Daughter of Empire (23 page)

It was a relief to the hotel authorities when we moved out. In our small garden at Villa Guardamangia, Neola scampered down the paths that ran between dusty flowerbeds, in and out of the bright
geraniums, marigolds and snapdragons, and ferreted about in the bougainvillea that grew up the apricot-coloured walls of the house. He basked in the sun, as did my mother whenever she had the
chance. My parents had always been very happy in Malta, and being back seemed to give my father a renewed love of life – and speed, as he hurtled around the island in his eye-catching black
and pale blue Riley with its silver sailor mascot, or dashed out to sea on the admiral’s barge. He also began to indulge his new passion for spear fishing, acquiring compressed-air tanks and
resurfacing only when he had caught his prized
dorade
. Conscious that it would be highly irresponsible to endanger himself while underwater, he was always careful to decompress properly when
coming to the surface. When asked whether he preferred polo or scuba diving, he thought for a moment before replying, ‘Well, polo is
only
a game.’

During the day, I became a case worker for the Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen Families Association (SSAFA) and joined the office that concentrated on the domestic welfare of those men serving
overseas. We had an office in the Army Headquarters in the Castille, one of the beautiful buildings of the Knights of St John in Valletta. Nearly all my time was spent with old Mrs Bonnici, whose
son was serving in the RAF and kept bombarding his commanding officer with anxious enquiries about his eighty-year-old mother. She lived in a village at the other end of the island, and I would
drive out to see her before making my report. She was always well; regaling me with coffee and sticky cakes as we conversed in gestures and giggles. There was never anything untoward to report and
yet Airman Bonnici’s commanding officer demanded that I go again and again.

My mother was working with the St John Ambulance Brigade and the Save the Children Fund on top of her duties as the wife of the admiral commanding a cruiser squadron. She kept up an almost daily
correspondence with Panditji, but although she also had time to relax she was finding Malta parochial after her enormous responsibilities as Vicereine. At the end of 1949, she asked me to come with
her to India on her visit to inspect the Refugee Relief and Rehabilitation Committee she had set up after partition. It was wonderful to see Panditji again and the three of us visited museums and
galleries. He was so knowledgeable about his country’s past, and on that trip he brought Indian history and art alive for us. His friendship had opened my mother’s eyes to the beauty of
art, and his encouragement continued even when they were apart, for his letters to her often included snatches of poetry or long quotations from books he had read or vivid descriptions of things he
had seen. My mother seemed to flourish in his company, so happy and fulfilled in his presence.

Soon after we returned to Malta, and much to the delight of the island, Princess Elizabeth came to welcome Prince Philip back with the fleet. I went with her to watch the magnificent sight of
fifty ships coming into port, in immaculate formation, firing a twenty-one-gun salute in front of the Fort of St Elmo as the princess flew her standard. The prince and princess then came to stay
with us at Villa Guardamangia, the island so small that it was almost possible for Princess Elizabeth to live the life of a normal naval officer’s wife. We often ate at home or went out for
dinner and dancing at the Marsa, and they joined us on several family expeditions in the admiral’s barge. One evening, the princess proudly showed us the films she had taken herself of her
son Charles, who was now walking and was very sweet. And sometimes, when they wanted just to be alone, Prince Philip and his wife went out together, driving in the little Hillman, their
plainclothes police officer a discreet distance behind.

I officially came of age in Malta, turning twenty-one on 19 April. I was awoken by a strange cacophony and on closer, sleepy inspection found a group singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’
and ‘Twenty-One Today’, to the accompaniment of the C-in-C’s bandsmen, who were clearly bewildered at being made to play silly tunes at the top of Guardamangia Hill at 8 a.m. I
celebrated two days later with the princess on her twenty-fourth birthday, at the Phoenicia, complete with Scottish reels and country dances. The Dashing White Sergeant traditionally broke the ice
at the beginning of the evening and the reels allowed the other officers to pluck up the courage to ask the heir to the throne to dance. She danced extremely well and loved it. These were happy,
carefree days for the princess. When the time came for her to return to England, my mother remarked that it was like putting a little bird back in its gilded cage.

In May, my father’s term commanding the 1st Cruiser Squadron was over and we returned to Broadlands. My mother set about, with typical Mountbatten vigour, restoring the now vacated rooms
– the hospital had moved out the year before – to their former glory. I needed something to immerse myself in and, with Krishna Menon’s encouragement, intended to apply to the
office of the Indian High Commission. When the moment came, however, my father took me to one side and suggested that it would be best, diplomatically, to put a little distance between our family
and India. Churchill was still not speaking to my father for the part he had played in what Churchill called ‘giving away the jewel in her crown’. This was a disappointment to me, for
while I enjoyed my work at SSAFA – and was happy to continue – I had hoped to have official ties to India once more. The beautiful bookends that Panditji sent from Srinagar for my
birthday went a little way towards cheering me up, and I settled back into my work.

