Daughter of Empire (31 page)

Coming up to Tower Bridge, festooned with a ‘Welcome Home’ sign, we held our breath as we passed underneath, for it seemed
impossible
that there would be room for
Britannia
’s masts. At lunch, with a twinkle in her eye, the Queen resolutely remained in her slacks while she entertained the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret, who were rather
splendidly arrayed in silks and diamonds. After lunch the Queen went below to her cabin to change. When she came back up on deck she was extra specially smart and appeared rather pleased with
herself. She saw me looking and said quietly, ‘I kept these things aside so that I would have something new to wear for our arrival in London.’ At Westminster Pier, we disembarked to a
host of dignitaries, but there was no one more important to me in that crowd than my sister, who, touchingly, was there to welcome me home. Rather thrillingly, Alice, Michael, Martin and I had to
travel through the cheering crowds to the palace behind the state landau, in a carriage drawn by four bay horses. I was bursting with pleasure and excitement – for me that carriage drive made
the relentless pace of the past six months worthwhile. We started out in solemn silence but were soon reduced to fits of giggles – as the men were sitting with their backs to the horses they
had to rely on Alice and me to warn them whenever we were approaching Colours so that they could swiftly doff their hats the moment we alerted them.

The Grand Hall of the palace was lined with gentlemen-at-arms and Yeomen of the Guard and more courtiers than I should have thought existed, and seeing tea laid out and watching everyone move
about in that stiff Buckingham Palace sort of way, it was difficult to believe I had actually just travelled around the world. I took one look at the room buzzing around me and realised that with
immediate effect I could lead a normal life again without having to attend an opening of Parliament every few days, or having to climb into a long evening dress, tiara and gloves nearly every
night. I felt an overwhelming urge to escape, so I located my luggage and fled.

Epilogue

A
fter our return to England, the next five years of my life were largely uneventful, with none of the spectacular events that I had been swept up
in before.

Of course, like any young girl of my age, I fell in and out of love – romances that were serious at the time, some even lasting a couple of years – and I received ten proposals of
marriage. However I never felt deeply enough in love to accept any of them.

At the age of twenty-eight, I experienced a period of introspection and quiet despair, which was not helped by a nasty bout of Asian flu. I thought myself to be a ‘nothing’. I wanted
to be a writer and yet I wasn’t writing anything worth reading. I even stopped writing my diary – something that I had kept up pretty much since the age of seven.

Instead I spent a considerable amount of time carrying out official engagements. I was invited to serve as patron or president of a number of local, county or national organisations including
the Royal London Society for the Blind; the Embroiderers’ Guild (inappropriate as I didn’t embroider but it proved impossible to refuse such determined ladies); the Music Circle of the
Royal Overseas League (even more inappropriate but they had a chairman who point blank refused to take no for an answer); member of the International Council of the United World Colleges (no chance
of saying no to the president, my father); and – again, coerced by my father – I became the Commandant of the Girls’ Nautical Training Corps (I felt ridiculous walking across
station concourses on my way to their events, dressed in mock admiral’s regalia). I particularly enjoyed being President of the Southampton International Youth Rally and launching HMS
Bossington
. Otherwise it was mostly single engagements such as opening the first comprehensive school in Southampton; lecturing at Women’s Institutes on subjects such as Tonga, and the
usual church fêtes. I divided my time between Broadlands and a small converted garage flat in the mews off Wilton Crescent, taking in plays, films and exhibitions when in London.

Despite all these duties, I could tell that my parents were slightly unsettled by my inability to wholeheartedly embrace public and social life and find my niche. Then, one evening, in 1959, I
went to a cocktail party in Chelsea. A man – who, as a friend later said, resembled a Greek God – came over to talk to me, monopolising me for the entire evening. I was completely
bowled over. This man was the designer David Hicks. It was an unorthodox match but one that would change my life completely. After twentynine years as the dutiful daughter of a family at the heart
of British society, with all its traditions and ceremonies, I was about to enter a completely new world – of fashion, design and the whirlwind of the 1960s. And unorthodox though the match
may have been, our marriage was to last thirty-eight years.

As we flew back from our honeymoon, a steward came over to David and whispered that we would be disembarking from the aeroplane first. Mystified, we could only assume we would need guiding
through the frenzy of waiting press – there had been an astonishing amount of interest in our engagement and wedding – though I thought it pretty extraordinary that six weeks later
there should still be even an
iota
of interest in us.

As we landed, however, and saw a crowd of newspaper reporters and photographers on the tarmac, we were sure our assumption had been correct. John was waiting for us at the bottom of the steps
and I felt grateful to my brother-in-law for coming to help navigate our way through the press. But as we left the aeroplane I could see that there was something in his demeanour that didn’t
quite match the light-heartedness of the occasion – after all we were only coming back from our honeymoon – and we were pushed rather unceremoniously by a steward into a car and driven
to a nearby VIP room.

My mother had died. On a tour of the Far East to inspect branches of St John’s Ambulance and Save the Children, after a hard day forcing herself to undertake inspections and attend a
reception while feeling dreadfully unwell, she went to bed on the point of collapse. She died in the night from a stroke. She was fifty-eight years old.

When I heard the words that John was saying they made no sense to me at all and he had to repeat them several times before I could take them in and understand their terrible meaning.

My mother had left instructions that on her death she should like to be buried at sea. Three days later, her body returned home and was sent to rest in Romsey Abbey. On Thursday, 25 February, a
grey and blustery day, my father, Patricia, John, David and I drove to Portsmouth and alongside Prince Philip and his mother we boarded the frigate HMS
Wakeful
. My sister and I were numb but
Aunt Alice, as ever, was intensely emotional. About twelve miles out to sea, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Geoffrey Fisher, led prayers as my mother’s coffin, draped with a Union Jack,
slipped into the sea to the sound of twelve bosun pipes, and finally the Last Post and Reveille. My father, wearing his uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, stood with tears streaming down his face,
staring at the spot where the coffin had disappeared. It was the only time I had ever seen him weep. He then kissed his wreath before throwing it out to sea. Prince Philip, Patricia and I cast ours
into the water and I clung to David for the comfort I now needed so badly.

Waiting a respectful distance away was the Indian frigate INS
Trishal
, and as we steamed away she took our place and, on Panditji’s instructions, marigolds were scattered upon the
waves.

Acknowledgements

M
y loving thanks to my daughter, India, for her constant encouragement and criticism and to my son, Ashley, who gave me the title, although I
suspect he meant it as a joke.

I am grateful to my sister, Patricia Mountbatten, for helping me with memories of our childhood. And to Anne Bradstock for memories of our school days, and to Jaya Thadani for memories of
India.

A sincere thank-you to Gillian Stern for her work in bringing the book into shape and making it readable. And to Kate Oldfield and Eugenie Furniss and my editor, Kirsty Dunseath, for her
patience.

Picture Credits