On Duty With the Queen: My Time as a Buckingham Palace Press Secretary (16 page)

‘Goodbye Ma’am…and thank you.’

I bowed from the neck, and left the Chapel.

Not being able to count on how the public would react, anxieties intensified as we anticipated the arrival back in London of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh.

The Mall is normally closed to traffic on Sundays, and early on the day of the Princess’s death, the Royal Parks Police had already made the decision that it would remain closed for the duration of the week, culminating with the funeral. It was now beginning to fill up with people, another cause for concern.

Crowds had been milling about Buckingham Palace, The Mall and St James’s Palace all week, but now there was a sense that they were no longer returning home. There were even signs that some intended to camp out all night in order to secure a prime spot along the processional route.

In the short term, however, many of those hardened individuals would have a chance at an up-close view of their sovereign. We could only hope that they would remain friendly.

The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh had left Buckingham Palace for the Chapel Royal by mid-afternoon. The plan was that they would pay their respects to Diana, and then proceed through the Long Corridor at St James’s Palace to meet with members of the public signing the condolence books. There would then be a short walkabout along Marlborough Road to The Mall, and finally the brief drive to Buckingham Palace.

I arrived at St James’s Palace ahead of the Queen and Prince Philip in order to be on hand if needed. I knew the next hour would perhaps be one of Her Majesty’s most difficult, given the element of public anger in recent days, partially induced by the media.

We in the press office believed that the situation could have been helped enormously if only the flag issue
had been addressed sooner, and if there had at least been some sort of public confirmation that Her Majesty would be paying tribute to the Princess on the eve of the funeral.

Our only hope was that the next 20 hours or so would provide a platform whereby we could repair some of the damage. Whatever the rights or wrongs of the situation, Her Majesty had to go out in public and face a potentially antagonistic crowd, and so at the moment, my concern was solely focused on my boss.

I arrived at St James’s Palace to find that the police seemed to share my concerns, although I felt they had somewhat overreacted. I saw no way for the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh to interact with the public from behind the wall of uniformed policemen and police-women that had been put in place.

While Her Majesty and the Duke were inside the Chapel Royal, I went and spoke to the senior officer. He agreed that their numbers were over the top, and many of the police personnel were withdrawn.

The couple eventually emerged and spent 20 minutes completing the short walk from St James’s Palace to The Mall (a distance of no more than 160 feet), as they spoke with people who’d come to pay their respects.

So far, all was going to plan. I had stood alongside Her Majesty throughout the walk, with the Duke of Edinburgh, as usual, a few paces behind. I was relieved that the Queen had been mostly met with smiles and respectfully muted applause.

Once she and the Duke had got back into the royal car,
I jumped inside the police back-up vehicle so that I could meet up with them once again at Buckingham Palace.

The car stopped just inside the North Centre Gate. Her Majesty stepped out to a ripple of polite applause from the large crowd. We had already set up barriers, so that the Queen and Prince Philip could view the floral tributes and again speak to the mourners.

I hurried across to join them, briefing the Queen as we walked, letting her know what had been happening in her absence, and informing her that the flowers had begun to appear at the railings as early as five o’clock on the morning of the Princess’s death.

Her Majesty and the Duke moved easily before the crowd, talking to individuals and listening to their words of condolence. At one point the Queen offered to place some flowers atop the drift of bouquets for an 11-year-old girl only to be told, ‘No Your Majesty…these are for
you
.’ I was happy to see Her Majesty on the receiving end of such a warm gesture.

Clearly the media had not read all the signs correctly. Contrary to reports, the great British public wasn’t as hostile towards the Monarchy as we’d been made to believe.

It is my belief that people had finally taken time to think about why the Queen had chosen to remain at Balmoral. Perhaps they’d also taken into consideration what the young Princes had been able to do the previous afternoon. There was no doubt in my mind that those boys had been able to steel themselves for the task at hand largely because of that crucial time spent with their grandparents, away from public scrutiny.

As we neared the car, the Queen turned to me and we had a brief conversation about her appearance outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. I had been in her proximity for a good number of years by this stage, so it would have taken a lot for her to surprise me…and yet our small conversation did. My response was straightforward: ‘That was fine, Your Majesty, Just fine.’ I bowed from the neck and she disappeared into the car.

