Daughter of Empire (29 page)

W
e spent four days at sea sailing to Sydney. I needed the time to recharge my batteries, for there were going to be as many people in Sydney as
there had been in total during the whole month in New Zealand. Our entry into Sydney harbour was unforgettable. It was a glorious day, and the sight of this fantastic harbour with its 150 miles of
shoreline was breathtaking. The whole place was alive with small boats, motorboats, speedboats, sailing boats and ferries festooned with people, and so top-heavy on the side nearest
Gothic
that it seemed preposterous they did not sink. In addition, careering through the tangle, speedboats towed waterskiers in open defiance of the sharks and the more imminent danger of being mown down
by other boats, as were the canoeists who had ventured out. In addition to the inevitable church bells and cheering, the sound of the ships’ hooters and sirens was deafening. Indeed, sirens
hooting in warning were indistinguishable from the hoots of jubilation, and we watched a number of collisions occur.

Eventually, we piled into the procession of cars for the royal progress through the city. In each state visit in Australia we were to have 96 cars with 114 army drivers. After New Zealand it
seemed strange to be in an enormous cosmopolitan city with tall buildings and wide streets. There was a tumultuous welcome from the crowds as a shower of streamers, rose petals and confetti was
thrown down from the roofs and windows or straight into the cars by those in the crowd who were near enough. The city was wonderfully decorated, with endless varieties of triumphal arches,
including arches made to look like giant crossed boomerangs and even one immense, slowly rotating sham tree trunk.

We plunged headlong into the usual schedule of receptions, inspections, dinners and drive-throughs. We had all become used to people throwing bunches of flowers into the Queen’s open car,
but in Sydney a new danger presented itself when the overexcited crowd started to throw small flags. The sticks came hurtling in at such speed that they hurt the Queen and we were convinced she was
going to be blinded. Sydney was abuzz with our visit and we were amused to see women run out of hairdressers’ with their hair in pins and nets, the cotton wool that had been protecting their
ears from the dryers still in place. We saw men come tumbling out of pubs five minutes before closing time as we drove by, and we were told that this was considered by the authorities to be the
greatest triumph of the royal tour. One night we passed a drunk clinging to a lamp-post. Prince Philip waved to him and nearly died laughing at the man’s agonised expression as he tried to
make up his mind whether to wave back or keep his hands safely in place.

As my job demanded, I was very much in the background. In fact so much so that at the Lord Mayor’s Ball I was asked to dance, and when I returned to the dais, instead of pushing and
shoving my way back, I asked a dignified-looking gentleman if he minded if I passed in front of him. Glaring at me in fury he said: ‘I most certainly would, young lady. You haven’t a
hope in hell of queue-barging here.’ I did attract some attention along the way, however. In New Zealand a man had appeared running next to the car shouting for me, as I sat beside the Queen
driving to a women’s lunch, and she asked me who my friend was. Then Johnny returned one evening to report the sighting of a man sitting forlornly on the dais where the civic welcome had
taken place earlier. He was muttering disconsolately to himself, and when Johnny drew near he could hear what the man was saying. ‘Where’s Pamela? Why didn’t she come? Oh, Pamela,
I love you so much.
Why
didn’t you come?’

