One thing that brought monarchy and the nation’s youth together very effectively was the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award Scheme, which began in 1956. The duke did not devise it. It was the brainchild of his old headmaster, Kurt Hahn, and was based on a prize awarded at Gordonstoun. What Prince Philip did was to assume the chairmanship of the body that regulated this programme of activities, lending it, through his name and his continuous patronage, the prestige associated with royalty. The scheme, which builds confidence and broadens experience, was originally only for boys aged under eighteen, but within two years girls were also participating, and the upper age-limit rose to twenty-five. So popular has it been that it has spread all over the world, though many countries call it something else (The President’s Award, for instance). A successor to the Duke of York’s Camps of the inter-war years, it is perhaps one of the most resoundingly successful gestures ever made in the name of royalty, and will in the future provide a lasting memorial to the reign.
Two further additions were made to the family as the queen approached middle age. Andrew was born in 1960, and was followed by Edward four years later, creating two distinct generations of children. Charles and Anne had been brought up with less formality than their royal predecessors – attending schools instead of having private tutors and, in the case of an operation that Anne had to undergo, being treated in hospital rather than having medical facilities set up in the Palace. All the royal children were naturally of interest to the press, but an attempt to shield a younger one from publicity backfired – Andrew did not appear in public until several weeks after he was born, and this provoked speculation that he was physically or mentally impaired.
The sixties were a difficult time for the monarchy, as for all established institutions. Though the Suez crisis was now a memory, Britain was rocked by the revelation that young men of good background – Philby, Burgess and Maclean – had been betraying national secrets to the Soviets. A fourth man, Anthony Blunt, was actually employed inside the royal household as Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures. Though his complicity was not revealed, and he was not disgraced, until many years later, the queen had known of his guilt since the other three were first discovered, and had somehow remained courteous in her dealings with him. The Profumo scandal, in which a senior government minister was found to have compromised national security through a relationship with a call-girl, was another blow to those who advocated the Establishment status quo. These events caused a major lapse in public confidence and an increasingly cynical outlook among a younger generation that had already lost faith in the world view of their elders. These were, of course, the years that saw the rise of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the whole pop music ‘scene’ that, almost overnight, added a new dimension to popular culture and made staid and class-ridden Britain – or at least its capital, ‘Swinging London’ – the most fashionable place on earth.
Though the appeal of this culture was lost on Charles, his sister was to some extent identified with it, wearing a miniskirt and attending a performance of the hippy musical Hair.Princess Margaret, who in 1960 had married a photographer called Antony Armstrong-Jones (he was ennobled as Earl of Snowdon), was more a part of contemporary culture than any other royal. Always the family rebel (unlike her sister, she smoked), she enjoyed the raffish, bohemian world in which her husband moved, and the company of film stars and pop singers. While this did not endear the monarchy to the younger generation – they were too caught up in their own diversions to notice. Rather, it gave Margaret a reputation among the older generation for self-indulgence and for choosing her friends unwisely.
The Palace was besieged by photographers when the Beatles, on the recommendation of Labour Prime Minister Harold Wilson, received the MBE for services to British export. Though this may briefly have made the Establishment seem in tune with the nation’s youth, the gesture was deplored in some quarters. Those who had been given the same award for more onerous services – such as enduring years in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp – were horrified by its trivialization, and several people sent their medals back in protest.
The demands of an information-hungry, televisual age became increasingly strident and the Palace, after long years of regarding the press as a nuisance to be avoided, suddenly changed tack. The catalyst was the replacement as Press Officer in 1968 of Commander Colville, a gruff ex-naval officer, with an Australian called William Heseltine. Colville had made no secret of his dislike of journalists, and had seen it as his primary function to protect the privacy of his employers. Heseltine, a young and outgoing man who was untainted by the conservatism of older courtiers, decided to befriend the press instead. He was pleasant when answering the phone, and as helpful as possible – checking facts, providing quotes, and confirming or denying stories with a refreshing lack of obfuscation. Though there could never be complete amity between the royals and the Fourth Estate, Heseltine, who remained at his post for over a decade, significantly eased relations.
