'Well Read!' What's On Nash's Bedside Table
Normally I would be the first to say I agree with the old adage with regard to the British Royal Family of ‘don’t let too much daylight in on the magic!’
Yet over the 20th century and now into the 21st, that is exactly what has happened with more and more frequency. Some of the allowance into the privacy of Britain
In my opinion, the sense of continuity that exudes from the House of Windsor is a highly specialized attribute to be honored and treasured, a link with a much revered historical past, as opposed to making a mockery of something fine!
However, if light must be let in with no avail as to the subsequent ramifications; then it is best that the ‘light’ be allowed from within.
Quite recently a gem of a book was published. I read it in the blink of an eye, as it is a slim volume. However, what it lacks in quantity it is packed with quality.
The Final Curtsey, by Margaret Rhodes, first cousin to Her Majesty the Queen, and niece to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, is a delightful and high informative ‘literary journey’ written from a familial view, slightly from the position of an outsider, as Margaret is not a member of the British royal family, yet with all the insider ‘fly on the wall’ approach of a member of the extended family.
This is the intimate and revealing autobiography and gives us a chance to ‘see’ the human side of ‘the firm’! The Hon. Margaret’s no nonsense and highly informative read is well worth a look.
Better yet, it is published with the blessings of Her Majesty the Queen.
This book certainly qualifies for esoteric stranded island status!
The day the Queen did a conga into the Palace... then sang until 2am: An extraordinary insight into life with the Royals in this evocative memoir.
By The Honourable Margaret Rhodes
The Daily Mail
June 18, 2011
It is one of the most remarkable books ever written about life at the heart of the Royal Family. The Final Curtsey by the Honourable Margaret Rhodes, a cousin of the Queen and a friend since childhood, is an enchanting and intimate memoir spanning eight momentous decades. It was written with the full knowledge of the Queen, who has read and approved parts of it. Here the author tells us about how she shared a 'long-lost world' with the Princesses and the day the Queen did a conga into the Palace and sang until 2am...
She describes how the Queen – then the teenage Princess Elizabeth – was allowed by her father, King George VI, to slip out of the Palace on May 8, 1945, to join the celebrations. With a cap pulled down over her face to disguise herself, she even cheered her parents when they appeared on the Palace balcony to acknowledge the crowds.
Learning the ropes: Princess Elizabeth, left, Princess Margaret, centre, and their cousin Margaret Rhodes, enjoyed a blissful childhood
Accompanied by her sister Princess Margaret, Margaret Rhodes and several others, the Queen enjoyed ‘a unique burst of personal freedom; a Cinderella moment in reverse’. Mrs Rhodes writes: ‘I can’t remember exactly what we got up to, and so the Queen has provided me with an aide-memoire taken from her diary entries for that time.’
The entries capture with vivid immediacy the excitement she felt at being part of the nationwide party that broke out after the Allied victory was declared.
Of VE Day, the young Princess, who had recently turned 19 and was a subaltern in the Auxiliary Transport Service, wrote: 'PM announced unconditional surrender. Sixteen of us went out in crowd, cheered parents on balcony. Up St J’s St [St James’s Street], Piccadilly, great fun.’
Her entry for the following day reads: ‘Out in crowd again – Trafalgar Square Pall Mall , walked simply miles. Saw parents on balcony at 12.30am – ate, partied, bed 3am!’
The Queen records a similar experience on VJ Day, August 15: ‘Out in crowd, Whitehall Park Lane Dorchester , saw parents twice, miles away, so many people.’ And on August 16, she wrote: ‘Out in crowd again. Embankment, Piccadilly. Rained, so fewer people. Congered into house [a reference to the conga and Buckingham Palace
Mrs Rhodes, who worked for MI6 during the Second World War, wrote her evocative memoir with the full knowledge of the Queen, who has read and approved parts of it. The book provides an unprecedented insight into the family life of the Royals.
My Uncle Bertie's going to be King! The excited reaction of the Queen's young cousin Margaret Rhodes to a royal abdication
It seems strange that I once lived in what would turn out to be the last days of a long-lost world of seemingly unassailable privilege. Although when it is happening it all seems perfectly normal – especially to a small child as I was.
I grew up at Carberry Tower , ten miles south of Edinburgh, one of our two homes in Scotland Surrey , Maryland , and, at one time, a London
In the year of my birth – 1925 – the Charleston hit town, and 12 months later the General Strike generated a class war that almost split Britain Scotland
My mother was still receiving the cook every morning to discuss the day’s menus. The staff ate in two separate dining rooms, one for the senior members such as the butler, housekeeper, ladies’ maid and the head housemaid. If there were visiting valets or ladies’ maids, they were included. All the other staff ate together in another room, as in the television series Downton Abbey.
Firm friends: Margaret Rhodes and Queen Elizabeth are still close after growing up together in a 'long lost world'
Before the Second World War, in many grand houses, lady guests would be expected to change clothes three times a day, from morning dress to afternoon dress, and finally long evening dress, with decorations and tiaras.
The housemaids had to conform as well, wearing a white overall outfit in the mornings, when all the heavy cleaning was done, and black dresses with little white aprons, rather like the uniform once worn by the waitresses in Lyons Corner Houses – in the afternoon and evening.
When Queen Mary [the Queen’s grandmother] came to stay, I was given strict instructions by my mother on the required protocol. This entailed kissing her on the cheek, followed by kissing her hand and then curtseying. Of course, I muddled it up, getting it in the wrong order, finally rising from my obeisance to biff Her Majesty under the chin with the top of my head, as her face lent forward to receive a kiss, which I had forgotten. Luckily this did not ruffle the calm of the grand old lady.
Later in the same year King George II of Greece arrived and I curtseyed deeply to his imposing equerry and shook hands firmly with the King. How was I to know which was which?
There were many other, more light-hearted family occasions, when my aunt, the Duchess of York [the future Queen Mother, who was born Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the sister of the author’s mother, Lady Mary Bowes-Lyon] and her husband, with the two Princesses, visited us. They played some pretty odd and boisterous games. One, called Are You There, Moriarty?, involved distinguished visitors rolling round on the ground being beaten round the head with newspapers which had been folded into batons. We three girls were surprised at the curious goings-on of the grown-ups.
I must have been a great surprise to my parents, born nearly seven years after their last child, when my mother was 42 and my father 56. Perhaps they wanted another son, as I remember being given presents of toy swords, bows and arrows and even a suit of armour. Dolls were definitely out.
I had a nursery governess, the awful Miss Campbell. She was horrid and I hated her. One of her less pleasant tricks, when bathing me, was to say: ‘Now shut your eyes and open your mouth, and I will give you a lovely surprise.’
Night after night, like a gullible trout, I would obey her and she would stuff the cake of soap into my mouth.
That just goes to show how unquestionably stupidly obedient I was. But that was the way things were: as long as I appeared clean and tidy for the hour with my parents after tea, no questions were asked.
Memory lane: Margaret Rhodes, remembers squabbling with Princess Elizabeth, right, and being kept awake by Princess Margaret, front
As a small child I was taught to say my prayers every evening with my mother and we all regularly attended church. On the reverse side of the coin we were prone to cracking disgusting lavatorial jokes, but never, ever, those of a sexual nature. The facts of life were a closed subject and I genuinely wondered where babies came from.
