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Authors: Cherie Blair

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BOOK: Speaking for Myself
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The royal plane was old and slow. The good news was that the front cabin could be transformed into a bedroom with two beds. The bad news was that it took nearly twice as long to get to Hong Kong as it normally did, as we had to refuel in Vladivostok. When we got out to stretch our legs, we were instructed not to move beyond a small area round the plane — not that we would have wanted to, it being ringed by Russian soldiers toting machine guns and looking distinctly menacing.

As always in these circumstances, as we came in to land in Hong Kong, there was a queue for the bathroom. By now I knew that the red carpet and a slew of photographers would be waiting, and I needed to look the part. Carole had worked out all my outfits, including the arrival one, which had been brought on board in a suit carrier. Suddenly, it was “Cabin crew, seats for landing,” and I was still in the bathroom making myself look respectable. There was nothing to do but just get on with it, I decided. At the moment of touchdown, I was standing on one leg, my bum hard up against the folding door and my other leg on the toilet seat, desperately trying to pull on my tights before emerging in the official outfit for the walk down the steps.

On the way back from that trip, Alastair said, “We can’t do that again.” André’s presence, he belatedly realized, had certain advantages. By the time the plane landed, I would be appropriately dressed and immaculately coiffed, no matter how long the flight or befuddled my head. No hair dryers were allowed on board, but André became a deft hand with gas-heated curling tongs.

As the handover ceremony began, just before midnight, the heavens opened, and I watched in admiration as Prince Charles began reading out a message from the Queen, which, thanks to the tropical downpour, was disintegrating in his hands. He was standing directly in front of me, his white tropical suit becoming increasingly diaphanous, which afforded me an interesting perspective on the future monarch. At midnight the flag of the People’s Republic of China and the regional flag of Hong Kong were raised simultaneously to the unfamiliar strains of the Chinese national anthem, and as the People’s Liberation Army goose-stepped their way into the hall, I felt a shiver run up my spine.

Chapter 22

Journeys

P
rincess Diana had been determined not to lose touch with Tony. Shortly after we moved into Number 10, Maggie Rae let us know that the Princess was keen to see him again, and she wanted to bring William and Harry to Chequers. Alex Allan, Tony’s principal private secretary, nearly had apoplexy when he found out.

It would be quite wrong, he said, for Tony to see Diana before he’d officially seen Prince Charles. So sometime in those few weeks, Tony did in fact see the Prince, and Diana and William duly turned up at Chequers one Sunday in early July.

Over lunch she talked again about wanting to play a more prominent role in public life. She was determined that William be given a normal, modern upbringing, to make him, as she put it, “fit to be king.”

Again she was very relaxed, this time chatting with my mum and being lovely with Kathryn. She talked about how she would like to have more children and how she longed for a little girl. We sat there on the grass, with Kathryn tucked between Diana’s knees, watching the three boys and Tony play soccer on the north lawn. Later, when she and Tony went for a walk, William came with us to the swimming pool, where my lot all had a great time showing off. William was really sweet to Kathryn. She was totally in awe, not because he was a prince, but because he was a handsome fifteen-year-old, and she was only nine.

The afternoon was deemed a success, relaxed and normal, and in the Blair household Princess Diana was regarded as a good thing.

That summer we went to Tuscany for our vacation, staying at a friend’s house, and had the usual jolly, relaxing time. Nothing had really changed, we told ourselves, as Ros’s swimming gala got under way. Yes, we had to pose for the press at the beginning of the trip — for which it agreed to leave us in peace for the rest of the time — and yes, the garden girls were somewhere in the village and the ’tecs were somewhere in the shadows, but we could forget about them. Or at least try to.

Arriving back in England at the end of August, we went straight to Myrobella. The following weekend was the annual Prime Minister’s visit to Balmoral, so we had a few days to relax. The Prime Minister is never really on vacation, however. The
Mail on Sunday
was threatening to publish the name of a British spy in some far-flung part of the world, and Tony became convinced that if his name was revealed, the guy would be killed.

