A Brief History of the Private Life of Elizabeth II (25 page)

Yet Sarah somehow could not do anything right. Remarkably quickly she was being sniped at in the press for being too large, too noisy, too free-spending, too undignified. At Ascot in 1987,
photographers captured a moment of juvenile horseplay – Sarah and Diana poking, with their umbrellas, the behind of another young woman. The newspapers reacted with annoyance, calling them
‘silly, simpering girls’ and accusing them of ‘fooling about in a most childish manner’, and this image stuck. The Duchess also became infamous for the number of
expense-paid holidays she took, as well as for the fact that when her first child was born she did not even come up with a name for the girl for several weeks. For her part, Sarah found herself
bored because her husband was at sea for lengthy periods and, like Diana, she found the constant expectations that went with royal status irksome and constricting. She was to admit, years later,
that ‘I didn’t understand the rules’, but she seemed to make little attempt to learn them. Another later comment – ‘I was never cut out for Royalty’ – was
one with which few would disagree.

The creeping notion of monarchy as ‘just like the rest of us’ was seen to embarrassing effect in the case of Prince Edward. With Gordonstoun and a spell in New Zealand under his
belt, he wished to attend Cambridge University. In past generations some of his forebears, including his grandfather, had done so (Edward VII, when Prince of Wales, was sent to Oxford as well
– so as not to show favouritism), while his great uncle, later Edward VIII, was at Oxford. It was a mere formality to enrol, and the university was honoured to have them, though they tended
to be kept apart from other undergraduates and tutored privately. Prince Charles – the first Royal to
go to school, and whose parents had wanted him to be treated the
same as any other pupil – had passed into Trinity despite having results that were modest by Cambridge standards. Half a generation later, Edward only just got away with the same trick. His
enrolment at Jesus College provoked a protest from other students and objections from the faculty. He was pilloried in the satirical press, even though his tutor was subsequently to say that his
mind was impressive. It was obvious that the notion of Royalty automatically helping themselves to the best of everything would no longer be accepted by public opinion, and the mistake was not made
in the case of Prince Charles’s sons, or any of the younger Royals. It was clear that they would now have to work for, and earn, the respect that used to be automatic.

Edward’s troubles were not over. He had been sponsored through Cambridge by the Royal Marines, in which he had enlisted as an officer, with a commitment – after graduation – to
undertake its famously exacting training course. His interests by that time had crystallised, and led him in other directions. Joining in the summer of 1986, he initially did well in training, but
his doubts increased and he decided that he would ‘wrap’, to use the Corps term for requesting discharge. Apart from earning his father’s fury, he faced the prospect of having to
repay the cost of his university education. His decision to abandon the course took a great deal of courage, considering the humiliation that was heaped upon him and which he had known was coming.
The standards involved were extremely high and beyond the reach of most people. Merely trying was commendable and to fail was no shame whatever, and his reason for going was a change of mind rather
than a failure to meet demands, but because people
expect
Royalty to have an inside edge – expert guidance, endless practice, all manner of behind-the-scenes assistance – for
them seemingly to flounder in open competition suggests inadequacy indeed. The notion that they would compete on equal terms with their subjects
in classrooms, playing fields
and assault courses was one that appealed to the spirit of an egalitarian age. Sometimes it worked, as when Princess Anne gained success in equestrian events and competed in the Olympics. When
there were mistakes, misfortunes or outright failures, however, the monarchy found itself vulnerable to ridicule. Just as bad, for them, was the notion that if they did succeed at something it
could be attributed to some bending of the rules.

