Spare (39 page)

You’re in shock?
I said.
That makes two of us.

Seeing him out there, still being a soldier, despite no longer being a soldier—that was the answer to the riddle with which I’d been struggling so long.

Question: How do you stop being a soldier, when a soldier is all you’ve ever been or wanted to be?

Answer: You don’t.

Even when you stop being a soldier, you don’t have to stop being a soldier. Ever.

An Afghanistan war service
at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and then a reception at the Guildhall hosted by the City of London Corporation, and then the launch of Walking With The Wounded’s Walk Of Britain, and then a visit to England’s rugby team, and then watching them practice for a match against France, and then following them to Twickenham and cheering them on, and then a memorial for the Olympian Richard Meade, the most successful equestrian in British history, and then a trip with Pa to Turkey to attend ceremonies marking the hundredth anniversary of Gallipoli, and then a meeting with descendants of the men who fought in that epic battle, and then back to London to hand out medals to runners at the London Marathon.

That was the start of my 2015.

Just the highlights.

The papers were awash with stories about Willy being lazy, and the press had taken to calling him “Work-shy Wills,” which was obscene, grossly unfair, because he was busy having children and raising a family. (Kate was pregnant again.) Also, he was still beholden to Pa, who controlled the purse strings. He did as much as Pa wanted him to do, and sometimes that wasn’t much, because Pa and Camilla didn’t want Willy and Kate getting loads of publicity. Pa and Camilla didn’t like Willy and Kate drawing attention away from them or their causes. They’d openly scolded Willy about it many times.

Case in point: Pa’s press officer berated Willy’s team when Kate was scheduled to visit a tennis club on the same day Pa was doing an engagement. Told
that it was too late to cancel the visit, Pa’s press officer warned:
Just make sure the Duchess doesn’t hold a tennis racquet in any of the photos!

Such a winning, fetching photo would undoubtedly wipe Pa and Camilla off the front pages. And that, in the end, couldn’t be tolerated.

Willy told me that both he and Kate felt trapped, and unfairly persecuted, by the press and by Pa and Camilla, so I felt some need to carry the banner for all three of us in 2015. But selfishly, I also didn’t want the press coming for me. To be called lazy? I shuddered. I never wanted to see that word attached to my name. The press had called me stupid for most of my life, and naughty, and racist, but if they dared to call me lazy…I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t go down to Fleet Street and start pulling people out from behind their desks.

I didn’t understand until months later that there were even more reasons why the press was gunning for Willy. First, he’d got them all worked up by ceasing to play their game, denying them unfettered access to his family. He’d refused several times to trot Kate out like a prized racehorse, and that was considered a bridge too far.

Then he’d had the temerity to go out and give a vaguely anti-Brexit speech, which really galled them. Brexit was their bread and butter. How dare he suggest it was bullshit.

I went to Australia for
a round of military exercises and while there I got word: Willy and Kate had welcomed their second child. Charlotte. I was an uncle again, and very happy about it.

But, predictably, during one interview that day or the next a journalist questioned me about it as though I’d received a terminal diagnosis.

No, mate. Thrilled to bits.

But you’re further down the line of succession.

Couldn’t be happier for Willy and Kate.

The journalist pressed: Fifth in line—hm. No longer even the Spare of the Spare.

I thought: First of all, it’s a good thing to be farther from the center of a volcano. Second, what kind of monster would think of himself and his place in the line of succession at such a time, rather than welcoming a new life into the world?

I’d once heard a courtier say that when you were fifth or sixth in line you were “only a plane crash away.” I couldn’t imagine living that way.

The journalist persisted. Didn’t the birth make me question my choices?

Choices?

Isn’t it time you settled down?

Well, uh—

People are starting to compare you to Bridget Jones.

I thought: Are they really? Bridget Jones, ay?

The journalist waited.

It’ll happen, I assured him, or her, I can’t recall the face, only the preposterous line of questioning.
When, kind sir, do you plan to wive?
It will happen when it happens, I said, the way you’d assure a naggy auntie.