I never heard my parents swear and I remember my eldest brother being roundly reprimanded for taking the name of his Maker in vain.
We were raised to believe that it was positively immoral to stay indoors regardless of the weather. One had to get outside and do something useful: chop wood, pull out ivy, weed the garden or go for a bracing walk. The children of a nearby family who lolled around all day reading magazines and novels were cited as examples of degeneracy. To this day I feel guilty if I remain inside for any length of time.
Good manners were high on the agenda and my brothers were taught to raise their caps to any woman they met, be she Duchess or under-gardener’s wife.
And Carberry, despite its size and the servants, was a touch spartan. There was no central heating and the water in the bowl on my washstand in my bedroom would sometimes freeze over.
My brothers went away to school – Eton and then Oxford. But school, or in fact any form of serious education, was never suggested for my sisters or me. Princess Elizabeth and I were really the last generation of girls from families like ours who didn’t go to school. I thought school would be ghastly; you’d have to play hockey. I didn’t want to play hockey.
I did, however, have dancing lessons and I was at the dancing school in Edinburgh the day the abdication of King Edward VIII was announced. To my eternal shame I hopped around the room chanting: ‘My Uncle Bertie is going to be King.’
Very soon afterwards ‘Uncle Bertie’ became ‘Sir’. Princess Elizabeth became Heiress Presumptive, the ‘Presumptive’ inserted just in case she later had a brother.
I believed she hoped she might have one and be let off the hook, but deep down she knew that wasn’t very likely. She accepted that she would be Queen one day, but thought it was a long way off.
Sadly it came to her much sooner than she expected.
My father, the 16th Baron Elphinstone, was born in 1869. He travelled all over the world, big game hunting and exploring. His philosophy seemed to be ‘have gun, will travel’. He potted grizzly bears in Alaska and Canada and I grew up with a stuffed 8ft-high grizzly standing on its hind legs in the hall at Carberry.
I have his game book from three big game-hunting trips in 1895 and 1896 in the foothills of the Himalayas, Bengal and Assam, in which he precisely recorded for the three visits a bag of 13 tigers, three leopards, 21 rhino, 39 buffalo, ten bison, three python and many deer, pig, quail and peacock.
Playmates: Mrs Rhodes was dispatched to keep Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret company, seen here playing the game 'Are you there Moriarty?'
When he wasn’t doing that he was shooting pheasant, partridge and grouse in Scotland and England. How the Animal Liberation Front would have loved him. After he settled down, he became Governor of the Bank of Scotland and Captain-General of the Royal Company of Archers, the Sovereign’s bodyguard north of the border.
As Captain-General he marched behind the coffin at the funeral of King George V in 1936. There was a strong wind and my father thought the long eagles’ feathers in his cap were going to blow away. He lifted his arms to secure them and his braces snapped. He had to walk four-and-a-half miles desperately holding his trousers up with his elbows.
Oh Lord! Eisenhower's on a tour of the castle
I particularly remember one summer afternoon during my wartime sojourn at Windsor when we were having tea on a small terrace overlooking the castle rose garden.
A long white tablecloth swept to the ground, and the table was set with a silver kettle, teapot and all the usual paraphernalia.
The party comprised the King; the Queen; the Princesses, myself, and my friend Liz Lambart who, like me, was a bridesmaid to Princess Elizabeth.
Suddenly we heard voices engaged in transatlantic chatter.
The King exclaimed: ‘Oh Lord. General Eisenhower and his group are being shown round the castle. I quite forgot. We will all be in full view when they turn the next corner.’
General Dwight Eisenhower, pictured right with King George VI, must have been over here planning the D-Day landings.
It was embarrassing because the little terrace was halfway up the castle wall and the Royal Family would have been clearly seen, but unable to descend or to communicate with the visitors.
Acting as one, the Royal Family dived under the tablecloth. Liz and I, our mouths gaping open, followed fast. We stayed there until we thought it safe to reappear. If Eisenhower and his party had looked up, they would have seen a table shaking from the effect of the uncontrollable giggles of those sheltering beneath it.
Years later, on a state visit to the United States, the present Queen confessed to the then President Eisenhower and he thought it very funny.
Just before his 40th birthday he married the 26-year-old Lady Mary Bowes-Lyon, the eldest sister of Queen Elizabeth [the future Queen Mother].
My parents had five children. I was the youngest, born in 1925. Elizabeth, the eldest was born in 1911; John in 1914; Jean in 1915; and Andrew in 1918.
My mother and father were far more remote from their children than modern parents. Of course, having nannies and nursery maids made a lot of difference, but I cannot remember either parent playing any sort of game with me.
They were both gardening mad, and I remember my mother as being almost permanently in an old tweed coat tied around the waist with a piece of string and gum boots and bent double over something in the garden. Indeed, she seemed far more interested in the garden than in the activities of any of her children.
Years later, when I was grown up, I rushed to tell her the earth-shattering news that my then boyfriend had proposed marriage to me. She said: ‘Oh darling, really, and what did you say? So sorry, darling, I must go out now and do some work on the rockery.’
It was not the response that my news deserved.
Every year, in August, we migrated to Glenmazeran, our shooting lodge in Invernessshire.
If we travelled from London by car we had a stopover at Welbeck Abbey, the home of the Duke of Portland to whom my mother was distantly related. The old Duchess was rather frightening and deaf.
I was told that in a period of economy she gave up Tatler magazine and travelled by buses around London, asking the conductors, whom she confused with chauffeurs, to deposit her at the precise number of her Grosvenor Square address.
Glenmazeran was special. I caught my first salmon in the Findhorn river and my first trout in the Mazeran burn. I subsequently became a keen fisherwoman and skilful angler and a stretch of the river is still named after me: Miss Margaret’s Pool.
There were eagles galore. In those days they were classed as vermin and, on a grouse-shooting estate, had to be controlled. I was allowed to use a 20-bore shotgun to help control them.
Out one day walking in a wood, something flopped out of a tree. I went bang and to my surprise the ‘something’ fell to the ground. It was an eagle and I carried my trophy home slung over my shoulders. I was immensely proud of myself and received the plaudits of the family. The downside was to be infested with ticks and lice.
Later I was introduced to stalking. I shot my first stag with a clean shot when I was 15 and became hooked on the pursuit, only giving up when I was 72.
The Glenmazeran terrain was also populated by buzzards, peregrine falcons, badgers and large wild cats, brown-furred with long, black ringed tails. My sister Elizabeth had a coat made from their skins.
The shooting season was one of the highlights of the Scottish social calendar. American banker J. P. Morgan’s annual shooting lunch was an enormous meal that was eaten sitting out in the heather, with the butler and a footman to wait on the guests.
That was something not even the Royal Family did.
Stiff upper lip: George VI with the Royal Family, at the Royal Lodge at Windsor Castle, on 8 July 1946, strictly adhered to the rationing rules during war
No suitors at the Palace
Later in the war, after my brother Andrew returned from India, my mother arranged for us both to lodge in Buckingham Palace.
