Daughter of Empire (30 page)

At last the Queen and Prince Philip were allowed to take a break, to go and see the Great Barrier Reef away from the public gaze. Unfortunately, it appeared that the truly amazing sights were to
be seen on the outer reefs, but landing on these was considered too dangerous for the Queen. We were taken off to tiny Sea Forth Island, where Prince Philip swam around with the men in mask and
flippers, but the Queen seemed very low. She rarely showed her innermost emotions and was usually so calm and contained. I was worried when I could not even persuade her to explore the island. She
cheered up considerably, however, when a boatload of trippers appeared, gesticulating wildly and shouting ‘Have you seen the Queen?!’ Suddenly, the Queen, in slacks, tore down to the
beach, pointed to the other side of the island and yelled, ‘She went that way!’ As the boat disappeared round the corner, she jumped up and down on the beach with joy.

It was of course vital that the Queen and Prince Philip stayed well and healthy. By the time we got to Perth at the end of March, the outbreak of polio had become a major headache for the tour
organisers. For a while it was even thought that our visit to Western Australia would have to be cancelled because the premier, Mr Hawke, did not want the responsibility of the Queen contracting
polio in his state, quite apart from the very real danger of it spreading through large crowds of people and gatherings of children. It was also obvious, however, that if at all possible, the tour
must take place. It was decided that we would sleep on board
Gothic
and food from the ship should be sent up to Government House, where we would eat in a separate party. All functions were
to be held out of doors, the children’s rally cancelled and there was to be no handshaking at any time. The latter proviso was very difficult to adhere to, and the Queen soon found herself
warmly shaking hands with the Roman Catholic bishop. People had to bob up and down in front of us and I realised just how much the personal contact, that human touch in a handshake, was at the
heart of this royal tour and how much it meant to people to be able to say afterwards that they had ‘touched the Queen’s dress’ or ‘the Queen shook my hand’. I was
surprised how removed we all felt, and we tried to make up for it by talking that much longer, engaging people in the best way we could.

We left Australia from Fremantle on 1 April 1953. Despite the difficulties of the last part of the tour, this had been a great experience and we had met many interesting people and seen some
incredible places. But it was definitely the right time to leave – we were all exhausted after so long, and the press were beginning to have to find new things to say, sniping at us, the
original ecstasies overtaken by criticisms. It was a relief to climb back on board
Gothic
, bound for Ceylon.

One of the marvellous aspects of the tour was experiencing the natural beauty of new surroundings. We crossed turquoise waters via the Cocos Islands, palm-treed and set among the coral reefs.
The day after leaving we got into the doldrums – not a breath of wind for hours on end – where the sea became completely smooth. Up on deck one evening, as the sun disappeared below the
horizon, an emeraldgreen light spread between the red of the sky and the silver of the sea, and as this light remained for some time after the sun went down, I stood and watched and reflected on
how privileged I was to be in this position. The day before we arrived in Ceylon, the ships stopped engines and I went in the barge with the Queen and Prince Philip to visit HMS
Ceylon
,
which was escorting us on this part of the tour. It was unbearably hot and the Queen was nearly boiled alive, so in spite of her protests I held her parasol over her. ‘I feel like an African
queen,’ she said. ‘You are an African queen,’ replied Prince Philip.

As I was about to step into the barge, we spotted a shark cruising around, so I asked the sailor at the bottom of the ladder to hold the parasol while I got in. Conolly came bumbling down the
ladder after me and in his anxiety to steady the admiral the sailor dropped the parasol into the sea right on top of the shark. As I knew it would be more than my life was worth to lose it, I was
determined to retrieve it, so I waited until the shark had disappeared round the other side of the barge and with the aid of a boathook and a great deal of patience and dexterity, we managed to
succeed in getting it back. Of course, I was teased mercilessly, the story of how I fed the Queen’s best parasol to a shark in the Indian Ocean everyone’s favourite subject for some
time.

Arriving in Colombo made me instantly homesick for India. The sights, the sounds, the smells seemed so familiar. I had left Delhi five years earlier, but my time there was still very much a part
of me. After disembarking to the traditional mournful greeting played on the drums and conch shells, we made our way to the ceremony of welcome passing a large stand reserved for prep school boys
that was packed with elderly ladies and gentlemen. Later, when we asked why there were so few boys in their stand, we were told that all the other, more enterprising pupils had sold their places
for exorbitant sums of money. The Opening of Parliament in an open-sided memorial hall was torture for the Queen. The coronation dress was very heavy, and when the sun caught all the diamante and
metalwork embroidery it became so hot that she was burnt, even through all her stiff petticoats.