The faceless journalist stared with abject…pity.

Will it, though?

People often speculated that
I was clinging to my bachelor life because it was so glamorous. Many evenings I’d think: If only they could see me now.

Then I’d go back to folding my underwear and watching “The One with Monica and Chandler’s Wedding.”

Besides my own laundry (often laid out to dry on my radiators) I did my own chores, my own cooking, my own food shopping. There was a supermarket by the Palace and I went there, casually, at least once a week.

Of course I’d plan each trip as carefully as a patrol around Musa Qala. I’d arrive at different times, randomly, to throw off the press. I’d wear a disguise: low baseball cap, loose coat. I’d run along the aisles at warp speed, grabbing the salmon fillets I liked, the brand of yogurt I liked. (I’d memorized a map of the store.) Plus a few Granny Smith apples and bananas. And, of course, some crisps.

Then I’d sprint to the checkout.

Just as I’d honed my preflight checks in the Apache, I now honed my grocery shopping time down to ten minutes. But one night I got to the shop and began to run up and down the aisles and everything…had
moved
.

I hurried over to an employee:
What’s happened?

Excuse me?

Where is everything?

Where is—?

Why has everything moved?

Honestly?

Yes, honestly.

To keep people here longer. So they’ll buy more stuff.

I was gobsmacked. You can do that? By law?

A bit panicky, I resumed running up and down the aisles, filling my trolley as best I could, keeping an eye on the clock, then rushed to the checkout. That was always the trickiest part, because there was no honing the checkout: it all depended on others. More, the checkout counter stood right beside the news racks, which held every British tabloid and magazine, and half the front pages and magazine covers were photos of my family. Or my mum. Or me.

More than once I watched customers read about me, overheard them debating me. In 2015 I overheard them frequently discussing whether or not I’d ever marry. Whether or not I was happy. Whether or not I might be gay. I was always tempted to tap them on the shoulder…
Ello.

One night, in disguise, watching some people discuss me and my life choices, I became aware of raised voices at the front of the queue. An older married couple, abusing the cashier. It was unpleasant at first, then intolerable.

I stepped forward, showed my face, cleared my throat:
Excuse me. Not sure what’s going on here, but I don’t think you should be speaking to her like that.

The cashier was on the verge of tears. The couple abusing her turned and recognized me. They weren’t in the least surprised, however. Just offended to be called out on their abuse.

When they left, when it came my turn to pay, the cashier tried to thank me as she bagged my avocados. I wouldn’t hear of it. I told her to hang in there, scooped up my things and ran, like the Green Hornet.

Shopping for clothes was so much less complicated.

As a rule I didn’t think about clothing. I didn’t fundamentally believe in fashion, and I couldn’t understand why anybody would. I often got mocked on social media for my mismatched outfits, my ratty shoes. Writers would flag a photo of me and wonder why my trousers were so long, my shirts so crumpled. (They didn’t dream that I’d dried them on the radiator.)

Not very princely, they’d say.

Right you are, I’d think.

My father tried. He gave me an absolutely gorgeous pair of black brogues. Works of art. Weighed as much as bowling balls. I wore them until the soles developed holes, and when I was mocked for wearing holey shoes I finally got them fixed.

Each year I received from Pa an official clothing allowance, but that was strictly for formal wear. Suits and ties, ceremonial outfits. For my everyday casual clothes I’d go to T.K. Maxx, the discount store. I was particularly fond of their once-a-year sale, when they’d be flush with items from Gap or J.Crew, items that had just gone out of season or were slightly damaged. If you timed it just right, got there on the first day of the sale, you could snag the same clothes that others were paying top prices for down the high street! With two hundred quid you could look like a fashion plate.

Here, too, I had a system. Get to the shop fifteen minutes before closing time. Grab a red bucket. Hurry to the top floor. Begin systematically working up one rack and down another.