We had a bedroom each, a sitting room and a bathroom all on the second floor, and a housemaid’s pantry as our kitchen.
There was a small electric cooker, but no fridge. I thought it would be a good idea to utilise the window ledge, so I put our milk bottles out there to keep them cool, only to bring down the wrath of the Master of the Household, a dear old boy called Sir Piers Legh, who gave me the most fearsome ticking-off.
Our window overlooked the forecourt and I don’t suppose my domestic improvisations enhanced the Changing of the Guard.
Our great culinary forte was a stockpot, into which we would pop whole pigeons. There were plenty of them to be had, and cheap at 2s 6d (12.5p) each. I imagine Trafalgar Square was rather depleted. Once we invited the King and Queen to dinner – imagine, in a housemaid’s pantry! The horrified staff were convinced their Majesties would succumb to food poisoning, the King’s Page being particularly distressed.
Buckingham Palace did dash my chances of romance with some of my after-dark escorts. The conversations would run something like this: ‘Can I see you home?’ . . . ‘How kind’ . . . ‘Where do you live?’ . . . ‘Buckingham Palace’ . . . ‘Oh REALLY’, with an emphasis on the ‘REALLY’ . . . ‘But where do you live?’ . . . ‘Honestly, Buckingham Palace.’ My escorts had to leave me at the Palace railings. Then I had to get past the soldiers and policemen.
Birkhall, a house on the Balmoral estate, is a very special place and the greatest fun of the whole year was my annual childhood visit to join Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret.
The garden descended steeply to the river Muick and sometimes we would picnic on an island in the river. I remember a rather sick-making contest to see how many slices of brown bread and golden syrup we could eat. My record was 12 slices and I always won with ease, which is not really a matter to be proud of.
Princess Elizabeth, just ten months younger than me, was a natural playmate. We endlessly cavorted as horses, which was her idea. We galloped round and round. We were horses of every kind: carthorses, racehorses and circus horses. We spent a lot of time as circus horses and it was obligatory to neigh.
Another game was called ‘catching happy days’. This involved catching the leaves falling from the trees.
There was a gramophone and just one record, either Land Of Hope And Glory or Jerusalem. I can’t remember which, but we played it all the time.
Princess Margaret used to keep me awake at night as I was given the next-door bedroom. The walls were very thin and Margaret would sing Old MacDonald Had A Farm which goes on and on with its refrain of animal noises. It was an incessant chant and I prayed that she would exhaust herself and fall asleep.
We used our imaginations and were easily amused. How we passed our time must seem extraordinarily unreal to the present generation of computer-game children, who only seem happy with much more sophisticated pursuits.
In childhood, the only time I can recall Princess Elizabeth pulling rank was when we squabbled over the ownership of a wooden seat outside the front door of Birkhall.
Territorially she claimed it, declaring: ‘I’m the biggest – “P” for Princess.’
In August 1939 I was dispatched to Birkhall as usual to keep Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret company.
I didn’t know it, but on August 22 Europe shuddered at the announcement of the Soviet-German non-aggression pact. The King and Queen at once returned to London.
And from 11am on Sunday, September 3, we were at war.
It seemed unreal. Nothing much was happening. There was no sign of Panzer divisions or enemy parachutists.
I was just 14, Princess Elizabeth 13 and Princess Margaret was only nine. We did lessons of a sort; rode our ponies, went on picnics, all the usual things. Then the week before Christmas the Queen telephoned to say it was safe for the Princesses to go to Sandringham in Norfolk, even though it was close to one of the coastlines where a German invasion was considered most likely. I returned to Carberry for our family Christmas.
A 'Downton Abbey' childhood: Carberry Towers and gardens was the scene of Mrs Rhodes' youth
The war made its impact on our daily lives there. My brothers set off to join their regiments, John to the Black Watch and Andrew to the Cameron Highlanders. Occasionally there were air raids: to begin with we trailed down to the front hall, which had the thickest walls in the house, but soon we gave that up and remained comfortably tucked up in bed, listening to the thumping of the guns defending the Forth Bridge.
Once I was out seeking to shoot a rabbit or pigeon for the pot with my .22 rifle when I heard an aeroplane coming; it was flying very low. I could easily see the swastika on its wings, so I fired my whole magazine of eight bullets at it, in the vain hope that I might just hit the petrol tank. It flew away unscathed, but I felt better for having made a tiny personal contribution to the war effort.
Towards the end of 1941, when I was 16, I was sent to a finishing school in Oxford to have my rough edges smoothed.
Then I went off to learn shorthand and typing at Queen’s Secretarial College, which had been evacuated from London to Surrey. I stayed at Windsor Castle, with the Princesses.
The castle had returned to its original role as a fortress and there was a plan for my cousins to disappear in the event of an invasion. A hand-picked body of officers and men from the Brigade of Guards and the Household Cavalry, equipped with armoured cars, was on 24-hour call to take the King and Queen and their daughters to a safe house in the country should the German threat of invasion materialise.
I don’t think there was much reason to worry about that after 1940, but it was a comforting thought that they were around, until I learned that although the operation probably included the corgis, it did not include me.
Windsor Castle was a bit bleak in those days. Heavy blackout curtains made the rooms look gloomy and the furniture was naturally shrouded in dust covers.
The King and Queen, who came down from London at weekends, observed the food-rationing regulations, although the rations were supplemented by game birds and venison. The pudding every day was stewed bottled plums, picked from the garden.
In order to save on vital supplies, we were allowed only 3in of water in the bath and the King commanded that a black line be painted as a sort of ablutionary Plimsoll line.
Childhood bond: Margaret in her ballgown when she was a bridesmaid to Princess Elizabeth in November 1947
Often there were air raids, and the Page would come in, bow, and announce: ‘Purple warning, Your Majesty’, the signal that the Luftwaffe was zooming in.
I remember one particularly heavy attack when we all had to go to the shelter. We were roused in the middle of the night and taken first to the King and Queen’s bedroom where I think I saw the King take a revolver from the drawer of his bedside table. It was a defensive precaution, bearing in mind the possibility of an enemy parachute drop aimed at his capture. I know too that Queen Elizabeth [the Queen Mother] practised revolver shooting in the garden of Buckingham Palace, particularly after the Palace was bombed, which meant huge numbers of rats ran free, so she was able to practise on moving targets.
We walked what seemed like miles and miles, into the bowels of the castle. Queen Elizabeth absolutely refused to be hurried, despite the efforts of courtiers to persuade her to move faster. The Fuhrer was not going to force her pace.
This did not mean that the raids did not disturb her. At the end of December 1940 she wrote to my sister, Elizabeth, saying: ‘I am still just as frightened of bombs and guns going off as I was at the beginning. I turn bright red, and my heart hammers. In fact I’m a beastly coward, but I do believe that a lot of people are, so I don’t mind . . . Down with the Nazis.’ But outside the family she knew that she could not give an inkling that she might be scared.
One such occasion was when she had a meeting with Lady Reading, the head of the Women’s Voluntary Service (WVS) at Buckingham Palace during a particularly bad raid. The Palace had already been bombed and as they talked the explosions got closer and closer. Lady Reading, renowned as a formidable woman, was obviously not the least concerned.