That Saturday night we went to bed in the hope that Alastair had managed to sort it out, but at around three in the morning the phone rang. I have a vague memory of it ringing somewhere out of reach, then I drifted back into a deep sleep. The next thing I heard was the intercom buzzing outside our bedroom. As Tony rushed to the landing, I thought,
Oh, God. The
Mail
has done it. It’s printed the spy’s name, and he’s been killed.

A minute later he was back, as white as a sheet. It was the police, he said. There had been an accident. “It’s Diana.” The bell on our bedside phone hadn’t been working, which was why we hadn’t heard it. He picked up the receiver and called the duty clerk in Downing Street.

I watched him as he listened, saying nothing.

“A car crash in Paris,” he said eventually. “She’s in a coma. They don’t think she’ll pull through.”

It was awful. I saw her sitting there on the grass, hugging her knees, only a few weeks back, and thought how full of life she’d been, talking about wanting to have more kids.

Finally the call nobody wanted. All I heard was Tony repeating, “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this.” We were to say nothing to anyone. It would be announced to the press shortly.

He was shocked and genuinely upset. During what remained of the night, Tony was on the phone, watching television, or doing both. There were so many things to think about. There was the issue of the photographers, but he didn’t want to make a knee-jerk response. He didn’t know whether he should speak to the Queen or to Prince Charles.

When the kids woke up, we told them what had happened. They were so upset, because they felt they knew her, and they liked her.

Tony agreed with Alastair that he should make a statement before morning service. Alastair was usually anti anything that involved the church or God, but on this occasion even he agreed it might be appropriate. Diana’s death had sent a shudder through the nation, and Tony needed to say something to express what people were feeling.

St. John Fisher, the Catholic church in Sedgefield, was deemed inappropriate for his statement, as there was nowhere for the press to stand. So we went to St. Mary Magdalene in Trimdon, where Lily Burton, John’s wife, played the organ. By the time we arrived, the television cameras were in position. Tony delivered his statement and, it’s fair to say, caught the mood of the nation with his observation “She was the people’s princess.”

We returned to London that night and got Terry to drive us past Buckingham Palace to see the flowers that were already piling up round the base of the gates. Back in Downing Street, we opened a book of condolences, which everyone signed.

Now, of course, the film
The Queen
has somehow become the official record of that extraordinary week, but it wasn’t quite like that. For example, from a pedantic perspective, the way that Number 10 is portrayed in the film is completely wrong, not to mention the way Tony and I are portrayed. (I never swear, and Tony is a good deal taller than Michael Sheen, the actor who plays him.) But there are more serious points to be made.

For a start, I never felt there was any opposition from Buckingham Palace to what Tony was suggesting; in fact he had been asked to become involved in the arrangements, for both the return of the princess’s body and the funeral. The royal family’s main concern over those first few days was to protect the boys, because they were so young and so upset and the family really didn’t want them exposed to anything more. They weren’t thinking beyond that. They just wanted to pull together as a family and didn’t see why they should share their grief with the rest of the world. And in a sense, why should they have? I think they hoped that they could just get on with it — accept what had happened, do what had to be done.

I think that’s what Tony really wanted, too, but as the days went by, it became apparent that this wouldn’t be enough.

When we had first arrived at Number 10, we were told of detailed plans that existed in the event of the death of the Queen Mother. The protocol people had it all set out, exactly what was to happen and when. Tony and I even had to take suitable black outfits with us on holiday every year in case she died. And now, with the death of Princess Diana, they were treating this as a similar event. Their main concern was that the plan should be carried out with all due deference to precedent and protocol, including the business about how Diana wasn’t Her Royal Highness — even in death, that had to be observed. When the body was flown back to England, the question arose of who was going to meet it. Tony suggested that he do so, and the Queen agreed. But then Prince Charles decided that he wanted to go, although the protocol people clearly would rather he didn’t.

The last remaining question was the flag. Protocol decreed that it should be flown at half-mast only when the sovereign dies. Princess Diana was not the sovereign, QED.

The business of who should be invited to the funeral was another protocol issue, yet it seemed important to Tony that Diana’s charities be given priority over foreign dignitaries, and even members of the government, who had had no involvement with her. I don’t believe the family themselves had much to do with this scrabbling and squabbling. They were really too upset to do anything except hold themselves and the children together. Of course Tony did talk to the Queen, but she’s a reserved sort of person, and from my understanding, it was less her personally than the system that was creating the difficulties.

