died bearing his 14th son. Given the monument’s sacred status as a tomb, the rules were very clear – no photography either on or directly in front of the memorial. The bench therefore was the favoured alternative photo spot, and it was by far the best place to appreciate the incredible beauty of one of the great wonders of the world.
The tour had already presented those of us in charge of planning it an almighty headache, particularly with regard to the media. The first Gulf war had delayed the trip by a year, allowing for marital relations to decline even further. Here was a couple in the midst of a private personal war, and yet they were going to have to be with each other around the clock for a week under the relentless glare of the press. It wasn’t going to be easy for anybody, and the likelihood of a romantic photo-op of the couple seated before such a grand tribute to love was looking increasingly slim.
I was particularly concerned about Diana. She wasn’t good in hot, humid environments. We had to plan her engagements carefully, and ensure that an air-conditioned car was on hand to provide an escape from the heat and crowds whenever necessary. More worrying, however, was that she was obviously in a great deal of emotional pain, and I feared for her stamina.
The first day of any official tour is invariably the hardest, as it tends to involve many rigid, formal protocols. Each country has a set programme, which usually kicks off with a ceremonial arrival, with the emphasis very much on the word ‘ceremony’. There are dozens of hands to be shaken, a head of state, government representative or a slew of dignitaries to meet, and a degree of solemnity is required when paying respects to whichever national or state memorial is being honoured.
Following the day’s extensive activities, there will almost certainly be a state banquet in the evening – more hands to shake, more polite chit-chat, more speeches. It all makes for a trying test of endurance.
India was to be no different. After the flight from London to Delhi, the royal couple hit the ground running. There was no time to relax and recover from the journey. They were royals, and royals got on with the job at hand. They had no choice.
In the heat of the unforgiving afternoon sun, the couple arrived at the presidential residence on the first day. Specially invited guests had been waiting for at least an hour under the shade of a canvas awning, while the guard of honour had formed to await inspection under the harsh sunlight.
The ground had been repeatedly watered in an effort to keep the dust levels down, but the authorities were fighting a losing battle. No sooner had the water hit the ground than it dried almost instantaneously. For those of us present, a fine layer of dust covered our skin and clogged our throats.
Rashtrapati Bhavan, the 340-roomed Presidential Palace, is the largest residence of any head of state in the world. It is where the Prince’s beloved great-uncle Lord Louis Mountbatten, the last Viceroy of India, resided in 1947 during the twilight years of the British Empire. Forty-five years later, the Prince and Princess of Wales were to be guests of President Venkataraman, in the same Palace once known as Viceroy’s House.
One of the charming aspects of official visits is that quite often the hosts themselves will escort the guests to their suite. And so it was that with the formalities over, the President escorted the Prince and Princess to their quarters. With barely an hour to freshen up, they were then promptly whisked away to Raj Ghat, one of India’s holiest sites.
Raj Ghat is the black-marbled memorial platform to the father of India, Mahatma Gandhi, and marks the sacred spot where he was cremated in 1948. In a brief but solemn ceremony, the Prince paid tribute to Gandhi by laying a floral wreath. He then returned to the Palace for a meeting with the President, followed that evening by a reception in the Palace gardens.
Aided by a favourable five-and-a-half hour time difference, the Prince and Princess were not as yet showing any signs of fatigue.
Two royals in the mix makes the planning of tour programmes particularly tricky, especially when a large area of ground needs to be covered. In the case of the Prince and Princess, the biggest media draw at the time, there was only one way achieve all that was required diplomatically – give them separate itineraries. This caused disappointment in some quarters and required a spot of creative thinking, not least in the matter of the trip to the Taj Mahal.
The idea of the Prince and Princess going to the Taj Mahal together had been discussed at length during the recce. A joint visit would have given the world’s media the money shot. And yet, we had Diana scheduled to be in Agra, while at the same time Charles was committed to a conference (related to his International Business Leaders Forum) 1,200 miles away in Bangalore, where he was due to give the only keynote address of the tour. A conundrum in the extreme. Charles, who had once vowed that, ‘One day I would like to bring my bride here,’ was not going to be where we needed him most – seated next to his wife on a bench in front of the bloody Taj Mahal!
A rumbling of media interest could be heard the minute the schedule was made public. Before Their Royal Highnesses had even stepped foot on the plane, newspaper headlines screamed, Di To Visit Taj Mahal On Her Own.
Invitations had already gone out for the conference in Bangalore, and we had received acceptance from both British and Indian delegates across the board. Accounting for travel time between cities and his commitment to the forum, His Royal Highness had no interest in changing the arrangements. We were left with no alternative but to bite the bullet.
I was told not to broach the subject further with the Prince, and the programme was set in place. Perhaps he simply felt that it would have been hypocritical to go, and no doubt he was tired of the whole charade. Under the circumstances it would have been excruciating for them both. They no longer had the will to care.
Public reaction was as expected. The media had a field day. Indeed, tabloid editors had struck gold. Considering the manipulative nature of the images of Diana, a lone figure on that infamous bench, it was almost too easy to write the accompanying captions:
Wistful.
&nbs
p; Temple of loneliness.
Symbol of a failed marriage.
The list goes on. Gleefully they littered the front pages with their commentary on the significance of the Princess’s solo visit, which ironically took place just three days before Valentine’s Day.
Based in Bangalore, where I was supporting the Prince at his business meeting, I could only observe the events in Agra with mounting gloom. Our worst fears were being realised several hundred miles away. Sky News reporter Simon McCoy asked the Princess what she had thought of the magnificent tomb. She paused for a few seconds, choosing her words carefully, and then fired her first public shot across the Prince’s bow.
‘It was a healing experience…very healing.’
Keen for her to elaborate, McCoy asked, ‘What do you mean exactly?’
It was a question that would reward him well. After another pause, the Princess replied with a gleam in her eye, ‘work it out for yourself.’
I could imagine the delight with which he greeted those words. Not only did the press pack have their pictures, they now had their story to go with them.
In saying what she did, Diana had effectively given the media carte blanche to write whatever they damn well pleased. A resolute silence would have been the less inflammatory choice, but I appreciated that her frustration had been pushed to the limit, and I couldn’t help but sympathize with her. The Prince could have used the visit to the Taj Mahal to make a positive statement about his marriage, and in turn quell the ever-present rumours. Instead his unwavering refusal to accompany her made it clear to both his wife and the world at large that he no longer cared what people thought.
On Duty With the Queen: My Time as a Buckingham Palace Press Secretary Page 9