The Firm: The Troubled Life of the House of Windsor (28 page)

The first Head of the Commonwealth was King George VI and it was a title made specific to the King, in 1949, not conferred as an hereditary title. When the King died less than three years later, Nehru, the Prime Minister of India, sent Elizabeth II a message welcoming her as the new Head of the Commonwealth and on 2 December 1952 her status – which is quite distinct from her role as Queen of the United Kingdom – was formally proclaimed. The role is entirely symbolic and the Queen holds it not by right of succession but by common consent – and so will her successor, whoever that might be.

A lavish state visit to Britain, with the full pomp and ceremony, is the highest form of diplomatic compliment the government can pay to a foreign head of state. His or her reception at Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle and the images beamed home send a strong message to the people of his or her native country – and, in the case of George W. Bush, proved to be not a bad start to a re-election campaign. There are not many heads of state who are embarrassed by riding down the Mall in a horse-drawn carriage with the Queen of
England by their side, most of her family behind them, and half the British cavalry bringing up the rear. One exception was President Chirac on his first visit to London after his election as President of France in 1995. The Prime Minister, John Major, wanted to cement their friendship with an early invitation to pay a state visit and secured the Queen’s agreement. To everyone’s surprise, the Elysée Palace was slow to respond. It transpired that the invitation had put Chirac in a quandary. He had been elected as a people’s president and had already done away with some of the grandiose habits of his predecessor, including sweeping through the streets of Paris in motorcades with motorcycle outriders. He was worried that the pomp and glamour would send the wrong message home, but he was reassured that his visit could include practical, down-to-earth events, too.

‘Monarchy is glamorous,’ says John Major, ‘and in being glamorous it has an immense value for this country.’

If you’re not going to maintain that value you’re doing some harm to the country. Cut it down but don’t cut away its central attraction. The Royal Family see themselves as a focal point for the country and I think they are. They believe they are there to offer service to the nation in whatever form that service is needed, whether in terms of trying to bring people together – which is what the Queen tries to do with her Christmas broadcast – whether it’s their charitable work and voluntary service, or whether it’s their immense support and interest in the military. In much the same way as civil servants are servants of the policy of government, their job is to carry out the policy of the elected government; the Royal Family see themselves as servants of the nation with a responsibility to carry out those things that are self-evidently good for the nation.

Lord Hurd, who was Foreign Secretary between 1989 and 1995, agrees that the monarchy is a unique selling point.

I travelled with Mrs Thatcher abroad a lot, also with the Queen; and of course Mrs Thatcher is the more dynamic, dramatic personality with more personal achievements to her name – of course she is – but when you travel hour by hour with the two of them there is no doubt which has the greater impact. It’s the Queen. She has a wider range of interests and it is a different thing … It’s like the difference between having dinner on board the Royal Yacht
Britannia
as opposed to dining in a hotel. It’s hard to explain why, but when you see it, experience it, this is just true. The two last dramatic trips were to Russia and South Africa. In France it’s very strong too, a little less so in Germany and America, but it comes and hits you rather unexpectedly. It’s a magic really. And it continues to make a very strong case for Britain in the eyes of the rest of the world.

Douglas Hurd has also travelled with the Prince of Wales and says that he too is ‘a unique asset to this country in its dealing with foreigners’. Particularly memorable was a visit to Hamburg fifty years after substantial parts of the city had been destroyed by Allied bombing in 1943 with a loss of fifty thousand civilian lives. His reception could have been cool, but the Prince, who doesn’t speak German, had specially learned some of the language so that his audience would understand what he was saying. Thousands packed into the big square in Hamburg where he spoke in the open air for twenty minutes. ‘He didn’t have to do it,’ says Hurd, ‘and that he should have gone and taken such trouble, they thought remarkable.’

Last year the Queen made a fourth visit to Germany and was again warmly received, but the question that occupied the
German press during the trip was whether or not she would apologize on behalf of Britain for the Allied bombing of Dresden. Three months before the end of the Second World War a series of five air raids virtually flattened the city of Dresden, killing thirty-five thousand civilians and burying centuries of culture and history under 18 million cubic metres of rubble. Two months later the Soviet army occupied Dresden and, until the reunification of Germany in 1989, it was part of the GDR.