I had been invited by the Osborne family – I had met two of the sons earlier in the tour – to visit their old homestead in Currandooley outside Canberra and rather hoped to take up
the offer. As it was Alice’s turn for duty that Sunday I didn’t think it would matter if I missed church and set off for the sheep station. I had invited Johnny to come with me and we
were just getting into the car when Michael sent for him. He came back gloomy, reporting that Michael and Martin insisted we go to church. As the sheep station was thirty miles away, the prospect
of this delay completely wrecked our plans for the day. Feeling exactly as though I were back at school, I dashed upstairs and found Michael and Martin sitting at their desks in their morning coats
and top hats, their faces like thunder. I received a tremendous lecture about setting the public a good example when one is in the royal entourage and a stern reminder that everyone at Sandringham
and Balmoral always went to church. I protested, arguing that if all ten of us turned up in Canberra’s tiny church we would displace the locals, who longed for the opportunity to worship with
the Queen. The secretaries were apoplectic: ‘Well, then you had better go and tell the archdeacon that you are dead.’ I protested that the whole point was that I was not dead, intending
to be seen very much alive at Currandooley. They told me to ‘fix it with the archdeacon, then’, which of course was their mistake, as I rushed off and spoke to a delighted archdeacon
– my space for one of his favourite parishioners – who then thanked me profusely. And so I went off to Currandooley feeling smug and guilty by turns, leaving the others fuming and
Johnny being meekly led off to church. Alice couldn’t resist telling the Queen immediately after the service that I had ‘got the better of the private secretaries’. So strong was
the school atmosphere that my small victory was considered a major triumph. Thankfully the sheep station was worth it: stunning countryside, overlooking a lake, and as we rode white cockatoos flew
out of the trees with angry squawks, which reminded me of Michael and Martin.

In Sydney we attended a garden party for eight thousand people at Government House. As usual, several minutes before the Queen and Prince Philip were scheduled to emerge to greet the guests, the
equerry and I went to stand outside the bedrooms so that the second they emerged we would form a little procession. The Queen was always punctual, but this time we waited and waited. No one came to
tell us why there was a delay and no one had the faintest idea as to what was causing it. But as soon as the Queen came out of her bedroom, I could see why. She looked fantastic, and very different
from usual. Instead of the customary Norman Hartnell tight waist and full skirt, she was wearing a sophisticated, pencil-slim white lace dress designed by Hardy Amies. The new look was completed by
a black cartwheel picture hat with a transparent brim around which lay four brightly coloured feathers. Apparently the delay was caused by the milliner, Aage Thaarup’s, large label, which had
been clearly visible and was tricky for Bobo to remove. When the Queen appeared on the terrace there was an audible gasp from the assembled guests. The Australian fashion correspondents were
completely beside themselves and went into a frenzy.

Unusually, I was looking forward to this garden party because my father had written to inform me that Grandpapa’s former orderly on board
The Implacable
, back in the early 1900s,
was now living in Sydney and had been invited to the garden party. I had made valiant attempts to arrange for him to be presented to Prince Philip, Grandpapa’s other grandchild, but been
warned by the private secretaries – too professional to bear me any sheep-station grudge – that the list of essential people was already far too long, but they would do their best. When
I found out afterwards that Mr Wallace Bevan had not been presented, I wrote to him saying how sorry I was and that I regretted very much not having had a chance to meet him myself. A few days
later I received an enchanting reply in which he explained that he and his wife had been introduced to the Queen and in shaking hands had seen me standing just behind her – ‘in fact we
could have touched you when you passed along,’ he wrote. ‘I just did not like to worry the officials who were conducting her Majesty.’ He then described my grandfather as
‘the most loveable man I have ever met and so understanding. Everyone in
The Implacable
was very fond of him. Of course I had more to do with him than any of the other crew as I was
his special Staff Orderly. I was also very much attached to the whole family and I used to escort the family when they went ashore. I had a very special pleasing duty in caring for your father.
When he went ashore I carried him most of the time. I also used to carry him up and down the gangway and often took the liberty of taking him forward so the lads could have a look at him. I think
he used to enjoy it as young as he was he generally had a very nice broad grin if the boys spoke to him. Oh well, I suppose it would be a bit of a struggle for me now if I had to carry him around.
I think he is even taller than his father was and must be fairly heavy.’ His sentiments were very touching, and I could tell that the glamour of meeting the Queen was nothing compared to
meeting the grandchildren of his beloved captain.

From Sydney we travelled to Tasmania, and from there set sail for Melbourne. We had been told that this city was contemptuous of Sydney’s ‘Americanism’ and that we would find
the crowds more restrained and courteous, quite unlike the ‘dreadful rowdy Sydney crowds’. We watched with interest as they tried hard to be reserved but their initial limp waving and
embarrassed silence soon gave way to excited cheering that was equal to that in Sydney. We were grateful, however, that they clutched their flags more tightly and didn’t try to wriggle under
barriers. There was also the occasional very Australian cry of ‘Good on you, Liz!’ and any number of uninhibited ‘Good on you, Phil’s. Sometimes there was even a ‘Good
on you, Pam!’ and that made me feel pretty special.

