Spare (50 page)

But this wasn’t true. He’d often had plywood nailed over his windows, even when living in Los Angeles, well before Meg started dating me.

Complicated man.

They’d then begun following him into town, tailing him on his errands, walking behind him as he went up and down the aisles of local shops. They’d run photos of him with the headline: GOT HIM!

Meg would often phone her father, urge him to remain calm.
Don’t speak to them, Daddy. Ignore them, they’ll go away eventually, as long as you don’t react. That’s what the Palace says to do.

It was hard
for both of us, while dealing with all that, to focus on the million and one details of planning a royal wedding.

Strangely, the Palace had trouble focusing too.

We wanted to get married quickly. Why give the papers and paps time to do their worst? But the Palace couldn’t seem to pick a date. Or a venue.

While waiting for a decree from on high, from the nebulous upper regions of the royal decision-making apparatus, we went off on a traditional “engagement tour.” England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales—we traveled up and down and all over the UK, introducing Meg to the public.

Crowds went wild for her.
Meg, Diana would’ve loved you!
I heard women scream this again and again. A total departure from the tone and tenor of the tabloids, and also a reminder: the British press wasn’t reality.

On our return from that trip I rang Willy, sounded him out, asked his thoughts about where we might get married.

I told him we were thinking of Westminster Abbey.

No good. We did it there
.

Right, right. St. Paul’s?

Too grand. Plus Pa and Mummy did it there.

Hm. Yes. Good point.

He suggested Tetbury.

I snorted.
Tetbury? The chapel near Highgrove? Seriously, Willy? How many does that place seat?

Isn’t that what you said you wanted—a small, quiet wedding?

In fact we wanted to elope. Barefoot in Botswana, with maybe a friend officiating, that was our dream. But we were expected to share this moment with other people. It wasn’t up to us.

I turned back to
the Palace. Any progress on a date? A venue?

Nope, was the reply.

How about March?

Alas, March was all booked.

How about June?

Sorry. Garter Day.

At last they came to us with a date: May 2018.

And they accepted our request for the location: St. George’s Chapel.

That settled, we made our first public outing with Willy and Kate.

The Royal Foundation Forum. February 2018.

All four of us sat on a stage while a woman asked us softball questions before a fairly good-sized audience. The Foundation was nearing ten years of existence, and we spoke about its past while looking to its future with us four at the helm. The audience was keen, all four of us were having fun, the whole atmosphere was hugely positive.

Afterwards, one journalist dubbed us the Fab Four.

Here we go, I thought hopefully.

Days later, controversy. Something about Meg showing support for #metoo, and Kate not showing support—via their outfits? I think that was the gist, though who can say? It wasn’t real. But I think it had Kate on edge, while putting her and everyone else on notice that she was now going to be
compared
to, and forced to compete with, Meg.

All this came on the heels of an awkward moment backstage. Meg asked to borrow Kate’s lip gloss. An American thing. Meg forgot hers, worried she needed some, and turned to Kate for help. Kate, taken aback, went into her handbag and reluctantly pulled out a small tube. Meg squeezed some onto
her finger and applied it to her lips. Kate grimaced. Small clash of styles, maybe? Something we should’ve been able to laugh about soon after. But it left a little mark. And then the press sensed something was up and tried to turn it into something bigger.

Here we go, I thought sorrowfully.

Granny formally approved
the marriage in March 2018.

By royal decree.

Meanwhile, Meg and I were already a growing family. We brought home a new puppy—a sibling for little Guy. He’d been needing one, poor thing. So when a friend in Norfolk told me his black Labrador had a litter, and offered me a gorgeous amber-eyed female, I couldn’t say no.

Meg and I named her Pula. The Setswana word for rain.

And good fortune.

Many mornings I’d wake to find myself surrounded by beings I loved, who loved me, and depended on me, and I thought I simply had no right to this much good fortune. Work challenges aside, this was happiness. Life was good.