Reconstruction has been ongoing ever since, and the second night of the Queen’s visit was spent at a fundraising gala concert at the Berlin Philharmonic in aid of the restoration of the eighteenth-century Frauenkirche in Dresden; hence the thought that she might apologize. She didn’t. She referred to the past, to the human suffering on both sides during the Second World War, and urged both countries to ‘learn from history, not be obsessed by it’ and to ‘look beyond simple stereotypes’.

‘Britain’s part in Berlin’s re-emergence as one of the world’s great cities is a source of pride for me,’ she said during the state banquet in the Zeughaus.

Berlin symbolizes the remarkable achievement of German reunification; the British contribution to your skyline also symbolizes the reconciliation between our two countries. My admiration for your achievements is not limited to Berlin. The reconstruction of the Frauenkirche in Dresden is an inspiration to us all. I recall in particular the moment at Windsor Castle in 1998 when Prince Philip and I stood beside President and Frau Herzog to see the new orb and cross for the first time. At the Berlin Philharmonic tomorrow night we shall renew our support for this cause so full of powerful symbolism.

Measured and diplomatic to her toes; and wise. As
Die Welt
argued, to have apologized would have been a disservice to British-German relations. ‘It would release animosities that have been kept in check by the very fact that each side has learnt to deal with the past in its own way.’ Such sentiments might have been written by the Queen herself.

The Queen is due to arrive at 11.00 a.m. The orchestra of the Coldstream Guards is playing a stirring march. Everyone is eagerly watching the dais at the front, waiting. Five members of the Queen’s Body Guard of the Yeomen of the Guard are in place on the dais, the red stockings, ruffs and gold of their uniforms adding a touch of the surreal. The Ballroom is a sea of hats with feathers, crisply ironed shirts, shining shoes and matching handbags. Proud husbands, wives or partners, children – three guests per person – temporarily parted from their jeans and T-shirts, each clutching a programme, scanning it for the name of the friend or relative they have come to see receive an honour. Each one will go home remembering some detail about their two hours inside Buckingham Palace to treasure and to relay to friends and relatives.

In the Green Drawing Room and the Picture Gallery, meanwhile, a short walk away, with priceless Old Masters on the walls, Lieutenant Colonel Sir Malcolm Ross, Comptroller of the Household, is drilling the recipients about what to do when their turn comes; when to approach the Queen, how to acknowledge her, when to speak, how to receive their gong and when and where to go when Her Majesty has done with them. He is tall, good-looking, beautifully turned out in full
dress uniform and punctilious as only a military man can be. He treats his audience like slightly simple schoolchildren but no one seems to mind; they are all slightly hyper anyway. He has been doing this for years; the jokes are hackneyed but effective in putting the class at ease, and he knows a proportion of them won’t remember a word he’s said when the time comes. Even the actress Maggie Smith forgot which way to leave the stage when she collected her Damehood. ‘A lot of them do,’ says Ross, ‘and the stars of stage and screen are usually the worst.’

He explains the geography of the Palace, what room they are in, and the rooms they will have to go through – the Silk Tap Room, the East Gallery – to reach the Ballroom, which they will walk straight through at the bottom end to wait in line for their name to be called so they can come in through a door at the top. They are shepherded by Gentlemen Ushers (traditional at court since the fifteenth century – now retired servicemen) at every move except for their moment of glory when they are on their own. ‘Your surname is your cue,’ he tells them. ‘When you hear it, walk forward to the centre of the room, turn to face the Queen and stop. The Queen is on the dais; you do not go on to the dais with her. Gentlemen give a little bow, if you will, ladies a little curtsey; there’s no need to go right down’, and he demonstrates – to slightly louder laughter than the extravagant gesture demands.

He repeats it all, complete with gestures, using the width of the room to demonstrate, and I wonder quietly whether he does amateur dramatics in his spare time. He is in the centre with people to left and right, his patter a very welcome antidote to their nerves. He sets the tone for the day, which is relaxed and friendly but deeply formal. He asks how many people have met the Queen before and a few hands go up. As at all investitures this is a mixed group receiving everything
from Knighthoods of the Most Distinguished Order of St Michael and St George to the more common Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. Senior soldiers and distinguished diplomats stand alongside care workers, lollipop ladies and firemen – a mixture of citizens who are genuinely the great and the good. Tim Henman, having just fallen dramatically out of Wimbledon in the second round, is there to receive an OBE for services to lawn tennis; and Dr Frederick Dibnah, the country’s favourite steeplejack (who sadly died a few months later), for services to heritage and broadcasting; they are the only famous faces today.