As members of the Family – the younger generation, at least – became more accessible through interviews, the public came to see them as increasingly ordinary. Edward continued to
court derision by taking a job as a production assistant with Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s Really Useful Theatre Company, despite the fact that he was working for a living and experiencing a closer
brush with ‘ordinary life’ than anyone in his family had known. He naturally wanted to progress to staging his own productions, and an attempt was made with the screening of
It’s a Royal Knockout
, a charity fundraising event organised by the Prince and involving his brother Andrew and sister-in-law Sarah as well as Princess Anne. It was modelled on a
highly popular television programme, but stuffed with celebrities in a manner that is now commonplace. The event was intended to be slapstick; it raised money for good causes and it was not the
Royals – who, in period dress, were team captains – that had to look and behave idiotically, running about and falling over. Nevertheless it was seen as undignified, the press did not
like it and the Prince made no friends when he lost his temper with them afterwards. The endless replaying on television of the moment he stalked out of the press conference is a particular cruelty
to a young man who had meant well and whose only crime had been a certain cockiness. In a family that lives constantly under scrutiny, youthful errors of judgement simply do not go away.

Only Princess Anne’s conduct seemed to give complete satisfaction. She was created Princess Royal by the Queen
in 1987 to acknowledge her work for charity. Whatever
the problems caused or endured by her children, Her Majesty remained officially silent. She had disapproved of her son’s television programme, but made no public comment. Lord Mountbatten had
admired the calm with which she weathered such squalls, once remarking that: ‘Most people can hide their family difficulties, but hers are always the focus of public attention.’ Where
her children are concerned she will, in any case, hear no criticism.

For them, and by extension for her, this was a painful transitional period between the privileged past and the meritocratic future.

In 1992 the BBC released a documentary called
Elizabeth R.
In the year that commemorated the 40th anniversary of her accession, it was thought worthwhile to remind the
public what Her Majesty did. This happens periodically. Because so much of her work goes on out of sight, or is too routine to merit mention, it is through this sort of vehicle with its ‘fly
on the wall’ or ‘year in the life’ approach that both a national and an international audience can see how hard she works, how varied is the round of duties she performs and
– through glimpses of her when off duty – how attractive her personality is in private. The footage had been filmed during 1990 and 1991. Viewers watched her hosting a visit by the
President of Poland, chatting easily with the Prime Minister at Balmoral, welcoming troops home from the first Gulf War, touring parts of the United Kingdom, and – a note of mild farce
– speaking on the White House lawn into a microphone that had not been adjusted after the much-taller President Bush had welcomed
her. Only her hat and glasses were
visible. She retrieved the situation when later she addressed another audience – the US Congress – by opening with the words: ‘I hope you can all see me today.’

The programme was a great success. It was notable for the mirth, the banter and the sense of fun that the Queen displayed. She looked delighted to be doing her job. There was a sense of
enjoyment, of pleasure and light-heartedness at going through the pre-arranged and formal functions that filled her days. She also showed a genuine curiosity about those who came to the Palace, a
desire to meet people whose achievements had brought them to her notice – while awaiting one visitor, she rubbed her hands with excited glee. She laughed out loud at jokes or at mild mishaps
that befell those around her. She seemed to smile more often in the course of this single programme than in four decades of public appearances.

Perhaps the most revealing glimpse was of Her Majesty attending the 1991 Derby. Here she was especially in her element, peering through binoculars with her spectacles perched on her forehead. At
one moment she rushed, like an excited schoolgirl, to the rail of the Royal Box to witness a thrilling moment (her horse came in fourth). That few seconds of footage made her seem less remote, and
more likeably human, than any Christmas broadcast she has ever delivered.

She was going to need a cheerful nature, for in the same year a bomb exploded under the house of Windsor, metaphorically if not literally. It was the publication of a book,
Diana: Her True
Story
, by the journalist Andrew Morton. At first, it had not been taken entirely seriously, and most newspapers had not wished to serialise it, assuming that its contents were speculation or
even the inventions of a ‘tabloid vulgarian’. The
Sunday Times
eventually agreed to publish parts of Morton’s work, and the revelations this offered were to make it one of
the two or three most talked-about books of the decade. People read it with horrified fascination.