At the beginning of March we took the royal train through Victoria, where some of the towns were in the grip of an outbreak of polio. The Queen and Prince Philip weren’t able to leave the
train, instead standing on the observation deck while the speeches were made. On the way back to Melbourne, we all realised how exhausted we were. As the royal couple sat on the observation deck,
waiting for the crowds to disperse, I went to see whether they wanted a drink. I found them sitting forlornly on two golden thrones, a brilliant light shining on them in stark contrast to the pitch
darkness all around. They were depressing each other by saying how ghastly the programme in Ceylon was going to be and they refused to be cheered up. But I reflected that it was a good sign they
could at least see themselves surviving Australia. The strain of the tour was showing – Philip had recently told me that several times in the night he had woken up to find himself very cold,
with his right arm outside the bedclothes, and realised that he had been waving to the crowds in his sleep.

In Brisbane, in the strange heat of the tropics, attending the state reception at Parliament House, we found ourselves in a curious manoeuvre known as ‘perambulations’. Our party
formed itself into a long crocodile and we proceeded to wend our way through all the corridors and rooms and along the balconies running round the outside of the building. After completing the
somewhat lengthy tour, we found ourselves once more in the chamber, which was still packed with people. Bewilderingly, we then set out again on a second expedition round the buildings, and by the
time we had passed through the chamber yet again and were on our third tour I developed the most appalling giggles. Our programme had told us: ‘Perambulations will terminate in the
Parliamentary Billiard Room where certain distinguished personages will have assembled for supper’. By the time we eventually turned up in the Billiard Room, however, the distinguished
personages had obviously abandoned all hope of us ever arriving. The room was thronged with tailcoats, local uniforms and church dignitaries who were all guzzling ice creams, and our entry passed
completely unnoticed. It felt as though we had been doing a sort of stately conga and had come into a room in which the last of the musical chairs had been bagged.

The Queen had decided at the beginning of the tour that, even though she loved a good whirl, dancing would be out of the question. She reasoned that if she did dance she would be devoting a
considerable amount of time to one man, whereas if she stuck to talking, she would be able to have a few words with a large number. The good people of Brisbane were distraught, however, heartbroken
that she had made this decision, and wherever we went we were surrounded by people asking why the Queen wouldn’t dance. ‘We don’t expect her to dance with us,’ they said,
‘but why doesn’t she dance with the Duke of Edinburgh? It would be so wonderful to see them dance together.’ It was funny what people wanted and how they perceived the Queen. In
Sydney someone had said to me, ‘I’ve seen her several times but always sitting in a car. She looked wonderful but it doesn’t really count, does it? I mean, it’s just like
seeing her in a picture. I’ve simply got to see her
walking
.’ When I repeated this to Prince Philip he had told me that as a young cadet at Dartmouth he saw King George V drive
by and had been surprised that the King’s face was not flat, like the postage stamps.

I achieved some notoriety of my own while we were in Brisbane. Having been told about the St Lucia Water-Ski Club on the river at Brisbane – one of the few shark-free spots, I was informed
– I went along at the first opportunity. It was wonderful to be back on the water, alive to the physical exertions of the sport, but being out of practice I suffered some spectacular crashes,
and by lunchtime I did not have the strength to climb out of the water on to the low diving board we were using as a pier. As if these humiliations weren’t enough, the next edition of the
Brisbane Telegraph
carried a full front-page picture of the tip of my ski and a length of my outstretched arm appearing just above the water. It seemed a rather ignominious way to hit the
front pages for the first time, and to make matters worse, I got into terrible trouble with my superiors as it was – apparently – well known that the Brisbane river was a breeding
ground for sharks at that time of year.