I returned to my office with the Queen’s words still ringing in my ears, but I kept them to myself. That I had been inspired by my boss of nine years went without saying, but at that moment I was reminded of just how inspirational a person the Queen is. Yes, one can dwell on the twin buzzwords of wealth and privilege, but it seems to me that to do so is to draw attention away from another word – duty.

With the unfailing support of her husband, she continues to perform her duties in service to her country with meritable grace, living by her mother’s mantra:
Never complain, never explain.

That day in particular she exhibited a remarkable sense of self that seemed to insulate her from the slingshots aimed at her, at members of her family and at the institution of Monarchy itself.

That the Queen had said those few words to me spoke volumes, and realizing that she had sought my support, however small, moved me greatly. I will never forget it, and I was glad to have been able to reassure her…because it
was
fine.

W
ith the soft afternoon sunshine falling on the crowds milling below, and the rumble of quiet conversation setting exactly the right scene, the Queen’s live tribute to Diana went out at 6pm as planned. Her Majesty spoke fluently and eloquently, and as we watched, along with the rest of the nation, we all heaved a mental sigh of relief. The Sovereign had spoken to her people, and all was as it should be.

With everything else in place that evening, we needed only to transfer the Princess from the Chapel Royal to Kensington Palace. It had been decided that the casket should be placed in a quiet vestibule between the entrance hall and the stairwell, where Reverend Willie Booth, sub-dean of the Chapel Royal and the only full-time member of the Queen’s ecclesiastical household, was going to keep an all-night vigil with the Princess.

Prior to that, however, the casket had to be transported.

The police were keen to keep the exact departure time a secret. They had decided not to erect crash barriers,
believing that to do so would only encourage more spectators, not to mention involve a great deal of extra manpower and disruption to traffic. Instead they opted to rely on their Special Escort Group to oversee the transfer. It would be impossible to keep the move completely under wraps; the media had already been told that the gun carriage would be departing for the Abbey the following morning from Kensington Palace rather than the Chapel Royal, but the goal was to cause as minimal disruption as possible.

With such a large media presence in the area, and an unparalleled number of cameras already in position, there was never going to be much chance of making the final move to Kensington Palace without it being carried live across all the UK and global news networks.

The broadcasters were duly diligent. They had kept a steady watch on St James’s Palace, so as the great doors swung open and the hearse appeared, the cameras were rolling to document Diana’s journey to spend a final night in the apartment that she had called home since 1981.

The police effort to keep the move as covert an operation as possible proved futile. Having expected the transfer, thousands of spectators lined the route from Piccadilly to the entrance of Kensington Palace Avenue to silently pay their respects as the hearse made its slow progress to the Princess’s home – a journey of just over two miles. The only other expression of public sentiment that evening was the occasional single flower thrown in the path of the hearse.

In terms of professional responsibilities, my day was almost done. Once the Princess’s casket had arrived inside Kensington Palace, I made a final pass around all of the broadcasters to check that nobody had any last minute glitches and to let them know that my pager would be beside me if they had any emergencies, whatever the hour. The following day would see a broadcast event the likes of which had never been witnessed before, and given the limited amount of time we’d had to organise and stage it, it seemed almost impossible that it could go without a hitch.

With my former principal resting just across the private lawn, I felt a sense of calm overtake me as I climbed into bed. My pager remained silent throughout the night.

The morning of the funeral dawned dry and warm, with the sun rising into clear blue skies. It was going to be another hot day. Roads were closed off early in order to give the police time to canvas the route, and as I had made a conscious decision to leave my car at home, I made my way to Kensington High Street underground station around 6am, to catch an already crowded tube to Victoria.

From there it was just a short walk to Buckingham Palace, and an early start to what I knew would be a very long day. I arrived at 6:30am, determined to be ahead of the game and pre-empt any potential problems. I went straight to the media camp behind Canada Gate to ensure that all was well with the various broadcasters, who were
already on air. Like the rest of us, they knew that today of all days there was no room for error. Apart from one minor panic over a pool camera that the police suddenly wanted resituated, all was calm and orderly as the clock ticked towards 9:08am – the time at which Diana, Princess of Wales would begin the first part of her final journey.