There was another attempt to woo public opinion, through the medium of television. Lord Mountbatten, now an elder statesman among royals, had been the subject of a biographical television series directed by his son-in-law, Lord Brabourne. It had been very successful, and he persuaded the queen that television could also benefit the public image of her family. She agreed to ‘host’ a documentary called The Royal Palaces of Britain. Shown in 1966, it offered an overview of the royal homes. The aspect that most interested viewers, though, was the incidental, behind-the-scenes insight it gave into her family and their lives. This led to a further, bolder suggestion: that another documentary be made, about the family themselves this time rather than their houses. The result was shown three years later. Royal Family (or Corgi and Beth, as it was nicknamed) ran for sixty minutes. It showed the queen, her husband and their children lunching at Sandringham, relaxing at Windsor, barbecuing at Balmoral. It was pleasantly spontaneous, without the feel of having been staged (a string on Prince Charles’s cello broke and hit his brother Edward), and genuinely informative. The Windsors were seen on holiday in pullovers and headscarves, looking just like any other family. The screening created such overwhelming interest that an estimated 68 per cent of Britons – almost two-thirds of the population – stayed in to watch it in June 1969.
Though it made television history – and £120,000 in profits – it was a step that the Palace clearly regretted. It had, it was felt by traditionalists (and by the family), let too much daylight in on magic. Though it had enchanted viewers to see the queen buying sweets for Prince Edward in a village shop, it had set a new threshold for intrusiveness, and in consequence the public expected the same degree of access from then on. The programme rapidly disappeared. Her Majesty owned the copyright as well as the actual reels of film, so that it could not be shown again without her permission. This has never been given, and only short extracts have been seen since. It was, as those who saw it can confirm, both innocuous and endearing, and tame by the standards of accessibility that exist today. Nevertheless it is unlikely to be seen again during the lifetime of Elizabeth II.
Only two weeks after it appeared there was another televisual airing for the royal family. The Investiture of Charles as Prince of Wales was staged at Caernarfon Castle. This was not an ancient ceremony. Only one such event had been held before, in 1911, but what did that matter? Pageantry can capture the imagination even if it has only just been dreamed up, and this event was beautifully staged. Lord Snowdon, the queen’s brother-in-law, had designed the backdrop – medieval trappings like the stage-set for a school Shakespeare production – for use with the imposing castle ruins. There was a throne of Welsh slate, a specially made modern crown, and a transparent canopy that would allow cameras to show proceedings while still keeping the rain off. It was the biggest royal event since the coronation sixteen years earlier, and fully maintained Britain’s reputation for simple yet impressive ceremonial.
The same year saw the beginning of a new era when terrorism came to both Nor
thern Ireland and mainland Britain. What began in Ulster as a civil rights movement to end discrimination against Catholics, was hijacked by the IRA and turned into a campaign of violence to secure British withdrawal. The royal family became potential targets for assassination in a way that they had never been before, and faced danger that had not been encountered since George VI and Queen Elizabeth had remained in London during the Blitz. In spite of this, the next set-piece state event – the marriage of Princess Anne – went ahead in November 1973 as if nothing had changed. The queen, as a matter of principle, would not allow the threat of terrorism to disrupt or prevent any public event. The annual pageantry of Trooping the Colour and the state opening of Parliament went on as usual. The Metropolitan Police, and other responsible agencies, simply had to become expert at managing these occasions – searching the route, scanning the crowds, maintaining an unobtrusive but vigilant presence. That they have done these things ever since without causing major disruption to these events is a tribute to the level of professionalism they have achieved. Even an almost-successful kidnap attempt on Princess Anne, carried out within yards of the Palace and resulting in the shooting (fortunately not fatal) of her detective, failed to prevent the regular public appearances of the family. Since time immemorial, monarchs have used such appearances in two ways: to reinforce their authority and to allow their subjects a limited level of access and thus increase public interest and loyalty. This approach is as relevant today as it ever has been, and is something the present monarch will not abandon.