They were by the big windows overlooking the garden and Queen Elizabeth rather wanted to suggest that it would be sensible to move a little further away from the possible danger of shattered glass.
Lady Reading, however, just went on talking and talking. Afterwards my aunt said that she had to strongly remind herself that she was the Queen of England and couldn’t possibly show fear.
I had normal school holidays from the secretarial college and was able to enjoy my usual visits to Balmoral. By then I was 17 and considered to be sufficiently grown up to be allowed down to dinner.
One night I witnessed the Royal Family experiencing the personal tragedy of war.
In the middle of dinner one of the Pages came in and whispered in the ear of His Majesty’s Assistant Private Secretary, Sir Eric Mieville, who then left the room.
Minutes later he returned and whispered to the King. The King then left. We sat silently, imagining all the possible disasters that could have happened. At length the Queen signalled for us to leave.
She hurried to join the King, while we all sat in the drawing room, shocked into silence.
At long last the King and Queen returned, and the King told us that his brother, Prince George, Duke of Kent, who was an RAF Air Commodore, had been killed in a flying accident when his plane crashed into a mountain in northern Scotland.
That evening the King and Queen left for London. Seven days later, after the funeral, the King returned to Scotland and made a pilgrimage to the scene of the tragedy.
There were happier times. Despite the war the King and Queen Elizabeth, particularly the Queen, were absolutely wonderful at making life fun for their daughters and their guests.
There was a game called ‘kick the tin’, customarily played after tea. All the visitors, however grand, had to take part. It involved a great deal of running, climbing in and out of windows and generally causing mayhem.
I remember watching Sir Samuel Hoare, the Lord Privy Seal, being made to run like the devil and becoming very hot, bothered and confused. I try to imagine a similar holder of high office doing the same nowadays, and I can’t. But Queen Elizabeth was very persuasive.
The membership of the first Balmoral house party for the beginning of the grouse shooting was always the same and included Lord and Lady Eldon and Lord and Lady Salisbury.
Lord Salisbury – ‘Bobbety’ to the Royal Family – was a great statesman, but was fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on your point of view, in having his birthday in the middle week of August.
At dinner he would be crowned with staghorn moss and rhymes would be declaimed. Queen Elizabeth was always a leading player in this rather pagan ceremony.
During the last stages of dinner we would belt out the latest hit songs. When she was older, Princess Margaret, who had a satirical wit, would create topical new lyrics for these top of the pops performances. She missed her vocation; she should have been in cabaret.
It was at Balmoral that I learned my first lesson in the male anatomy. My mentor was the King’s younger brother, the Duke of Gloucester, who unfortunately never quite mastered the correct technique of adjusting the kilt when seated.
I was 20 in 1945. VE Day was a euphoric moment. I was still at the Palace and that evening we had a huge party. My eldest brother, John, who had been a prisoner of war, was there and a gang of us, including the two Princesses, were given permission by the King and Queen to slip away anonymously and join the rejoicing crowds on the streets.
This sort of freedom was unheard of as far as my cousins were concerned.
There must have been about 16 of us and we had as escort the King’s Equerry, a very correct Royal Navy captain in a pinstriped suit, bowler hat and umbrella. No one appeared less celebratory, perhaps because he took his guardian responsibilities too seriously.
Princess Elizabeth was in uniform, as a subaltern in the Auxiliary Transport Service – the ATS. She pulled her peaked cap well down over her face to disguise her much-photographed image, but a Grenadier among the party refused to be seen in the company of another officer, however junior, who was improperly dressed.
My cousin didn’t want to break King’s Regulations and so reluctantly she agreed to put her cap on correctly, hoping that she would not be recognised. Miraculously she got away with it.
London had gone mad with joy. We could scarcely move; people were laughing and crying; screaming and shouting and perfect strangers were kissing and hugging each other. We danced the conga, a popular new import from Latin America; the Lambeth Walk and the hokey-cokey, and at last fought our way back to the Palace, where there was a vast crowd packed to the railings.
We struggled to the front joining in the yells of: ‘We want the King; we want the Queen.’
I rather think the Equerry got a message through to say that the Princesses were outside, because before long the double doors leading on to the balcony were thrown open and the King and Queen came out, to be greeted by a rising crescendo of cheers, to which their daughters and the rest of us contributed.
It was a view of their parents that the Princesses had never before experienced and for all of us young people it was the grand finale to an unforgettable day.
I suppose that for the Princesses it was a unique burst of personal freedom; a Cinderella moment in reverse, in which they could pretend that they were ordinary and unknown.
The Queen has provided me with an aide memoire taken from her diary entries for that time.
She starts on May 6, 1945: ‘Heard that John and George free and safe!’ The exclamation mark probably expresses her pleasure at the return from captivity of my brother John and her paternal cousin, Viscount Lascelles. Then on May 7: ‘After tea saw John and George who flew back today. John just the same.’
On VE Day, May 8: ‘PM announced unconditional surrender. Sixteen of us went out in crowd, cheered parents on balcony. Up St J’s St, Piccadilly, great fun,’ followed by on May 9: ‘Out in crowd again – Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly, Pall Mall, walked simply miles. Saw parents on balcony at 12.30am – ate, partied, bed 3am!’
There is a gap until August 14, when the Princess recorded the Prime Minister announcing the complete surrender of Japan.
On August 15 the Princess wrote: ‘VJ Day. Out in crowd, Whitehall, Mall, St J St, Piccadilly, Park Lane, Constitution Hill, ran through Ritz. Walked miles, drank in Dorchester, saw parents twice, miles away, so many people’ and finally, on August 16: ‘Out in crowd again. Embankment, Piccadilly. Rained, so fewer people. Congered into house [a reference to Buckingham Palace and that rather wild dance] . . . Sang ’till 2am. Bed at 3am!’
My brother's SS nightmare
I remember my brother John coming home on leave looking wonderful in uniform. He was in the Black Watch, of which his aunt, Queen Elizabeth, was Colonel-in-Chief. John was particularly close to her.
Five years later, a strange, gaunt figure returned from Germany. We all met him and had a celebratory dinner at Buckingham Palace. John had been taken prisoner at the time of Dunkirk. His battalion was cut off and forced to surrender near Abbeville.
He was among 2,500 prisoners who marched 220 miles in 14 days from northern France to a railhead in Holland, subsisting on a bowl of soup a day, dandelions, marigolds and acorn coffee. They slept huddled together in open fields. It was so cold that they stripped greatcoats from the bodies of dead soldiers.
Prisoner of War: Margaret Rhodes's brother, John, second from left, spent five five-and-a-half years in captivity
He spent five-and-a-half years in captivity. In the later stages of the war he was incarcerated in Colditz Castle with a group of prisoners known as the ‘Prominente’: of special value because of their relationship to prominent Allied figures. The group included Giles Romilly, the nephew of Winston Churchill; Michael Alexander, a relative of Field Marshal Alexander; Viscount Lascelles, the King’s nephew; and George Haig, the son of Earl Haig, the British First World War commander.
A mural John painted is still on the walls of Colditz.