And following along a predestined track, seemingly. The decree about the wedding coincided uncannily with the airing of Meg’s farewell season of
Suits
, in which her character, Rachel, was also preparing to get married. Art and life, imitating each other.

Decent of
Suits
, I thought, marrying Meg off the show, instead of pushing her down a lift shaft. There were enough people in real life trying to do that.

That spring, however, the press was quieter. Keener about breaking news of wedding details than inventing new libels. Each day there was another “world exclusive” about the flowers, the music, the food, the cake. No detail too small, not even the Portaloos. It was reported that we’d be providing the poshest Portaloos on earth—porcelain basins, gold-plated seats—after being inspired by the ones at Pippa Middleton’s wedding. In reality, we didn’t notice anything different about how or where people went pee or poo at Pippa’s, and we had nothing to do with choosing the Portaloos for ours. But we sincerely hoped that everyone would be able to do their thing in comfort and peace.

Above all, we hoped the royal correspondents would continue to write about poo instead of trying to stir it up.

So when the Palace encouraged us to feed more wedding details to those correspondents, known as the Royal Rota, we obeyed. At the same time, I told the Palace that on the Big Day, the happiest day of our lives, I didn’t want to see one single royal correspondent inside that chapel, unless Murdoch himself apologized for phone hacking.

The Palace scoffed. It would be all-out war, the courtiers warned, to bar the Royal Rota from the wedding.

Then let’s go to war.

I’d had it with the Royal Rota, both the individuals and the system, which was more outdated than the horse and cart. It had been devised some forty years earlier, to give British print and broadcast reporters first crack at the Royal Family, and it stank to high heaven. It discouraged fair competition, engendered cronyism, encouraged a small mob of hacks to feel entitled.

After weeks of wrangling, it was agreed: The Royal Rota wouldn’t be allowed in the chapel, but they could gather outside.

A small win, which I hugely celebrated.

Pa wanted to help
choose the music for the ceremony so he invited us one night to Clarence House, for dinner and…a concert.

He brought out his wireless and we began sampling music, wonderful music, all kinds of music. He wholly endorsed our desire to have an orchestra rather than an organist, and he played an assortment of orchestras to get us in the mood.

After a time, we segued into classical, and he talked about his love of Beethoven.

Meg spoke about her own deep feeling for Chopin.

She’d always loved Chopin, she said, but in Canada she grew dependent on him, because Chopin was the only thing that could soothe Guy and Bogart.

She played them Chopin day and night.

Pa smiled sympathetically.

As one piece ended, he’d quickly reload his wireless, begin humming or tapping his foot to the next. He was airy, witty, charming, and I kept shaking
my head in amazement. I knew Pa loved music, but I never knew he loved it this much.

Meg evoked so much in him, qualities I’d rarely seen. In her presence Pa became boyish. I saw it, saw the bond between them growing stronger, and I felt strengthened in my own bond with him. So many people were treating her shabbily, it filled my heart to see my father treating her like the princess she was about to—maybe
born
to—become.

After all the stress of asking
Granny for permission to marry Meg, I thought I’d never have the courage to ask her for anything else.

And yet I now dared to make another ask:
Granny, please, may I, for my wedding, keep my beard?

Not a small ask either. A beard was thought by some to be a clear violation of protocol and long-standing norms, especially since I was getting married in my Army uniform. Beards were forbidden in the British Army.

But I was no longer in the Army and I desperately wanted to hang on to something that had become an effective check on my anxiety.

Illogical, but true. I’d grown the beard during my voyage to the South Pole, and I’d kept it after returning home, and it helped, along with therapy, and meditation, and a few other things, to quell my nerves. I couldn’t explain it, though I did find articles describing the phenomenon. Maybe it was Freudian—beard as security blanket. Maybe it was Jungian—beard as mask. Whatever, it made me calmer, and I wanted to feel as calm as possible on the day of my wedding.