Throughout it all, Tony believed that as Prime Minister, his priority was to make sure that all this didn’t damage the monarchy, that the royal family got through unscathed, and he succeeded.

For obvious reasons, the traditional Balmoral weekend didn’t happen that year. Instead we were invited for lunch. It was very low-key, just the Queen and Prince Philip and some old family friends, with the conversation revolving around agriculture, stag hunting, and fishing. Sitting there, I thought,
This is really weird. Yesterday, at the lunch in Number 10 following the funeral, there I was sitting next to Hillary Clinton and Queen Noor of Jordan, talking about current affairs, and here I am today with our head of state talking about the price of sheep.

No mention was made of Princess Diana or of the previous day’s events. The Queen and Prince Philip were very kind, however. The Queen loves driving, and that afternoon she drove us in her Range Rover on a tour round the Balmoral estate, with the Queen providing a running commentary, talking about the landscape that she had known since she was a girl.

At one point I made a real faux pas, butting in when the Queen was talking to somebody else. We had been given a list of instructions of what to do and how to behave, but what with one thing and another, the rule that you talk to the Queen only when the Queen talks to you had slipped my mind. It never would again: one of the courtiers gave me a look I will never forget.

That winter I learned that Tony’s driver Sylvie had breast cancer. Not that it stopped her from living. Motorbikes had always been her thing — there was always a specialist magazine in the glove compartment of the Jaguar — and shortly after the diagnosis, she went out and bought a Ducati, the ultimate Italian bike. Then, on December 3, came news of a tragic accident. Sylvie was in a collision with a truck and didn’t survive. We went to her funeral a week later, and Tony spoke for everyone who knew her.

For both of us, the people we work with are central to our lives. This is nothing to do with politics — although it should be. I never forget that my grandma worked as a housecleaner, and I never want anybody to be treated as she was treated in Blundellsands. What is important is not what people do for a living, but that they are treated with respect.

Christmas 1997 was our first at Chequers. Everybody came to us, as they had at Myrobella, and in some ways it was just the same, although on a much bigger scale, starting with the tree. At about twenty feet tall, it took several people just to get it in the front door. Its home was the corner of the Great Hall, and by the time Christmas Eve arrived, it was decorated and surrounded by the usual array of colorful presents. With all that, and the kids’ stockings hanging up beside the great fireplace, it’s hard to imagine there could be anywhere more perfect to spend Christmas.

Rituals developed over the ten years we were there. We still went to midnight Mass, and there was still the usual early-morning chaos as in any family with young children. We paid a visit to the police bothy, beside the entrance, before lunch to hand over our presents for the officers. Then it was more presents and champagne for the staff on duty, including, at my insistence, a few carols to get us in the mood. Finally, our cook Alan served his wonderful lunch. This was one definite change in the proceedings from Myrobella: my turkey routine was no longer needed. Alan’s Christmas puddings were in a class of their own. As early as October, the children would help him prepare both the puddings and the cake, everyone taking their turn stirring the huge bowl of sticky mixture.

That first December, however, Alan came to me very perturbed.

“Whatever is the matter, Alan? Why so down in the mouth?”

“Number Ten has said I can’t have the usual Christmas turkey,” he said. Every year, he told me, representatives of the British Turkey Federation would turn up at Downing Street with a huge bird to be given to charity, and a photograph would be taken of them presenting it to the Prime Minister. They would also present a smaller bird for use by the family and staff on Christmas Day; this was the one that was sent down to Alan. It turned out that Alastair had seen this in the schedule and vetoed it. His worst nightmare, he said, was having a photograph of Tony and a turkey, looking foolish, on the front cover of
Private Eye,
Britain’s leading satirical magazine. As I was quite used to looking foolish by then, I offered myself up as an alternative. Luckily the Turkey Federation agreed, so that became a regular fixture on my Advent calendar, and Alan got his turkey.

BOOK: Speaking for Myself
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