The Nazis grabbed at any bargaining ace they could. My brother and the other members of the group were shuttled across Germany from Colditz to Austria ahead of the Allies. Above all, John had dreaded falling into hands of the more extreme SS factions. If that had happened, the ‘Prominente’ may not have survived.
Eating lunch off her lap, the Queen as you've never seen her before: Exclusive pictures taken from extraordinary new book by her cousin.
By Mail On Sunday Reporter
The Daily Mail
June 12, 2011
As the Queen prepares to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee, one of her closest relatives and oldest friends has been allowed to give an unprecedented insight into the family life of the Royals. There have been hundreds of other books claiming to offer a glimpse behind Palace doors, but this is the first written by someone who is closely related to the Royal Family and has shared their lives – not only throughout the Queen's reign but also through that of her father, King George VI.
The Final Curtsey, by Her Majesty's cousin and childhood playmate the Honourable Margaret Rhodes, is being serialised exclusively by The Mail on Sunday, starting today.
It tells in enchanting detail the story of Mrs Rhodes's relationship with the Royal Family over eight decades. The book, illustrated with delightfully informal and never-before-seen pictures, has been written with the full knowledge of the Queen, who has read and approved parts of it.
The Queen and I: The Honourable Lady Margaret Rhodes sits resting with the Queen during a trek through deer-stalking area at Balmoral
One of the most remarkable chapters is a vivid and profoundly moving description of the death of the Queen Mother, who was Mrs Rhodes's aunt, on Easter Saturday, 2002.
The author – who worked in the offices of MI6 during the war and is now a sprightly 86 – tells how, when she went to record her aunt's death at the registrar's office in Windsor, she was asked: 'Right, what was the husband's occupation?'
'After a second's hesitation, I answered, "King." She adds: 'I think Queen Elizabeth (the Queen Mother) might have found that almost amusing.' Mrs Rhodes, who was a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen Mother, paints a colourful and hugely endearing portrait of a much-loved Royal.
'She recalls how, over tea one day, the conversation turned to Tony Blair's Cool Britannia, 'prompting Queen Elizabeth to remark wistfully, "Poor Britannia. She would have hated being Cool." '
Elsewhere in the book she reveals how the Queen Mother was a fan of the TV shows Two Fat Ladies and Dad's Army. Perhaps more surprisingly, she was also a fan of the mystical poet Edith Sitwell and the Poet Laureate Ted Hughes, who was a regular and favoured guest.
Life at Birkhall, the Queen Mother's home on the edge of the Balmoral estate, is described – along with sometimes uproarious dinners. Mrs Rhodes recalls: 'At the end of the meal, Queen Elizabeth would start a series of toasts. As well as "Hooray for..." with glasses held high, there was even more of "Down with..." with glasses almost disappearing beneath the table.'
Mrs Rhodes lives in the Royal enclave in Windsor Great Park in a house given to her by the Queen in 1980. She tells how it was offered out of the blue one day when she and the Queen – whose 60 years on the throne next year will be marked with a series of national celebrations – were out riding at Balmoral. 'She suddenly turned in the saddle and said, "Could you bear to live in suburbia?" '
The Queen and I: by The Honourable Margaret Rhodes
Born in 1925, the youngest daughter of the 16th Lord Elphinstone and his wife Mary (nee Bowes-Lyon), the Honourable Margaret Rhodes has led an extraordinary life. She was the childhood playmate of her cousin, the Queen; a wartime MI6 operative; and Lady-in-Waiting to her aunt, the Queen Mother. Now, at the age of 86, she has written an enchanting autobiography that paints an unprecedentedly intimate portrait of the private world of the Royal Family...
Saturday, March 30, 2002, will be etched in my memory for ever – although it started like any other day at the Garden House, my home in the Royal enclave in Windsor Great Park. The house had been granted to me by my first cousin, the Queen, 22 years earlier. I was out riding with her on the Balmoral estate in Scotland and she suddenly turned in the saddle and said: ‘Could you bear to live in suburbia?’
It transpired that she was offering my late husband Denys and me the Garden House, a short drive from Windsor Castle and almost round the corner from Royal Lodge, the weekend retreat of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, who was my mother’s youngest sister and my aunt. Queen Elizabeth had been part of my life for as long as I could remember and, as the years passed, she seemed immortal.
She had, however, been unwell since Christmas 2001 and I suppose I had been steeling myself for the worst. I had just returned from a cruise with some friends down the Chilean coast and during that time Princess Margaret had died following a complete breakdown in her health.
The entertainer: The Queen Mother, sporting tartan and a sprig of heather in a jaunty hat, shares a joke with Margaret at the log cabin at Birkhall she named the Old Bull and Bush
She had her third stroke on February 8 and developed cardiac problems. A few days before this, she had told an old friend that she felt so ill that she longed to join her father, King George VI.
My eldest daughter Annabel had telephoned me on board the ship to break that sad news. Queen Elizabeth, although very frail, had insisted on coming down from Sandringham, where she had been staying since Christmas, for her younger daughter’s funeral in St George’s Chapel, Windsor.
I felt so sad about Margaret, but perhaps more for Queen Elizabeth than for anyone else. It is unnatural for a mother to suffer the death of a child, of whatever age, and it compounds the grief.
Margaret, the Queen and I had grown up together and, when young, Margaret had such great promise, beauty, intelligence and huge charm. It seemed a life unfulfilled in so many ways. In childhood, and when she was growing up, she was very indulged, especially by her father.
MY BAG SHOT FORWARD AND STRUCK THE BACK OF HER HEAD
I knew that my aunt hated stiff formality and that nothing pleased her more than if a Lady-in-Waiting made a mistake.
I was able to oblige her early in my service when she made an evening visit to the British Library.
My first mistake was to wear a hat – hats, I later learned, were appropriate only for daytime engagements – and I was ordered by the Private Secretary, Martin Gilliat, to take it off and lose it. ‘No hats in the evening,’ he said.
Then, in the car on the way to the British Library, Queen Elizabeth asked me if her hair combs were in place. I lifted my arm to push one in, forgetting I had my handbag on my arm.
The bag shot forward and hit her hard on the back of the head. She was angelic enough not to mind
If she did misbehave, she invariably defused the situation by making everyone laugh, so that the misdemeanour was forgotten, if not forgiven. It was hard to resist her, but she did have the most awful bad luck with men.
After Margaret’s funeral, Queen Elizabeth returned to Royal Lodge, and did not leave it again. I arrived home at the Garden House on March 3, and found that my aunt was still entertaining visitors.
On March 5 she hosted a lawn meet and lunch for the Eton Beagles, and then held her usual house party for the Sandown Park Grand Military race meeting. But she weakened further in the week before Easter, which that year would fall on March 31.
I had been a Woman of the Bedchamber – a mix of Lady-in-Waiting and companion – to my aunt since 1991 and in her final weeks I went to Royal Lodge every day, usually around 11 or 12, and had lunch with her, the meal being set on a card table in the drawing room.
I tried to amuse her with snippets of news that might interest her. It was difficult to get her to eat much.
About all she could usually manage was a cup of soup, although her chef, her Page and I spent a lot of time trying to think of dishes that might tempt her. But it was wonderful to see her every day, and I would take her little bunches of early daffodils and primroses; any flower that was really sweet-smelling.