My parents felt that as I had an allowance I should not take paid work when somebody else probably needed the job far more than I did. And I felt that taking pay from SSAFA, a charity, would not
have been right. Much to my frustration, I was told that I could not work in the Onward Transmission office because only paid employees not voluntary workers staffed it. Yet this was where I felt I
could be of most use following my experience in Malta, compiling the reports on which the COs depended when considering whether to grant compassionate leave to men serving overseas. I decided to
appeal to the office chief, Colonel Batten, but he seemed immovable, keen only to get rid of me as his office had a mountain of work to get through. I asked whether he needed more help, and for a
moment he seemed to forget why I was there, and confided that his funds didn’t make that possible. Seizing my chance, I suggested he take me on as he wouldn’t have to pay me and I would
need only a typewriter, a small table and a chair. He tutted, frowned and, moustache bristling, muttered, ‘Most irregular.’ But then he agreed to a week’s trial, so I was in. And
I stayed.

Once again, Grandmama was delighted to see us on our return from a spell abroad. She was now eighty-seven and I noticed that she was beginning to slow down. She stayed with us at Broadlands all
summer, but was not always the easiest person to manage, as she certainly was not of the opinion that she had slowed down at all. One afternoon, I packed a tea basket and we set off across the long
sweep of lawn that bordered the orangery. When we turned a corner and the house vanished from sight, I steered us towards a gravel path that led to a bench from which there was a beautiful view
over the river. Grandmama had not stopped talking for a moment, constantly stopping and turning sideways to address me, which normally would have been maddening but on this occasion was a relief.
Eventually we reached the bench and she suddenly went quiet as she realised that we were only fifty yards from the house. She was so angry that she refused to have tea and insisted we return to the
house at once, ignoring the pain of her chilblained toes. She was dreadfully insulted and kept up a silent protest long into the evening.

Sadly, as the summer wore on, my grandmother declined further. Her mind was as active as ever but the appalling circulation she had suffered all her life got worse, as did the chilblains.
Playing her beloved patience became torture and life ceased to be a pleasure. When she returned to Kensington Palace she contracted severe bronchitis and fell gravely ill. Death did not come
immediately, and on several occasions she went to sleep expecting to die in the night, then was most annoyed with herself when she awoke again in the morning. Far be it from Grandmama to waste the
extra time; she used it to remind Isa that as she was going to be buried in Whippingham on the Isle of Wight, it would be very cold crossing the Solent, so Isa should be sure to wear her warm
boots.

When Grandmama died, even though we all felt that she had been ready to go, we suffered her loss most acutely. She had been a constant source of support and comfort to me, providing me with
much-needed stability during my childhood. Her lively mind, sharp wit and fascinating stories had kept me entertained throughout my life, and her manners, bearing and relentless lack of self-pity
had been an inspiration. We held a family service in the Chapel Royal, then accompanied her coffin from London to Portsmouth and on, by naval frigate, to the Isle of Wight, where we laid her to
rest beside her beloved husband.

15

M
y grandfather had been with King George V on his visit to India and my father had accompanied the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VIII, on his
tour to India, Australia and Japan. My father was therefore keen for me to continue the family tradition, and as such I was invited to go on the Commonwealth Tour with Princess Elizabeth as one of
her two ladies-in-waiting. I wasn’t happy about this. Having settled back into life in England after India and Malta, I just wanted to stay at home. But I had no choice, really, and at a
reception at Buckingham Palace, Queen Mary rather alarmingly confirmed that I was going on the tour, telling me: ‘You must remember that you will be “in waiting” and so you are to
call her “Princess Elizabeth” and “ma’am” and
never
Lilibet.’ It seemed my fate was sealed.

The princess confided that she wanted me to go with her as Philip might have a different programme from her at times and we could have a good giggle together. The palace gave me a dress
allowance so I was able to go to my mother’s couturier Worth for half a dozen or so expensive items. It was a heady experience, though the fittings for each dress and coat somewhat dampened
the fun. I was thrilled with the result for I would need to be suitably dressed for a broad range of occasions – balls, receptions, cocktail parties, garden parties – and would need
silk dresses for day wear and a couple of cotton dresses in case I got the day off, not to mention the coats, hats, shoes, handbags and gloves that were de rigueur. After the lengthy dress fittings
and nasty immunisation jabs at the Hospital for Tropical Diseases, Henriette Palmer, the lady-in-waiting who was accompanying me, came round to brief me. She told me to try to persuade people not
to give the princess puce-coloured flowers and above all to ‘mind the bookie’. As I knew nothing about racing this was most alarming. I must have looked blank as she went on to explain
that if the princess was given more than one –
bouquet
, not bookie, I realised with relief – which was usually the case, she would hand the previous one over to the
lady-in-waiting, who would often find her arms overflowing with flowers. Later, it was the lady-in-waiting’s duty to ensure that all the bouquets were sent to local hospitals.

It had been decided that the princess should undertake the Commonwealth Tour in place of her parents, as the King was not strong enough for such a long, arduous journey so soon after his recent
lung operation. His left lung had been removed following the discovery of a malignant tumour and he had been ill for some time. At the State Opening of Parliament in November 1951, his speech had
been read for him by the Lord Chancellor, and his Christmas broadcast had been recorded in small sections then edited together. Against the advice of his doctors, on a cold morning on the last day
of January 1952, the King and the Queen came to see us off at the airport. This was the first time the King had been seen in public since his operation, apparently having recovered. My parents had
been with him at Sandringham a few weeks before and thought he seemed well, but I was struck by how heartbreakingly frail he looked, the dark shadows under his eyes, his thin, white hair blowing in
the bitter wind as he waved goodbye to his daughter.