Ironically the same decade that produced the greatest recent threat to the safety of the Windsors was also the one that brought them closest to their people – the single biggest stride forward made by ‘popular monarchy’ since 1917. This was the advent of the ‘walkabout’. The term can be defined as an informal stroll, by members of the family, along a street or crush-barrier, with stops to talk to the public. These are now commonplace, but they were unheard-of until a generation ago. People had always been willing to stand for hours at roadsides to see the royals pass, but the most they had expected to see was a swiftly moving vehicle or a waving hand. As a kindness to the crowds, royals would often have the collapsible roof of a car put down, even in pouring rain, to give a clearer view.
In March 1970 the family made a visit to Wellington, New Zealand. The queen, Prince Philip, Charles and Anne were to attend a function at the town hall. It had been suggested by their hosts that, instead of simply arriving at the entrance by car, they should disembark on the other side of the square and walk across it, greeting the crowds on the way. They did so, and the effect was magical. For the first time members of the public could have brief conversations with, and take close-up pictures of, the royal family in the setting of their own streets. The walkabout had taken considerable planning, but it gave the impression of spontaneity. It was repeated in the UK, in Coventry, some months later, and met with the same enthusiasm. In 1977, the queen’s walkabouts were to be perhaps the most cherished aspect of her jubilee celebrations.
The seventies was an era of economic gloom, industrial anarchy and social unrest. The Silver Jubilee – the twenty-fifth anniversary of the queen’s accession – fell in February 1977, though the celebrations were to be held in June. There was at first little enthusiasm for this event. The country, it was felt, would be preoccupied with its troubles, the risk of terrorism was likely to be great, and the cost of the national party would attract potentially damaging criticism. When the plans were made, by a committee chaired by Prince Charles, it was assumed that they would have to be kept modest.
In fact, it was precisely because of such pervasive gloom that the populace at large wanted a party. Britain was shown on television screens across the world as a country paralysed by strikes, financially unstable, choked with uncollected rubbish, and with its youth represented by snarling, foulmouthed punks. Knowing that no other nation could match them at staging a celebration, however, the British wanted to show the world – and themselves – that there were some things in which they still effortlessly dominated. The jubilee – with the service at St Paul’s in London, the series of tours that Her Majesty made of Britain and the Commonwealth, and the innumerable village fetes and ox-roasts and street parties – was a triumph. ‘An older Britain briefly re-awoke,’ as one commentator put it, though in truth that older Britain is always there, awaiting such opportunities. If the monarchy cannot cure the ills of society, it can at least provide colourful diversions and a sense of pride. So it proved in 1977.
This success was repeated, in even greater measure, four years later when Prince Charles was married in St Paul’s Cathedral. His continuing bachelorhood was causing concern to his parents, but like a previous Prince of Wales he seemed content to put off matrimony indefinitely. He was by no means uninterested in women, and had had friendships with several who might have made suitable consorts. What the public did not know was that his affections were already committed to a woman, Camilla Shand, whom he had met when she was single but who was now married to an army officer. Charles needed, for dynastic reasons, to marry, but his wife must be suited to the role that she would expect to inherit. This meant in effect that she must not have ‘a past’, and must be sufficiently well drilled in duty and politeness to win the approval of the family’s older generation.
Lady Diana Spencer, the sister of one of Charles’s former girlfriends, seemed a perfect candidate: very young – at nineteen she was twelve years his junior – and from an aristocratic family. Her grandmother and his were friends. Lady Diana had lived on the Sandringham Estate, and appeared to take pleasure in the country pursuits that formed an essential part of the royal family’s lifestyle. She was not overly bright, but was obviously good with children (she was working at the time as a nursery assistant), and possessed qualities of kindness and modesty (she blushed easily) that won the affection of the public as soon as they began to see her in photographs.