I was mesmerised by Ceylon – from the quiet kindness of the people, to the rice fields, the coconut plantations, the large wild mongooses and monkeys and the staggering ‘Fortress in
the Sky’, a gigantic flat-topped rock rising over four hundred feet above the surrounding countryside, upon which King Kashyapa in the fifth century had built a fabulous impregnable fortress
city covering three acres, complete with gardens and exquisite buildings. Even the disastrously rainy parties, during which guests had to scamper for shelter every time torrential showers
threatened to ruin their finery, were manageable. At dusk one evening, as we watched the flying foxes and deep, dark black clouds gather over the Governor’s House, we were diverted by a noise
of jingling bells as a beaming Prince Philip arrived with nine elephants he had managed to waylay for the Queen to see.

In Kandy we stayed in the King’s Pavilion, where my father had lived when his HQ was in Ceylon. I remembered all the stories he had told me, and it was such fun to see where it had all
happened. As we waved goodbye to our hosts, it was very clear from the hospitality and warmth we had been shown that ‘the Queen of Sri Lanka’ took pride of place in the country and was
a valued successor to a monarchy that had existed since 543
BC
.

We headed back to England via Aden, Uganda, Malta and Gibraltar. Aden was weirdly beautiful – towering dark grey volcanic rocks splitting the horizon with their peaks as we came into the
harbour early one morning. This was the first place in which the Queen had been greeted by groups of black-robed women emitting their shrill, trilling cry of welcome. On the last night aboard
Gothic
we dined quietly by ourselves and after supper the Queen knighted the captain. Michael had taken him aside and warned him that after she had tapped him on one shoulder he must on no
account get up but remain kneeling while she tapped him on the other. He must have thought that this warning was to save him from mortal wounding and that he was going to be struck with the sharp
edge of the sword because the Queen said later that she almost had to chase him round the cabin to get him to kneel and that when she raised the sword he flinched and looked at her in considerable
alarm.

We left
Gothic
at 4 a.m. on 28 April, all of us extremely sad. We had been such a united party for the past five months and it seemed wrong to be breaking up so near the end of the tour
and
Gothic
denied the triumphant return home. The newly commissioned royal yacht
Britannia
had now been completed, and having taken Prince Charles and Princess Anne out to Malta, was
coming to Tobruk so that the Queen and Prince Philip could set sail in her.

Having stopped over in Entebbe we flew to El Adem and then drove to Tobruk, where we went straight on board
Britannia.
Our regrets at leaving
Gothic
were soon forgotten in the
extreme comfort in which we now found ourselves. Several senior members of the household at Buckingham Palace had come out in her and a new equerry replaced Johnny, who had flown home to organise
his wedding to Frances Roche (they were to become the parents of Princess Diana). They were good company but inevitably they brought the rather stiff formality of Buckingham Palace with them and
the spirit of the family party that had toured the world together was broken. It was a joy for the Queen and Prince Philip to be reunited with their children. At our Sunday church service, Conolly
read the prayer for the royal family, ‘We humbly beseech Thee to bless our gracious Queen, Elizabeth the Queen Mother, Philip Duke of Edinburgh, Charles Duke of Cornwall and all the Royal
Family.’ When he came to the end Princess Anne’s furious small voice was heard, ‘He hasn’t prayed for me, Mummy’, thereby nearly bringing the service to an end as we
all laughed so much.

It was lovely for me to hear of all the children’s adventures staying with ‘Uncle Dickie and Aunt Edwina’ in Malta. They brought me a letter from my mother telling me that poor
little Neola had died from kidney failure. I was very sad because I had expected to be back with him in Malta in a couple of weeks’ time. They wanted to hear about the mischief he had caused,
so I told them the story of the time their mother had been staying with us at Broadlands. ‘Pammy,’ she said, ‘I am quite fond of Neola and I don’t mind him coming into my
bedroom. I don’t even mind him opening my box of chocolates. But must he take a bite out of every single one of them?’