Diana: Her True Story
made claims that Diana had been miserable throughout her married life, that her husband had had an affair with his long-term friend Mrs Parker
Bowles after their marriage, that she suffered from the eating disorder bulimia and that she had a tendency towards self-harm – indeed, that she had attempted suicide by throwing herself down
a flight of stairs at Sandringham. These were extraordinary allegations. The public was astonished to read such things about a woman who seemed to have everything – beauty, health, position,
attractive children and a limitless clothing budget. Millions had subscribed to the fairy-tale-come-true image of the Waleses. Could it really be such a sham?

Many people, however, were aware that husband and wife had grown increasingly separate and bitter. Diana was newsworthy where Charles was merely dutiful. She courted the media, he did not
(‘I’m not very good at being a performing monkey,’ he said). She was photographed extravagantly hugging their children; he subscribed to the view that family affection was a
private matter. Their differences in outlook and attitude were to become rallying-points once open conflict broke out.

Even if Morton was an experienced royal correspondent, however, and had access to ‘inside sources’, how could he have discovered so much that was deeply personal? And was he, in any
case, a reliable chronicler? It happened that he had, since 1990, been working on a book about Diana. This might have become just another coffee-table ornament had she not authorised others to
speak for her. Morton had – readers learned – been given extensive access to her friends, who had described her troubled life in considerable detail. Only after the Princess’s
death was it revealed that, in fact, it was she herself who had provided most of the information – the posthumous reprint of his book contained dozens of pages of tape transcripts.

By the early 1990s, Diana was in a state of armed rebellion against the Royal Family, the Court and her husband. She
wanted to get her side of the story published, and
having a journalist in her proximity provided the opportunity. Although she wished to do no damage to a throne her son would one day inherit, she wanted to exact a form of revenge on Charles and on
the Court officials she saw as personal enemies – most notably her brother-in-law, Robert Fellowes, the Queen’s Private Secretary. She resented the need to live behind a façade
of hypocritical, pretended normality, and wanted the nation to know what she really had to endure. This was to be the first volley in what would be dubbed ‘the war of the Waleses’.

The Queen was, predictably, horrified. Although it was not clear to what extent her daughter-in-law had been involved, it was rank treason to cooperate even indirectly with a book that presented
the entire Family in such a bad light. The lack of comment from the Palace – this is a standard and effective way of staying out of disputes – seemed to confirm Morton’s
allegations. In truth, there was a great deal Her Majesty had not known about the state of the marriage. The Windsors are capable of great family feeling. Their unique experience and isolation from
others can draw them together so that Christmases, for instance, are boisterous occasions. They do not, however, share their problems. During years of mounting strife and estrangement, Charles did
not inform the Queen of the full extent of his difficulties, and she did not ask. She had a strong aversion to interfering in her children’s lives. By the time he did explain the situation to
her, in 1992, it was too late.

It seemed that divorce was the likely outcome, the only solution to a marriage that had become too painful to continue. The Queen could not countenance this. Not only had she a strong personal
belief in the sanctity of marriage, but it was also unthinkable that the heir to the throne – the next Supreme Governor of the Anglican Church – should be separated and publicly
labelled as an adulterer. She contemplated the damage to the monarchy with even greater disquiet. She doubtless thought of the millions who had watched the wedding just over
a
decade earlier, and who had shown such kindness, loyalty and enthusiasm. These were Charles’s future subjects. How could they be let down so badly? How would they react? The monarchy relies
on precedent to guide its actions, but there was no precedent for this. And then, of course, there were the personal allegations about Charles that had appeared in the book. He was a highly popular
Prince of Wales. Although he lacked the flamboyance of his predecessor, the later Duke of Windsor, he was greatly liked. He was – and is – immensely conscientious. With a passionate
concern for social problems and the environment, and the means to exert influence in these areas, he has made a massive contribution to national life. His only perceived fault had been an amiable
eccentricity, reflected in a tendency to talk to plants (‘How long have you been a tulip?’ one cartoonist had him ask). Now for the first time in his life he was beginning to draw
hostility as members of the public took sides.