Knights kneel and are dubbed with a sword; other awards are on a neck-ribbon that the Queen places over the head, or clips on to a hook on the lapel – brooches for women, medals for men. ‘Move forward so you are close enough for her to attach your award,’ says Ross. ‘She can’t reach you if you’re standing four and a half feet away.’ He demonstrates how the Queen might look under these circumstances, to more nervous laughter. ‘While she is putting it on she will be talking to you. Feel free to respond. She will then shake your hand. It is a firm and positive handshake – you will not miss it. It is an indication that your time is up. Gentlemen give a little bow, ladies a little curtsey’ – another demonstration – ‘turn to your right and walk to the door ahead of you.’

‘I always tell them not to curtsey too deeply,’ says Ross. ‘I’ve seen them go down and not come back up again – their knees lock.’ ‘What on earth happens then?’ I ask. ‘A Gentleman Usher appears and holds them by the elbow.’ ‘Doesn’t the Queen get the giggles?’ I ask.

The Queen has great trouble but she can’t laugh; this is ceremony. There was a terrible occasion I remember – if I’m being naughty – when the Lord Chamberlain read out the
name of the Reverend Someone who was being awarded for services to Morris Dancing, and this fellow of over ninety came hobbling towards the Queen on two sticks. That was very difficult. On another occasion someone was so fazed that they walked straight past the Queen who said, ‘Oi!’, and they turned back. And we quite often have bolters who are fine until the last bit and then go back the way they came in or go straight into the audience.

The Ballroom is simply magnificent. It’s huge – 14 metres high, 34 metres long and 18 metres wide (46 x 111 x 59 feet) and, built in the 1850s for Queen Victoria, it is the largest state room in the Palace and one of the largest rooms in London – and this is where state banquets and large receptions are held. Malcolm Ross describes all the state rooms as being like a theatre; they can be configured in any way. Today the Ballroom is an auditorium and the audience is sitting on rows of red and gilt chairs. Above hang six of the finest chandeliers in the Palace. They are vast: 5 feet 6 inches in diameter, 11 feet tall, each one has 5000 pieces of English lead crystal, 120 bulbs and weighs 450 kilograms – that’s 1100 pounds, nearly half a ton. Like all the chandeliers in the Palace they are cleaned once a year. These are on a winch system so someone goes up into the roof space to lower them down, then a scaffold is built underneath them and they are sprayed with a gentle detergent to loosen the dirt; then the crystals are dried with a soft cloth.

At three minutes past eleven the Queen arrives, a small figure dressed in bright green, flanked by a couple of Gurkha orderly officers. The orchestra, in the Musicians Gallery at the back of the room, begins to play the National Anthem, and – whether it was the music or the pageantry or the sight of the Queen standing silently staring into the middle distance, while
we called upon God to save her, to send her victorious, happy and glorious and implored her long to reign over us – I have to own up to a distinct shiver down the spine and some embarrassing wet stuff in my eyes, making it very difficult to read my programme.

Gurkhas have been escorting the monarch at official functions since 1876 when Queen Victoria became Empress of India, but the Yeomen of the Guard, on the dais behind the Queen throughout the ceremony, have been on royal duty even longer. Henry VII created their Order in 1485 after his victory at the Battle of Bosworth Field, and for centuries they were ‘absolutely responsible for the safety of their sovereign’ at home and abroad and also in battle. They used to live in the royal palaces, sleep outside the sovereign’s bedroom and taste and serve the sovereign’s food. Today that responsibility falls to policemen, and the Yeomen of the Guard are largely ceremonial, although I wouldn’t fancy the chances of anyone who made a hostile move on the Queen on their watch. They are retired Army officers, warrant officers and non-commissioned officers and their uniform dates from Tudor times. The horse-drawn carriages they arrive in are not much newer, but they still carry swords and seven-foot halberds.

Also escorting the Queen is the Lord Chamberlain, The Right Honourable The Lord Luce, who stands on the Queen’s right and calls out the name of each recipient (cue to walk forward), while Major James Duckworth-Chad, the Queen’s Equerry-in-Waiting, a tall, eager, fresh-faced young officer who is never far from the Queen’s side, whispers the salient details about each as they approach the front of the dais. The Master of the Household, Vice Admiral Sir Tom Blackburn, a friendly, down-to-earth character, holds the appropriate decoration out to the Queen on a velvet cushion, the decoration
having been placed there by the Secretary of the Central Chancery of the Orders of Knighthood who is responsible for making sure that it is the right one. And the Queen presents it to her delighted subject in just the way Malcolm Ross has described it. I can’t think why A. A. Milne starts creeping back into my head.