I loved her so much, and I like to think that she regarded me as her third daughter, once paying me the compliment of introducing me as such to a visiting Scandinavian monarch. March 30 was sunny and bright and the usual chores, like exercising the dog, had to be undertaken. Then at about 11 o’clock the telephone rang.
It was Sir Alastair Aird, my aunt’s Private Secretary, warning me that the end seemed close.
She had been receiving regular visits from our local doctor, Jonathan Holliday, the Apothecary to the Household at Windsor, and on the morning of her death he was joined by Doctor Richard Thompson, the Physician to the Queen. They concluded that she would not last the day.
As I arrived at Royal Lodge, I saw that the Queen’s car was there. I went straight to my aunt’s bedroom and found her sitting in her armchair. The Queen was beside her, wearing riding clothes.
She had been alerted while riding in the Park – her groom always carried a radio link to the castle. The nurse from the local surgery and my aunt’s Dresser – Royal Household-speak for Ladies’ Maid – were also there.
A world away from state banquets: The Queen and Margaret enjoy a relaxed lunch at Glen Beg, Her Majesty's log cabin on the Balmoral estate - with the Queen's gin and Dubonnet perched on the side
My aunt’s eyes were shut and thereafter she did not open them or speak another word. The doctors came and went, but the nurse, the Dresser and I stayed throughout. John Ovenden, the Parish Priest of the Chapel of St George’s, Windsor, arrived and went straight into Queen Elizabeth’s bedroom. He knelt by my aunt’s chair, holding her hand and praying quietly. He also recited a Highland lament that begins: ‘I am going now into the sleep ...’
He later told me that he was sure she knew what was happening because she squeezed his hand. After a while I was persuaded to take a break and went for a walk in the garden. When I came back, she had been put to bed.
She looked so peaceful. At this point the Queen returned, accompanied by Princess Margaret’s children, David Linley and Sarah Chatto. John Ovenden also came back, and we all stood round the bed when he said the prayer: ‘Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’
We all had tears in our eyes and to this day I cannot hear that prayer being said without wanting to cry. Queen Elizabeth died at 3.15 in the afternoon on March 30, 2002. She just slipped away and her death certificate said that the cause of death was ‘extreme old age’.She was 101 – such a very great age.
She had arrived in the world in the time of horse-drawn carriages and was leaving it having seen men walking on the Moon. I returned home soon after, thinking that it was strangely significant that she had died on Easter Saturday, the day before the Resurrection.
Solitary moment: Prince Philip breaks into his sandwich box for a snack in the shade of a stone house built by Queen Victoria for Prince Albert at Balmoral
It had been a long and emotionally exhausting day, and I was so touched when David Linley telephoned to say that the Queen would like me to spend the night at the castle. That evening passed in rather a blur.
We had dinner and talked about more or less normal things. We went to bed quite early and next morning attended communion in the castle chapel. Later I went to Matins in the park chapel, and then drove over to Royal Lodge,to make sure all was well with the staff.
The Dresser asked me if I would like to see my aunt. She looked lovely and almost younger, death having wiped the lines away. I knelt by her bed and said a prayer for her. Then I stood up and gave her my final curtsey.
FOND OF A DRINK? HERE'S THE TRUTH
A myth, largely inspired by the media, has grown that Queen Elizabeth was over-fond of drink.
It was, I suppose, an almost affectionate canard, and as far as the Press was concerned, it fitted in with the image that she was a good old girl.
All I can say is that her having a drinking habit was unimaginable.
Her intake never varied. Before lunch she would have a gin and Dubonnet, with a slice of lemon and a lot of ice.
During the meal she might take some wine. In the evening she would have a dry Martini and a glass of champagne with her dinner. There was no excess.
Later, I was deputed to register my aunt’s death at the Windsor registrar’s office. I was shown into the room of a rather fierce-looking lady and we went through the formalities while she ticked the relevant boxes.
At a certain point, she fixed me with a beady eye and asked: ‘Right, what was the husband’s occupation?’ It seemed a superfluous question. However, after a second’s hesitation, I answered: ‘King.’ I think Queen Elizabeth might have found that almost amusing.
Some time in 1990, Queen Elizabeth asked me to lunch at Clarence House. Ruth, Lady Fermoy, the exceedingly elegant maternal grandmother of Princess Diana, was also there. In her way she was as much a fashion plate as her granddaughter and was a senior Woman of the Bedchamber.
When the meal was over, Lady Fermoy invited me up to her sitting room. It was all rather mysterious but she finally got round to the point.
To my complete surprise she told me that Queen Elizabeth wanted me as one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, but found it difficult to ask me herself in case I was reluctant. It would have been impossible to say ‘No’ to her face. My answer, however, was an emphatic and immediate ‘Yes’. I had then been a widow for nine years and having a job gave me a focus which had been lacking since Denys’s death.
I joined a household legendary for its hospitality, conviviality and wit, but underscored by an inexorable sense of duty. It was the unstuffiest of courts and the animating spirit of all this was, of course, Queen Elizabeth. It was not in her nature to behave as though her privileged position was a crushing burden.
By temperament an enjoyer of life, she entered into everything she did with gusto and expected those close to her to do the same.
I can only say that I did my best. She turned even the most tedious occasion into a party, and from my own experience I fully agree with the anonymous leader writer at The Times, who once said of her: ‘She lays a foundation stone as though she has discovered a new and delightful way of spending an afternoon.’
She never, however, forgot what she owed to people whose lives were less comfortable, pleasant and interesting than her own. She kept her politics from the public gaze, but no one could say that she leaned towards the Left. Despite this, she got on well with many Labour politicians and had a deep concern about social conditions.
But I do remember my daughter Annabel having tea with her and the conversation touching on Tony Blair’s then latest wheeze, ‘Cool Britannia’ ... prompting Queen Elizabeth to remark wistfully: ‘Poor Britannia. She would have hated being Cool.’
When I was recruited, there were two Ladies-in-Waiting with titles, who turned out only for the very grandest of occasions, and eight Women of the Bedchamber. We ‘Women’ did fortnightly periods ‘in-waiting’ and accompanied the boss on her official engagements.
Our rather elderly entourage was very well briefed on how to behave before we went out to meet the public – as if we didn’t know – and the Private Secretary would warn us about any potential trouble spots, such as tricky stairs and steps.
Fortunately, when I was in-waiting there were no mishaps. We were always supplied with the names of everyone we could possibly meet, and details f what they were interested in, so that there would be no awkward silences. Our handbags contained the little extra necessities of life to make a Royal visit go like clockwork.
Portrait of joy: A charming photo taken in the Balmoral woods perfectly captures the Queen Mother's abiding love of the countryside
I did not know the contents of Her Majesty’s handbag, but there was astounded merriment at Clarence House when the satirical magazine Private Eye suggested that she never ventured far without an ironed copy of The Sporting Life, a packet of Marks & Spencer chocolate eclairs, a ready mixed gin and Dubonnet in a hip flask, and a large number of £50 notes ‘just in case’.