If I found something promising I’d hold it up to my chest or legs, standing in front of a mirror. I never dawdled over color or style and certainly never went anywhere near a changing room. If it looked nice, comfortable, into the bucket it went. If I was on the fence about it, I’d ask Billy the Rock. He delighted in moonlighting as my stylist.

At closing time we’d run out with two giant shopping bags, feeling triumphant. Now the papers wouldn’t call me a slob. At least for a little while.

Far better, I wouldn’t have to think about clothes again for another six months.

Other than the
occasional shopping, I stopped going out in 2015.

Stopped entirely.

No more occasional dinners with mates. No more house parties. No clubs. No nothing.

Every night I’d go straight home from work, eat over the sink, then catch up on paperwork,
Friends
on low in the background.

Pa’s chef would sometimes stock my freezer with chicken pies, cottage pies. I was grateful not to have to venture to the supermarket quite as much…
though the pies sometimes put me in mind of the Gurkhas and their goat stew, mainly because they were so unspicy. I missed the Gurkhas, missed the Army. I missed the war.

After dinner I’d smoke a joint, trying to make sure the smoke didn’t waft into the garden of my neighbor, The Duke of Kent.

Then I’d turn in early.

Solitary life. Strange life. I felt lonely, but lonely was better than panicky. I was just beginning to discover a few healthy remedies to my panic, but until I felt surer of them, until I felt on more solid ground, I was leaning on this one decidedly unhealthy remedy.

Avoidance.

I was an agoraphobe.

Which was nearly impossible given my public role.

After one speech, which couldn’t be avoided or canceled, and during which I’d nearly fainted, Willy came up to me backstage. Laughing.

Harold! Look at you! You’re drenched.

I couldn’t fathom his reaction. Him of all people. He’d been present for my very first panic attack. With Kate. We were driving out to a polo match in Gloucestershire, in their Range Rover. I was in the back and Willy peered at me in the rearview. He saw me sweating, red-faced.
You all right, Harold?
No, I wasn’t. It was a trip of several hours and every few miles I wanted to ask him to pull over so I could jump out and try to catch my breath.

He knew something was up, something bad. He’d told me that day or soon after that I needed help. And now he was teasing me? I couldn’t imagine how he could be so insensitive.

But I was at fault too. Both of us should’ve known better, should’ve recognized my crumbling emotional and mental states for what they were, because we’d just started to discuss the launching of a public campaign to raise awareness around mental health.

I went to East London,
to Mildmay Mission Hospital, to commemorate its 150th anniversary and recent renovations. My mother once paid the place a famous visit. She held the hand of a man who was HIV-positive, and thereby changed the world. She proved that HIV wasn’t leprosy, that it wasn’t
a curse. She proved that the disease didn’t disqualify people from love or dignity. She reminded the world that respect and compassion aren’t gifts, they’re the least we owe each other.

I learned that her famous visit had actually been one of many. A Mildmay worker pulled me aside, told me that Mummy would slip in and out of the hospital all the time. No fanfare, no photos. She’d just drop in, make a few people feel better, then run home.

Another woman told me she’d been a patient during one of those pop-ins. Born HIV-positive, this woman remembered sitting on Mummy’s lap. She was only two at the time, but she remembered.

I cuddled her. Your mum. I did.

My face flushed. I felt such envy.

Did you?

I did, I did, and oh, it was so nice. She gave a great cuddle!

Yes, I remember.

But I didn’t.

No matter how I tried, I barely remembered a thing.

I visited Botswana,
spent a few days with Teej and Mike. I felt a craving for them, a physical need to go on a wander with Mike, to sit once more with my head in Teej’s lap, talking and feeling safe.

Feeling home.

The very end of 2015.

I took them into my confidence, told them about my battles with anxiety. We were by the campfire, where such things were always best discussed. I told them I’d just recently found a few things that were sort of working.

So…there was hope.

For instance, therapy. I’d followed through on Willy’s suggestion, and while I hadn’t found a therapist I liked, simply speaking to a few had opened my mind to possibilities.