She and Charles seemed very happy together. On the day of their wedding – 29 July 1981 – an estimated 600,000 people lined the streets to witness the event, and some 750 million watched on television. This time there had been no doubting the public enthusiasm beforehand. The populace had shown willing from the moment the engagement was announced. Television coverage was all-encompassing; souvenir manufacturers were in ecstasies. Once again, celebrations were mounted on village greens and at street parties throughout the country. As during the jubilee, Britons felt that the whole world was watching them with envy, and they enjoyed this further moment of national glory.
This new spirit of nationalism was unexpectedly put to the test the following year. The Falkland Islands, a British dependency off the coast of South America, was invaded without warning by Argentinian forces. Argentina had always claimed the islands, which had been populated by British settlers since 1833. Since the Falklanders refused to consider abandoning their British identity, no government in London would even discuss the matter with Buenos Aires, let alone concede ownership. Sudden military occupation was the result. Could Britain, 8,000 miles to the north, do anything about this? Were there the resources – was there the will? The answer was yes. The indomitable British prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, immediately ordered a taskforce to be assembled. The journey was too long to make by air, and the expedition had to sail to the Falklands, warships accompanied by commandeered merchant and passenger vessels filled with troops. The voyage lasted three weeks, the campaign almost three months. At a cost of 258 British fatalities Argentinian forces surrendered on 14 June 1982, and eventually the taskforce returned to Britain. Waiting for them in Portsmouth were the queen and Prince Philip, for one of their number was Prince Andrew, a naval helicopter pilot who had faced a degree of personal danger during the fighting. His craft had been used as a decoy for deadly Exocet missiles, and he had also flown anti-submarine patrols.
His specialist skills had been required in the conflict, but because of his position there had naturally been reluctance to deploy
him. It would have been understandable if he had been kept away from the ‘sharp end’. In fact, it was the queen herself who had insisted that he be sent. ‘No, he’s a serving officer,’ her chaplain later quoted her as saying, ‘he must take his turn with the rest.’ He is her favourite, and she would naturally have been deeply anxious about the outcome, but she wanted her son to take the same risks as his comrades. He was the first member of his family to serve in active combat since his father took part in the Battle of Cape Matapan in 1942. As in previous wars, equality of service – and perhaps sacrifice – strengthened the bond between monarchy and people.
Courage is always impressive, and this was shown by the queen herself on two separate occasions. At Trooping the Colour in 1981 she was shot at – with blanks, as it transpired – while she rode along the Mall toward the parade. After calming her horse she coolly rode on, and the ceremony proceeded as usual. The next year she awoke one morning to find a stranger in her bedroom, and managed to keep him distracted until help arrived.
Apart from these events it was her children who claimed the lion’s share of the attention. Andrew was married, in the summer of 1986, to Sarah Ferguson. She was an exuberant, confident young woman whose boisterous sense of humour matched his own. As with Diana, who was a friend (and had brought her and Andrew together), Miss Ferguson seemed a highly promising addition to the family. The daughter of Prince Charles’s polo manager, she had known the family since childhood, and therefore understood the environment she was entering. Her sheer jolliness was seen as refreshing. The public expected to warm to her.
They didn’t. Remarkably quickly, she irritated them. She proved to be clumsy, boorish, undignified and selfish. She made too much noise, and she was a liability rather than an asset. She also proved to be greedy, and went on seemingly endless expensive holidays. ‘She was having too much fun,’ said one critic, adding that the public like the notion that, when royals are on holiday, they spend their time shivering at Balmoral rather than going somewhere nice. Sarah Ferguson took advantage of every privilege her position offered, and still wanted more. The nadir was perhaps reached when she produced a children’s book – Budgie the Little Helicopter – and pocketed the proceeds instead of making them over to charity.
A Brief History of the House of Windsor Page 19