Also, my wife-to-be had never seen me without it. She loved my beard, she loved to grab it and pull me in for a kiss. I didn’t want her coming down the aisle and seeing a total stranger.

I explained all this to Granny, and she said she understood. Plus, her own husband liked to rock a bit of scruff now and then. Yes, she said, you may keep your beard. But then I explained it to my brother and he…bristled?

Not the done thing, he said. Military, rules, so forth.

I gave him a quick history lesson. I mentioned the many royals who’d been bearded and uniformed. King Edward VII. King George V. Prince Albert. More recently, Prince Michael of Kent.

Helpfully I referred him to Google Images.

Not the same, he said.

When I informed him that his opinion didn’t really matter, since I’d already gone to Granny and got the green light, he became livid. He raised his voice.

You went to ask her!

Yes.

And what did Granny say?

She said keep the beard.

You put her in an uncomfortable position, Harold! She had no choice but to say yes.

No choice? She’s the Queen! If she didn’t want me to have a beard I think she can speak for herself.

But Willy always thought Granny had a soft spot for me, that she indulged me while holding him to an impossibly high standard. Because…Heir, Spare, etc. It irked him.

The argument went on, in person, on the phone, for more than a week. He wouldn’t let it go.

At one point he actually ordered me, as the Heir speaking to the Spare, to shave.

Are you serious?

I’m telling you, shave it off.

For the love of God, Willy, why does this matter so much to you?

Because I wasn’t allowed to keep
my
beard.

Ah—there it was. After he’d come back from an assignment with Special Forces, Willy was sporting a full beard, and someone told him to be a good boy, run along and shave it. He hated the idea of me enjoying a perk he’d been denied.

It also, I suspected, brought back bad memories of being told he couldn’t marry in the uniform of his choice.

Then he confirmed my suspicion. He said it outright: In one of our beard debates he complained bitterly about my being allowed to marry in my Household Cavalry frock coat, which he’d wanted to wear for
his
wedding.

He was being ridiculous, and I told him so. But he kept getting angrier and angrier.

Finally I told him flatly and defiantly that his bearded brother was getting married soon, and he could either get on board or not. The choice was up to him.

I showed up to
my stag ready to party. To laugh, to have a good time, to get clear of all this stress. And yet I also feared that if I got too clear, got too drunk and passed out, Willy and his mates would hold me down and shave me.

In fact Willy told me, explicitly, in all seriousness,
that this was his plan
.

So, while having fun, I was also at all times keeping my older brother in my sight.

The stag was at a friend’s house in the Hampshire countryside. Not on the south coast, or in Canada, or in Africa, all of which were reported as its location.

Aside from my older brother, fifteen mates were in attendance.

The host kitted out his indoor tennis court with various boy toys:

Giant boxing gloves.

Bows and arrows, à la
Lord of the Rings
.

A mechanical bull.

We painted our faces and rough-housed like idiots. Great fun.

After an hour or two I was tired, and relieved when someone shouted that lunch was ready.

We had a big picnic in a large, airy barn, then trooped off to a makeshift shooting range.

Arming that drunken lot to the teeth—dangerous idea. But somehow no one was hurt.

When everyone was bored of firing rifles, they dressed me as a giant yellow feathered chicken and sent me downrange to shoot fireworks at me. All right, I
offered
to do it.
Whoever comes closest wins!
I flashed back to those long-ago weekends in Norfolk, dodging fireworks with Hugh and Emilie’s boys.

I wondered if Willy did too.

How had we drifted so far from the closeness of those days?

Or had we?

Maybe, I thought, we can
still
recapture it.

Now that I’m to be married.

There had been spirited arguments
in the back corridors of the Palace about whether or not Meg could—or should—wear a veil. Not possible, some said.

For a divorcée, a veil was thought to be out of the question.

But the powers that be, unexpectedly, showed some flexibility on the subject.