At Clarence House I had a housemaid to look after me, lay my clothes out and pack and unpack for me. She would turn down my bed in the evening and draw the curtains. I could have had breakfast in bed every morning, like some of my more elderly colleagues, but I decided I was not quite old enough for that and anyway couldn’t be bothered with the fuss it entailed. This involved a Page leaving the breakfast tray outside the door, retreating out of sight and then a housemaid knocking and carrying it in.
All smiles: Beaming for an engagingly informal picture, the Queen at her Balmoral log cabin
I do now, however, at the age of 86, allow myself breakfast in bed when I visit Balmoral and Sandringham, my years now meriting this privilege. I knew, of course, all about curtseying well before I joined the Royal Household. Some people say that they are not curtseying to the individual Royal, as such, but acknowledging what they represent – the nation.
Personally, I curtsey to the individual. So curtseying on first seeing Queen Elizabeth in the morning, and on saying goodbye or goodnight, was perfectly natural as far as I was concerned. Official engagements never started before the sun was well and truly up and they were conducted at a leisurely pace.
Queen Elizabeth liked to give full value, and so they often ran late, which didn’t bother her at all, although some members of the Household accompanying her occasionally got twitchy. She had an inherent magic and I have seen even the most die-hard republicans melt when she directed the full beam of her blue-eyed charm at them.
Her engagements had a sense of the theatre and I remember a Royal observer telling me: ‘When she steps out of her car it’s like curtain-up.’ She certainly always gave a flawless performance, although I believe it went much deeper than that because she genuinely liked people of all sorts and conditions.
She had the gift of making people believe that they were the only person in the world she wanted to talk to at that given moment. And she had a wonderful sign-off line.
It went something like this: ‘Well, I’d love to stand here talking all day, but I really must get on,’ as if she had to get home and put the joint in the oven. People were enchanted by this mix of cosiness and glamorous royalty. It was Thelma Furness, the society beauty of the 1930s, and girlfriend of the then Prince of Wales, who once remarked of Queen Elizabeth, who was then Duchess of York: ‘If ever I was reduced to living in a bungalow inBognor, the person I would most like to have living next door to me would be Elizabeth of York.’ Quite.
Princess Diana also had this gift for scattering stardust, although in a much more overt way. But Queen Elizabeth was compassionate, too, although she did not brim over with it before the crowds. She was not one for the binding up of wounds in public.
A no-nonsense woman, she did not admit to illness, unless totally unavoidable, and regarded aspirin as a dangerous drug. Her idea for the curing of a bad cold was a bracing walk in a stiff breeze across rugged terrain. It invariably worked!
But in her youth and her early years of marriage, she often suffered from a debilitating cough and bad chest. When I was not trailing round after her, coping with the overflow of bouquets and keeping conversation going along VIP line-ups, I spent a lot of my time at Clarence House responding to letters. Queen Elizabeth hada huge post, and every letter had to have a response, even if written by some poor person who was mildly deranged.
There were quite a few of those, and also from people passionate about various causes, and from children. We tried to be as helpful and kind as we could but sadly, and very often, there was nothing we could do and the only course of action was to politely tell the writer that we had referred their problem to the appropriate Government department.
Queen Elizabeth also had an Aladdin’s cave of gifts – a big cupboard of china and other bibelots – which could be dipped into, gift-wrapped and sent with a letter. Normally the recipients were charities, particularly those local to Windsor; Ballater, near Balmoral, and in County Durham, where the Bowes family came from.
What I expected to be my finest hour arrived when one of the real ‘Ladies’ went sick and I was commanded to attend a State Banquet in honour of the King of Malaysia. Queen Elizabeth lent me a tiara and I felt distinctly grand. The Queen and the State visitors were led in by David Airlie, the Lord Chamberlain, carrying his silver wand and walking backwards.
The banquet is always the highlight of any State visit. It is a time for an exchange of compliments and coded messages about foreign policy, spelt out by host and guest, against a glittering backdrop of gold and silver gilt plate, candelabra, crystal and massed flowers.
Winning charm: The Queen Mother waves for the cameras during an outing from Royal Lodge, her home at Windsor, with the Queen
The guest list generally numbers 150, and includes all the members of the Royal Family who can be mustered, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Prime Minister, other members of the Cabinet, representatives of foreign powers who are friendly to the State visitor, industrialists, figures from the arts and sometimes a favourite entertainer or sports person.
In the matter of Royal protocol, Queen Elizabeth had the Archbishop of Canterbury on her right at every single State banquet. The four-course meal always has a musical accompaniment, played by a regimental band – useful for filling conversational gaps.
AT LEAST TRY THE STICK, SAID THE QUEEN
As her ninth decade progressed, Queen Elizabeth’s family became increasingly worried about the infirmities associated with her great age, and particularly the risk of falling.
The Queen sent her a special walking stick and asked her to at least try it.
The Queen said it would make her, the ‘two Margarets’ – that is Princess Margaret and myself – and my sister Jean ‘very happy and relieved’ if she would use it.
Queen Elizabeth did, but under protest. After one engagement, I recall watching her tossing it with a gesture of contempt into the back of her car
President Mugabe of Zimbabwe, to mention just one of the more controversial guests the Queen has had to entertain over the years, was serenaded with a selection which included the best of Half A Sixpence, I Rule The World and something called Jumping Bean.
The Director of Music gets a whisky and soda when it is all over. I wonder if those invited to these occasions realise the amount of work and planning which goes into them. Damask tablecloths, some of them more than a century old, are brought out to cover the side serving tables. Every place setting is measured with a ruler, because no butler worth his salt wants to get to the end of the table with, say, four settings left and nowhere to put them.
Late in the afternoon, the Queen, who expects perfection on these occasions, carries out a personal inspection of the tables. Well, there I was amid all this splendour, sitting next to a man whose firm was supplying a new sewage system to Malaysia. He insisted on passing on every possible detail.
It was not a conversation of memorable enjoyment, but of course the food and wine were excellent and to an extent I was able to anaesthetise myself from waste flows and piping in Kuala Lumpur.
And it was nice to leave the table at the end and not be faced with the washing-up because below stairs a massive clear-up operation was beginning. The 500 crystal glasses; the Minton china; the Sevres or the Meissen ware; the cutlery was all being washed by hand and stored away, ready for the next time.
But, as the Queen says of these occasions and her State visitors: ‘We hope to give them a nice time to remember.’ Queen Elizabeth took every opportunity to have lunch al fresco. The Clarence House garden has two large plane trees under which tables could be placed. She called this green enclave her salon vert.
These lunches were jolly occasions, but there is no truth in the story that towards she end of the meal she would order the tables to be moved close to the wall separating the garden from the Mall, so that she could eavesdrop on the conversations of the passers-by on the other side, in case they said anything complimentary or otherwise about her.
This is a good story, and part of the mythology surrounding her, but moving the tables to such a strategic listening post would have been a physical impossibility because a very large flower bed is in the way. Lunch inside when there were no visitors was held in a corner of the drawing room, and the Lady-in-Waiting would join her.
