The Final Curtsey (18 page)

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 Willcock, 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 seventy-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 fifty-first 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.

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. I do now, however, allow myself breakfast in bed when I visit Balmoral
and Sandringham, my years 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 personage, 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.

I knew that my aunt hated stiff formality and that nothing pleased her more than if a Lady-in-Waiting made a mistake, or arrived in the wrong place or at the wrong time. I was able to oblige her
early in my service, when she made an early-evening visit to the British Library. My first mistake was to wear a hat — hats I later learned were only appropriate for daytime engagements
— and was ordered by Martin Gilliat to take it off and lose it. ‘No hats in the evening,’ he said. Then on the way in the car Queen Elizabeth asked me if her hair combs were
firmly 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 her head. She was angelic enough not to mind. After
quite a long time making conversation, I lost her among the crowd, forgetting the very first principle of a Lady-in-Waiting’s role — always to keep an eye on the boss. She had simply
disappeared and I was told that she had gone. I rushed from the room and down the stairs to an empty hall and a bored-looking commissionaire. I thought that this was the end of my
‘in-waiting’ career and then I heard a lift descending. Out stepped Queen Elizabeth and Martin, having been to inspect some other department on an upper floor. They hadn’t even
missed me and I resisted the temptation to say: ‘Oh! There you are.’ After that salutary experience I never again let her out of my sight.

Official engagements never started before the sun was well and truly up and 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. Therefore I have to disagree with the columnist who wrote about her thespian talents on her ninetieth birthday, saying: ‘Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother is ninety
today. No other actress need apply.’ But what she did have was 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 in Bognor, 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
star dust, 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 had a 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
politely to 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. The 9th Earl of Strathmore had married Mary Eleanor Bowes in 1767, the only child and heiress of George Bowes of Streatlam Castle, a rich
industrialist. As part of the marriage settlement, he had to take her surname, Bowes, as his own. In her youth, my aunt preferred to be known as Elizabeth Lyon. She did not, however, forsake her
north-east connection.

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 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. 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. As a matter of Royal protocol, Queen Elizabeth always 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. 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
; ‘If I Ruled 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 of these occasions, carries out a personal inspection of the tables. Well, there I was amidst 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 Sèvres or the Meissen-ware; the cutlery were 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
verte
. These lunches were jolly occasions, but there is no truth in the story that towards the 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. There were always two gentlemen of the Household in attendance to even 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.

A myth, largely media inspired, has grown that she was over-fond of drink. It was, I suppose, an almost affectionate canard, and as far as the press was concerned fitted in with the image that
she was a good old girl and a sport. All I can say is that her having a drinking habit was simply unimaginable. Her alcohol 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. 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 like
‘Dad’s Army’. She was amazingly well informed on so many subjects, from gardening, fishing, and racing, to history and European affairs, and even Persian poetry. She was eclectic
and would soak up ideas from her wide ranging circle of friends and guests; 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, she 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. He wrote an admiring poem about her on her ninety-fifth 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. She would have been pleased when, twelve years after his death he was
given a permanent memorial, in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, alongside the great names of British literature, from Chaucer, Shakespeare and Keats, to TS Eliot and WH Auden.

That year, my seventh ‘in-waiting’, did not begin well for my aunt. In January, while visiting the horses in the Sandringham stable yard, she slipped, fell and broke her left hip. I
was in the drawing room when she was brought in. She must have been in great pain, but was stoically silent sitting very upright on a chair until the local doctor Ian Campbell arrived. He confirmed
that she had broken her hip and an ambulance arrived very quickly. I went with her to the hospital at Kings Lynn, and I remember that she gave me her pearls, brooches and earrings to look after
before she was wheeled away for investigation. When I returned to Sandringham there was a lot of discussion about the best course of action. Should she go immediately to London where her own
doctors were or be treated by the Norfolk doctors? I thought that the three-hour journey to town would be nightmarish in her condition, but it was at length decided that that was the best option
for her and I’m sure that she was given a shot of a strong pain killer. The operation took place that evening and later she returned to Clarence House with a new hip to convalesce.