I don’t think anyone who was there, or who watched the coverage on television, will forget the poignancy and intensity of what they witnessed that morning: the mournful clang of the Abbey bell reverberating across London as it marked each sorrowful minute of the Princess’s journey to Westminster Abbey, the sound of the gun carriage’s wheels, the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, the click of hobnail boots striking the tarred road as the cortege wended its slow and solemn way through the streets. Nor will they forget the sight of the Royal Standard-draped casket, topped with three all-white wreaths of lilies, roses and tulips from the Spencer family. Also atop the casket was perhaps the most moving televisual sight of the day – the wreath from William and Harry. Placed on it was a card that would set the emotional tone for the rest of the coverage. It simply – and so very sadly – read
Mummy
.

Like millions of others, my colleagues and I in the press office watched the procession on television. I stayed until 10:10am, then walked out of Buckingham Palace’s North Centre Gates, as the Queen and other members of the Royal Family left through the Privy Purse door, bound for the North Gate, where they would wait for the gun carriage to pass before making their way to the Abbey.

As I took up my own position by the North Centre
Gates, I saw something I had never seen before. Someone had tied a huge banner to the Palace railings, which simply proclaimed ‘Diana of Love’. It seemed to sum up the moment, the day and the public sentiment. There was no question of anyone removing it.

As the cortege drew level, my gaze happened to be on the Queen, whom I saw respectfully bow her head as it passed. I hoped the cameras had caught the symbolic gesture. The air hung with sadness. There was scarcely a sound save for that which came from the cortege itself, the occasional sob from an overcome member of the public, and the tolling of the minute-bell from Westminster Abbey. Even the birds had stopped singing, as if they too understood that Saturday, 6
^th
September 1997 was a solemn day.

Suddenly, hidden somewhere within the throngs of spectators, a lone piper began to play. The song was ‘Flowers of the Forest’, a haunting Scottish folk tune, which is only ever played at funerals and memorial services. It is a piece that invariably sends shivers down my spine, and nevermore so as on that day. Like the tens of thousands around me, I had to fight to hold back tears.

Halfway down The Mall, at its junction with Marlborough Road, the five male members of the family awaited the cortege in order to walk behind it for the remainder of the journey to Westminster Abbey. The Prince of Wales stood with his brow deeply furrowed. Next to him, pale and struggling to come to terms with the day, was his youngest son, Prince Harry. Earl Spencer, head bowed in respect, reached out his left hand to
support his nephew. To his right, his other nephew, Prince William, also stood with head lowered in readiness for the coming ordeal. Flanking William was his grandfather, Prince Philip.

As the gun carriage came abreast of the walking male members of the family, the four royal princes bowed their heads. Diana’s brother looked straight ahead and crossed himself. They then joined the cortege, lining up behind the gun carriage, the five of them now principal mourners ahead of the 500 representing the Princess’s charities.

Watching the men and boys take their place, there was no question in my mind that the Duke of Edinburgh was central to their standing there. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the love and support of both their grandparents, I wonder if the young Princes would have been able to find the strength to take part in such a public – and some might argue – intrusive part of the ceremony. Yet they did, with the eyes and ears of the world following their every move. At times, it was almost too difficult to watch, but I know their mother would have been extremely proud.

There has never been a funeral like that of Diana, Princess of Wales. There were in excess of a million people lining the cortege route from Kensington Palace to Westminster Abbey, and then on to Althorp. The giant screen in Hyde Park allowed for more than 100,000 people to watch the events unfold, and loudspeakers placed along the route offered spectators the opportunity to hear – and participate with – the service.

The proceedings went out live, and were beamed worldwide to an audience estimated at 2.5 billion people
speaking 44 languages in 200 countries. In the UK alone, the television audience numbered an unprecedented 33 million.

Depending on your viewpoint, there were also tensions that day. At the time of her death, the Princess’s relationship with her brother had noticeably cooled. It wasn’t for us to speculate about the details, but it was later widely reported that there were disagreements about the Althorp Estate between the Princess and her brother, and with nowhere to go other than her apartment at Kensington Palace, the Princess was very aggrieved by this.