We were joined at sea by the Mediterranean Fleet, two hundred miles from Malta. Fifteen ships now joined the four frigates already escorting us, including my father on board his flagship, the
cruiser
Glasgow.
With perfect timing, all the ships fired a royal salute, wheeling inwards and steaming past
Britannia
, the ships’ companies lining the decks and giving three
cheers and the big ships parading guards and bands. They passed by us at no more than half a cable’s distance, throwing
Britannia
about with their swell and giving Conolly apoplexy. As
the ships followed within one and a half cables – less than three hundred metres – of each other, their bows tore through the white foam of the wake of the ship ahead. It was
magnificent and thrilling to watch, and from then on, whenever anything spectacular was done, it was known as ‘doing a Dickie’.

The ‘great man’ himself transferred to
Britannia
by jackstay to Report the Fleet to the Sovereign, and following the Queen’s invitation my father remained on board. Of
course he took charge of everything, and within the space of a few minutes he had assumed the roles of private secretary, press secretary, equerry, lady-in-waiting, Master of the Household and
nurse. After lunch he had us hopping about watching three of the Mediterranean Fleet submarines diving; jet aircraft flying off HMS
Eagle;
a fly-past of Avengers and Skyraiders, as well as
Shackletons from RAF Luqa. My father stayed in the guest cabin opposite mine, which had an adjoining sitting room in which Charles had been doing his lessons. He had to move his books and remarked
to me very solemnly, ‘Uncle Dickie is a nuisance.’

When we reached Malta,
Britannia
steamed up between the lines of her escorting ships, accompanied above by noisy helicopters. We reduced speed and just outside the Grand Harbour
breakwater we were met by my father’s big barge. As it heaved up and down in rough water, my mother leapt on board in her usual nimble style. Talking had to wait as we were instantly caught
up in the whirl of a fly-past of jets. Then all the ships in harbour, the naval shore establishments and the saluting batteries fired a royal salute and, passing the breakwater,
Britannia
was escorted to her berth by landing craft. The noise was deafening – cheering from the packed crowds, the ringing of church bells, the klaxon of ships’ sirens, all drowned out by the
noise of firecrackers, which even by Maltese standards were phenomenal and fearsome.

It felt so good to be back in Malta, to see my parents and be surrounded by familiar things at Admiralty House. The Queen, Prince Philip and Alice dined that night with us before going on to a
ball at the Phoenicia. At last the Queen was able to dance. I felt even happier for her the next day as she and Prince Philip were able to snatch a small opportunity to act as normal parents and
take the children for a drive around the island in their small car.

There were still official engagements to attend in Malta, so I remained on board
Britannia.
The Maltese nobility were in their element at the state ball, where they danced their famous
Maltija in powdered wigs and eighteenth-century costumes. It was so windy that the Queen and I were nearly blown off the flight deck of the aircraft carrier
Eagle
, and the archbishop got so
cold during the final brilliant firework display that my mother had to wrap her striped silk stole around him. We sailed out of Malta to a terrific sendoff from the crowd, people cheering and
waving from every possible vantage point. I went up on deck to watch us come into Gibraltar harbour, to gaze at the massive outline of the Rock and to remind myself that this was another part of
the tour. Being back in Malta with my parents had given me a false feeling that the tour was over. My spirits were lifted when we went to see the apes – fifty of them guarded by the Army, no
doubt because of the saying that when the apes leave the Rock the British will leave too. We fed them peanuts as the press photographers pressed themselves against the apes’ sleeping cages
with their cameras poking through the bars. No one made any jokes.

As we entered the English Channel, the Mediterranean Fleet parted company, steaming past at 25 knots with their customary flourish and precision. Off Yarmouth in the Isle of Wight, the prime
minister, Winston Churchill, came on board and, rather alarmingly, the Queen put me on the other side of him during dinner. He put me at my ease, however, by showing me the fob watch that my
great-grandfather, Ernest Cassell, had given him. He brought us up to date on the notorious case in which a Russian spy, Vladimir Petrov, and his wife, from the Soviet embassy in Canberra, had
defected and secured political asylum in Australia a couple of weeks after we had left. As he said goodnight to the Queen, she said, ‘I hope you sleep well.’ He looked at her and
replied, ‘Now we have got you home, ma’am, I shall sleep very well.’