Words of wisdom: Prince Charles deep in conversation with his grandmother during a lunch in the sunshine on the Balmoral estate
There were always two gentlemen of the Household in attendance to even up the numbers. Queen Elizabeth liked to do us well. The chef produced excellent food and the wine was of the best. The meal was always followed by cheeses and then fresh fruit and lastly coffee.
She did not at all mind people smoking, saying it reminded her of her husband, her father and her brothers, who all smoked. In the evenings when we dined alone she liked to watch television as we ate and she thoroughly enjoyed cookery programmes, particularly Two Fat Ladies and comedy shows including Dad’s Army.
The key figures in the Household were Sir Martin Gilliat, the Private Secretary, an ebullient figure who sometimes took on the role of master of the revels; the less ebullient, but wonderfully organised Sir Alastair Aird, the Comptroller; and the Treasurer, Sir Ralph Anstruther, who was a whizz with figures, down to the last decimal point, and who doled out my very modest expenses allowance.
A POETIC AWAKENING AS SHE MOURNED KING GEORGE VI
My aunt was amazingly well-informed on so many subjects, from gardening, fishing and horseracing to history and European affairs, and even Persian poetry. She would soak up ideas from her wide-ranging circle of friends and guests, and from actors, artists, musicians and poets.
She befriended the mystical poet Edith Sitwell, who, when she was mourning King George VI, sent her a book of poems which comforted her and, my aunt said, made her realise what a selfish thing grief can be.
Another favoured guest was the Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes. One would not have thought that Mr Hughes would have fitted comfortably into what was basically a traditionalist milieu, but Queen Elizabeth was full of surprises and of catholic taste.
Mr Hughes wrote an admiring poem about her on her 95th birthday, comparing her to a six-rooted tree.
I’ve never quite been able to work that one out, but it must have been acceptable because in 1998, shortly before he died, he was appointed to the Order of Merit.
My aunt would have been pleased when, 12 years after his death, Mr Hughes was given a permanent memorial in Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey, alongside other great names of British literature, including Chaucer, Shakespeare, Keats, T.S. Eliot and W.H. Auden.
Retirement was not an option, except for the young Equerry, always from the Irish Guards, who was seconded to Royal duties for three years.
There were a number of other people in the Household: the Lord Chamberlain, who when I arrived was the Earl of Dalhousie; a Page of Honour, and two Apothecaries – an antique description for the two highly qualified medical consultants who were on call, one for Clarence House and the other for Royal Lodge.
There were three secretaries, described as Lady Clerks – one of them worked for the Comptroller and one for the Ladies-in-Waiting. The third worked in the office of the Press Secretary, Sir John Griffin. Her duties included fielding media calls, and she had a notice pinned on the wall proclaiming: ‘We don’t leak.’
This was in the days when reportage of the Royal Family was running wild and out of control. The domestic staff was headed by the Housekeeper, and there were also, of course, several footmen, housemaids and chefs.
Prominent among this group were the Page of the Backstairs, William Tallon, and the Page of the Presence, Reginald Wilcock, his close friend. The bouffant-haired Mr Tallon was something of a celebrity with the media, which sensed an outré character among an otherwise faceless band of retainers.
Like all perfect Royal servants, he knew his place, but as his work involved close proximity to one of the most photographed women in the world he found it impossible completely to remain in the shadows.
The media dubbed him Backstairs Billy, but Queen Elizabeth called him William. I believe there was genuine affection between Mr Tallon and his employer, and although the upstairs-downstairs rule applied, William and Queen Elizabeth probably met somewhere in the middle.
He was her longest-serving servant, one of the coterie she regarded as her extended family. Each Christmas she would give him items from a 70-piece dinner service, and he was close to completing the set when she died.
His home, Gate Lodge, at the entrance to Clarence House from the Mall, was like a mini Victoria and Albert Museum. It was exquisitely furnished and decorated with gifts from her private collection, and many from long-standing friends of my aunt, as well as from William’s friends in the ballet and theatre world.
He was devastated by her death, which occurred on the 51st anniversary of the start of his Royal service. With other members of her personal staff, he walked behind her coffin on its journey from the Queen’s Chapel at St James’s to its lying-in-state in Westminster Hall – in attendance to the last.
One of my colleagues, approaching her 80th birthday, began to drop hints that it was about time for her to go, but before she could breathe another word her employer said: ‘Congratulations! You will find that you feel marvellous after you’re 80.’
The subject of retirement was never mentioned again. At the time, Queen Elizabeth was 98. It seemed death was the only exit and I sometimes wondered whether my aunt would see me out. She never mentioned dying, only occasionally obliquely referring to someone having ‘gone upstairs’.
An example of an intensely loyal courtier staying in post until the end was Martin Gilliat, a very brave man who had been a Colditz ¬prisoner.
He had been diagnosed with cancer, but although he was seriously ill, Queen Elizabeth threw a party in 1993 to celebrate his 80th birthday, which ended with the usual nostalgic sing-song round the piano.
Enjoying the garden: Margaret with the Queen, resplendent in her kilt, pausing for a snap during a quiet stroll around Balmoral
Afterwards, Martin carried on for more than three months, a shadow of his former sparky self but still forcing himself to work from his flat in St James’s Palace.
Finally he went into hospital and died three days later. He was much loved and I know Queen Elizabeth deeply mourned the indomitable man who had run both her official and private life for nearly 40 years.
Shortly afterwards, Lady Ruth Fermoy died of inoperable cancer and the two deaths left her bereft. Of all the Royal homes, Birkhall, on the edge of the Balmoral estate, was the one I most deeply loved. I had been going there since I was five years old.
Before Queen Elizabeth enlarged it, Birkhall was little more than a small 18th Century dower house. There were few rooms for visitors; the nursery and the sparse accommodation were filled whenever Queen Elizabeth held open house.
There was one large room in the tin-roofed annexe where,as a child, I played with Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret. The burn, the Muick, burbled away at the bottom of the steeply sloping garden and behind rose the fir-clad heights of the Coyles of Muick.
In October the birches turned bright yellow and the rowans scarlet and one could hear the stags roaring their autumnal defiance.
At Birkhall, lunch was never indoors, whatever the weather, except on Sunday, which had to be observed with some degree of formality, after attending the Kirk. Queen Elizabeth’s friends and relations all contributed to the cost of building a charming little wooden cabin beside one of her favourite pools in the River Dee.
She called it the Old Bull And Bush after a pub near Hampstead Heath, immortalised in the music-hall song Down At The Old Bull And Bush performed by Florrie Forde in the 1920s, when Queen Elizabeth was a girl. She loved the old songs and knew all the words. In another life she might have been a star of the ‘Halls’.
Dinner at Birkhall could be an uproarious affair. At the end of the meal, Queen Elizabeth would start a series of toasts. As well as ‘Hooray for ...’ with glasses held high, there was even more of ‘Down with ...’ with glasses almost disappearing beneath the table.
The toasts, combined with the simultaneous chiming of six grandfather clocks, and the community singing - Lloyd George Knew My Father was a firm favourite - made for an unforgettable evening. So, being in-waiting was not all protocol and curtseying: it was, in fact, tremendous fun.
NR
© 2011 The Esoteric Curiosa. All Rights Reserved
0 comments:
Post a Comment