No reference to this was evident on this day, however. On the contrary, Earl Spencer made a scathing – and now famous – verbal attack on both the media and, very pointedly, the Royal Family, in his address during the funeral service.

Paying tribute to the sister with whom he had so recently been at odds in life, he now called Diana ‘a symbol of selfless humanity’ and a ‘standard bearer of the rights of the downtrodden.’ He went on to add that, ‘she needed no royal title to generate her brand of magic’ – a clear reference to the withdrawal of her title ‘Her Royal Highness’ at the time of her divorce from the Prince of Wales the previous year.

The impassioned speech elicited a ripple of applause among the crowds listening outside the Abbey, which soon increased in volume and intensity. Before long it could be heard far and wide, not least by the congregation inside the Abbey. The majority of us watching
and listening in the press office were appalled. Personally, I felt the speech had been outrageous. Yes, by all means grieve; certainly feel aggrieved at the manner and timing of your sister’s death. That would be perfectly understandable. But to do so in a church, at a solemn service, felt unforgiveable on many fronts. It was neither the time nor the place for such action, especially given that Diana’s children were present.

The Princess was placed in a hearse for the journey to her childhood home at Althorp and followed by a suite car carrying the deputy comptroller of the Lord Chamberlain’s Office. Although the entire route had been officially closed to traffic, the police needn’t have bothered. No-one was driving anywhere that day. At Hyde Park Corner, seven black-clad Special Escort Group (SEG) police motorcyclists took up their positions to guide the hearse on its long drive – three in ‘V’ formation in the front, and two either side of the hearse.

Tens of thousands of people lined the route as the sad cavalcade made its slow progress through the streets of London, north to the M1, and on to Althorp, for a private interment on a small island in the middle of the lake there. It was a distance of 77 miles, but onlookers flanked every possible inch of it, many of them throwing flowers towards the vehicle. Due to the disruption that throngs of visitors would likely cause, the family had decided against interring Diana in the family vault at Great Brington.

Along with my colleagues, I watched the trip in its entirety on television in the Buckingham Palace press
office, ready to deal with any problem that might require our intervention. I was struck by how the driver had to keep using his windscreen wipers to clear away the flowers. If there had been any doubt in life, it was very apparent in death, that the British public was united in its love for Diana.

I marveled at the outpouring of love and respect, and hoped the Princes would draw comfort from the great show of support from every direction. As she had hoped, she truly had become the ‘Queen of People’s Hearts’. I’d also like to believe that it was their way of making sure she wasn’t alone for her passage home.

Althorp’s wrought-iron gates closed behind Diana at 5:30pm that Saturday afternoon, thus ending the journey to her final resting place. The irony of the location wasn’t lost on me. The place she had so desperately wanted to call home while alive was now hers in death.

My own day, which for all practical purposes had begun a whole week earlier, on August 31
^st
, was now done.

Many people had strong opinions about Diana, Princess of Wales. I don’t doubt there are many who still do. But as someone who knew her well, the one tag I never really felt summed her up as a person, was that which the Prime Minister Tony Blair gave her – the ‘People’s Princess.’ Yes, she was the Princess in people’s hearts that she had always aspired to be. But at the same time, she was very much her own person. She was a one-off, and however many column inches are written about her, history will decide how she should be remembered.

I felt deeply saddened by her death, but I knew we
had served her well. The team at Buckingham Palace, the private secretary’s office, the Lord Chamberlain’s office and the press office, achieved in six days what many had thought might well be impossible, and we did it with the dignity and precision that one expects from the Palace. I was proud to have been part of that team.

I had known Diana for 17 years, first as a young woman in her late teens bursting onto centre stage in 1980, then as a fully-fledged member of the Royal Family, doing her share of duties with professionalism and flair.

I had reported her movements for eight years as Court Correspondent for IRN, and then handled her media-related affairs at Buckingham Palace.

During her 16 years as a member of the Royal Family, she undertook some wonderful work, putting a definitive lid on the myths surrounding diseases like leprosy and AIDS, as well as drawing attention to those who had been so often overlooked – the homeless, drug and alcohol addicts, the victims of land mines and so many others for whom life had dealt a hard blow.