Shadows of a Princess. Patrick Jephson

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      Later, I came to know Harold Brown well and grew to admire his professionalism. At home and abroad, he quietly bore the hundreds of little stresses that came with dealing with his royal employers at their less attractive moments. His gift as a mimic had me crying tears of laughter into my whisky on many foreign tours. That afternoon, however, he was every inch the guardian of his master’s privacy and impassively allowed me to follow him to the Equerries’ Room where I was to await the royal summons.

      Like so much of the apartment, although undeniably comfortable and well appointed, the Equerries’ Room was dark. Clever effects had been achieved with concealed lighting, pastel colourings and flowers, but the over-riding impression was one of pervasive gloom.

      Two people were already there – the Princess’s lady-in-waiting, Anne Beckwith-Smith, and her current equerry, Richard Aylard. They were there to examine me as a possible recruit to their exclusive way of life. During the last few days they had been examining five others as well, of course, so they were understandably distant, if polite.

      I was polite too – this was surely part of the selection process – and determined, like the butler, to look unimpressed. But I did need to go to the loo. Badly.

      Groping in the semi-gloom of the cloakroom, I became the latest visitor to fumble for the trick light switch on a fiendish trompe l’oeil before finding the real switch on the wall behind me. The humour continued on the other walls, where original cartoons celebrated the Prince of Wales’s talent for self-deprecation. Other pictures showed the Prince and Princess in mostly military group shots, and the image of country-house-style domestic harmony was completed with some equestrian prints. Looking more closely, however, I could not help noticing that even the most recent photograph must have been at least five years old and all the cartoons featured a distinctly bachelor Prince.

      Of course I had read the tabloid rumours about the marriage – there had recently been a furore about a visit to a badly flooded area of Wales, when the couple’s visible estrangement had been more of a story than the floods themselves. Like practically everyone else in the wardroom, I had also tittered over Sylvie Krin’s imaginatively romanticized reports in Private Eye. But nobody really knew what was happening. Everybody just assumed that, whatever their private difficulties, the Prince and Princess would stoically maintain the outward unity that was expected of them.

      Although schooled by my upbringing to view the monarchy with reverence – and still very much in awe of my surroundings – I already felt an inkling of critical detachment. Later, it was this ability to put some distance between myself and the job that helped keep me sane. Having no strong English ‘county’ background made this easier, I thought. So did the years I had spent living in the Irish Republic. Nevertheless, I happily accepted that if I was to become even a temporary member of the courtiers’ charmed circle I had to accept that royal people by definition exercise a supreme authority. It was an article of faith.

      This was obviously a historical anachronism, but I rather liked that. Anyway, I felt quite sure that somewhere wise heads must long ago have worked out the answer to a nagging question. How, I wondered, would I reconcile that historical anachronism with the harsh realities of a world which did not swallow articles of faith quite as readily as it had in more deferential times? Perhaps, from my seat on the sidelines, I would learn how it was done.

      Without apparent warning, we were on the move. Following the impassive butler up KP’s broad staircase – a steep hill of lime green with pink fleurs-de-lis – our conversation seemed suddenly too loud. As we approached the summit our voices fell to the self-conscious level you might hear in a church or a ward for the gravely ill. We were led into the drawing room, blinking against the sudden bright sunshine. In the glare I registered the room only as an overexposed negative. Impressions of family photographs, great art and pastel fabrics swam at me against the light. Conversation dwindled to nothing as we stood and fidgeted.

      Suddenly a door at the far end of the room opened and the Princess of Wales entered at speed. Squinting horribly against the sun, I prepared to make my bow while trying desperately to see if she was even looking in my direction.

      She was. I had seen the blue-eyed gaze in photographs, of course, and it lost none of its unsettling power at close range. When I looked again, though, I saw the gaze was tempered by an undeniable friendliness mixed with frank appraisal. In my peripheral vision I noticed some incidental details. She was wearing a cream cotton suit that set off her tan nicely. A bit too many rays on the chest, I thought absently, noticing a rosy tint to the even golden appearance. No jewellery.

      Her handshake was cool and firm, my bow instinctive. In the distance somebody was introducing me. ‘It’s good of you to come all this way, Jeph,’ said the Princess. Even as I realized she had only misheard the introduction, I thought how nice it was that she used an old family nickname. As I was to learn, she seemed to have a knack for attracting such happy coincidences.

      We went through to the dining room for lunch, and the same sun that had dazzled me in the drawing room bathed our small round table in a golden light. The Princess sat on my left, while Anne and Richard arranged themselves in the other seats. I took stock of my surroundings, trying not to goggle too obviously.

      The KP dining room was tall and square, furnished with antiques and softened with pink and peach pastel fabrics. A complicated flower arrangement seemed to burst out of the middle of the table. Silver and crystal sparkled against the crisp whiteness of the napkins. Portraits from the Royal Collection looked down at the scene and I was just practising meeting their regal gaze unblinkingly when a voice on my left diverted my attention to the real thing.

      ‘I hope you like chicken,’ said the Princess. ‘I’m afraid we seem to have it all the time.’ This was true, I discovered later. At the time I was only aware that, for all I cared, I might have been eating the royal underfelt that no doubt lay beneath the deep-pile carpet. There were tiny potatoes and salad with the chicken, and white wine. I watched the Princess covertly for signs of an eating disorder, even though I had no idea what those signs might be. She seemed to eat like anybody else, and drank the wine too.

      I now realized that the energetic flurry of our introduction was an affectation. As she probably intended, her breezy bonhomie blew away our nervousness. It also seemed to dispel an air of preoccupation that had hung about her as she entered the room. In later years I came to recognize the technique, which she often used to shrug off – however temporarily – the cares that beset her.

      It was time to practise my small talk. ‘Are you looking forward to going to Germany, Ma’am?’ I had done some research and knew that she and the Prince were due to go on a tour the following week.

      She nodded, but without much enthusiasm. ‘It’s an outing for my husband really,’ she said. (It was strange to hear him described like that, and it was the same when I first heard her mention ‘my mother-in-law’ or ‘Granny’.) ‘He gets a chance to meet his old rellies. Half the royal family’s German!’ She giggled. Later, when she was in trouble for buying a German rather than a British sports car, she joked, ‘Well, I’ve got a German husband, why can’t I have a German car?’

      For me this was daring stuff. ‘Better be careful,’ I said. ‘Don’t mention the war.’

      She laughed again – not because she recognized my Basil Fawlty quote but because she recognized that I had been trying to tell a joke. She laughed as a reflex, whether she understood it or not. Later I learned that she would laugh at anything. Sometimes I thought you could read her the phone book in a funny voice, then look at her expectantly, and she would laugh. She was that desperate to be happy. Happy people laugh a lot, so she would laugh whenever she could – and often when she should not.

      This made her a quick СКАЧАТЬ