When asked in 1992 which of the many different aspects of her job she considered the most important, the Queen replied ‘investitures’. She puts a tremendous amount of effort into them, not just on the day but also beforehand. She is given a list of recipients well in advance with several paragraphs about each, so she knows precisely what they have done to earn their award, and she picks out a few key words which provide the basis of a useful and personal remark to say when she presents it. She has an astonishing memory for a brief – something she has handed on to her two elder children – because once the investiture is underway, with nothing more than a quick, whispered reminder in her ear she recalls immediately the salient facts about each and every one of the 110 men and women who pass through the system at a rate of five every three minutes. They all come away feeling that they have had a personal conversation and tell Malcolm Ross that she spoke to them for a good three or four minutes when it was forty seconds at most. She also gives the impression of being sincere, which she clearly is, and makes people feel that the honour she is bestowing comes with heartfelt gratitude for outstanding service. The whole ceremony is over in one hour and ten minutes flat; although longer if Prince Charles is in the driving seat, as he often is. The Queen gives her handshake and turns to pick up the next medal; the Prince of Wales keeps eye contact until the person he has just invested is on their way. ‘It’s very special,’ says Ross. But it adds an extra ten or fifteen minutes to the ceremony.

The impression is that these people, who come in all shapes, sizes, ages and colours, have been specially selected by the Queen for their award. The list of those selected is published twice a year, at New Year and on the Queen’s official birthday in June, which reinforces the notion that they are her choice. This is not so. The only honours that are in the sovereign’s gift today are the Most Noble Order of the Garter, founded in 1348 by Edward III and limited to twenty-five knights with the motto
Honi soit qui mal y pense
(Shame on him who thinks evil); the Most Ancient and Noble Order of the Thistle, founded in 1687, limited to sixteen knights, all of whom must be Scottish – motto
Nemo me impune lacessit
(No one provokes me with impunity); the Order of Merit, which Edward VII founded in 1902 to reward outstanding contributions to science, art, music, literature and public life – with a corresponding award for exceptional military leadership in times of war – limited to twenty-six; and the Royal Victorian Order for services to the Queen and other members of the Royal Family, which is usually conferred on long-serving members of the household on their departure. Apart from those, whose number is limited, the Queen’s role in the honours system is almost exclusively constitutional; the bulk of the names are chosen in Whitehall and she has little power to affect the honours given in her name.

Each list has about 1350 names on it and a large proportion of them are civil servants, diplomats and the military – a hangover from the days when civil servants were poorly paid, for which a gong at the end of their career compensated. And for the high-flyers it denoted rank (despite vastly improved salaries, it still does); they rise from the CMG (Call Me God) to the KCMG (Kindly Call Me God) to the GCMG (God Calls Me God) to a Knighthood. In recent decades media figures
have also been increasingly showered with honours, leading to the inescapable suggestion that the gongs have been given either as inducements or rewards for favours or support, and that the system is therefore rotten to its core.

Harold Wilson began the trend when he was Prime Minister in the sixties and ennobled no fewer than six journalists from the Labour-supporting
Daily Mirror.
Margaret Thatcher, in turn, knighted a number of prominent Tory supporters including the Jeremy Paxman of his day, the inquisitorial television journalist Robin Day; Peregrine Worsthorne; Kingsley Amis; and three loyal editors, Larry Lamb of the
Sun
, Nicholas Lloyd of the
Daily Express
and my father, John Junor, of the
Sunday Express
– he who had always insisted he would never accept a title if it were offered, any more than he would take a freebie, on the grounds that it would compromise his freedom to write what he believed. But he wasn’t the first or the last to be so seduced. ‘The English really
are
in the grip of the religious passion of monarchy,’ wrote Richard Eyre, director of the National Theatre, in his diary when he received a CBE from the Queen in 1992. ‘How can it change? It can’t if people like me go on accepting honours.’ Mrs Thatcher was well aware of the influence that all three of those newspapers had on the outcome of the general election that swept her to power in 1979 and knew the value of their continued support. John Major widened the scope of the honours system by introducing nominations by members of the public but he too used the system and Tony Blair has been no different – except that he cunningly honoured the then editors of the two major Tory broadsheets, Max Hastings of the
Daily Telegraph
and Peter Stothard of
The Times.