By Pamela Hicks
When she was a young woman, my cousin the Queen loved to whirl round the dance floor. I know this because she came to stay with my family in Malta in 1950 and she and I shared a party for her 24th birthday and my 21st.
We had Scottish reels and country dances and the vivacious Princess Elizabeth, as she then was, threw herself into the fun and danced extremely well.
For a brief period, during that time she spent with us, she was able to live a normal life with her husband, Prince Philip. They ate at home with us or we all went out for dinner and more dancing. When they wanted to be alone, they would drive out around the island in a little Hillman car, just the two of them.
The Queen and Prince Philip dancing at a fancy dress in Ottawa in 1951
Lady Pamela adjusts Queen Elizabeth's stole at the Royal Ball in Melbourne, March 1954
When the time came for her to return to England, my mother, Edwina Mountbatten, remarked that it was like putting a little bird back in its gilded cage. All too soon, the carefree young princess’s dancing days would be over.
I’d known the Royal Family all my life. They were our relatives. My father, Louis (later Lord) Mountbatten was a second cousin of the King, George VI, and I grew up going on outings with ‘Lilibet’, as I knew her, and her younger sister, Princess Margaret Rose.
He was the son of my father’s sister, Princess Alice of Greece, and I remember him coming to stay with us in the summer of 1938, when I was nine.
Philip was such good fun and the inspiration behind all the naughty, boisterous games we played.
It became clear, however, that his heart was set not on me but on Lilibet, a romance which began in the summer of 1939 and flourished in secret during the war.
I was present when the world got the first inkling of their love for each other. It was my older sister Patricia’s wedding in October 1946, at which I was one of the bridesmaids, and the ceremony was at Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, close to our family home at Broadlands. It poured non-stop that day.
When they reached the door of the Abbey, Princess Elizabeth turned to Philip and he casually reached over and took her coat. The watching Press glimpsed an air of ease and understanding between the pair, and royal gossip went into overdrive.
I was back on bridesmaid duties again for their wedding a little more than a year later in November, 1947. The night before the royal wedding there was a grand reception and ball at which kings and queens who hadn’t seen each other for six years because of the war were reunited.
Down time: The Queen takes a photograph during a tiger shoot arranged by King Mahendra of Nepal on a state visit
Private emotions: Queen Elizabeth holding Prince Andrew
The next day was a frenzy of activity as we all got ready in Buckingham Palace. There were eight of us bridesmaids and it took a small army of dressers to get us into our Norman Hartnell gowns of tulle and white satin.
People may imagine that big royal events go like clockwork. They do not. There was a moment of panic when, as the bride’s veil was being fitted, her tiara broke. An aide was bundled into a taxi and sent hurrying to the jeweller’s.
Then more consternation broke out as the pearls the princess wanted to wear went missing. After a frantic search, someone remembered they had been put on public display with the other wedding presents at St James’s Palace. Another aide was dispatched.
Then, just as the bride was about to leave, her bouquet could not be found, and there was a lot of rushing around until it turned up. It had been popped in a cupboard to remain fresh — and forgotten.
Yet throughout all this mayhem, the bride was totally unflustered. As ever.
My friendship with the royal couple continued after the wedding. I remember a particular rowdy weekend with Prince Philip, his sister Tiny and her husband, Prince George of Hanover. After dinner, Philip did a wonderful imitation of a coy lady preparing for a bath, complete with imaginary slipping towel.
It was not long after that they stayed with us in Malta.
The couple enjoyed themselves immensely, but, as my mother feared, their carefree days were numbered — and I was a witness to that moment, too.
In 1952, I set off with them on a royal tour of the Commonwealth as one of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting. She was undertaking the tour in place of her parents. The King had been ill for some time and had recently had an operation to remove a tumour from his left lung.
On a cold morning on the last day of January 1952, the King came to see us off at the airport, against the advice of his doctors. I was struck by how frail he looked as he waved goodbye to his daughter.
Also among the entourage were Martin Charteris, her private secretary, and Mike Parker, Prince Philip’s private secretary. But the queen bee was Bobo MacDonald, the princess’s dresser.
She had started out as the princess’s nursery maid and had been with her ever since. If Bobo was upset, the princess was upset, so we all took great care to stay on her good side. The first stop was Kenya. After a few days of cheering children, hospital and church visits and receptions in the capital, Nairobi, we travelled to a fishing lodge in the mountains.
On our third evening we set off for Treetops, a tree-house-turned-hotel built in the fork of a huge, 300-year-old fig tree. Way out in the African bush, it had a view over a large waterhole, where every type of wild animal came to drink. The last quarter of a mile had to be made on foot down a track also used by the animals. We were told to walk in total silence.
We went in single file. Our guide pointed out ladders nailed to worryingly small trees every 50 yards. They would be our escape route if a dangerous animal suddenly appeared.
‘The safe height is 10ft for rhino and buffalo but 20ft for an elephant,’ he hissed. Mike Parker whispered in my ear: ‘Pammy, if you have to climb one of those things and feel someone overtaking you, it will be me!’
But we got up into the tree house safely, despite a belligerent-looking elephant just a few feet away. It turned out that a crack-shot hunter was hidden in the undergrowth, just in case.
Treetops was very simple, with four small bedrooms and an observation balcony. Just before our arrival, baboons had stolen rolls of lavatory paper from the minuscule loo and now the branches were festooned with swags of white.
That night, we watched a procession of animals coming to the waterhole. But, as we chuckled at the sight of baby elephants blowing water from their trunks over the monkeys, little did we realise that 4,000 miles away in England, the 56-year-old King was dying in his sleep.
The princess who had climbed up the ladder at Treetops came down the next day as a Queen — though, at the time, none of us knew it.
We left Treetops that morning and drove to the fishing lodge, oblivious of the news that the rest of the world already knew. We finished lunch. Prince Philip was dozing on his bed and the princess was in her sitting room writing to her father to tell him about all the wonderful sights she had seen.
Quite by chance, Martin Charteris was in the nearby town and heard a report that the King had died. He tried to telephone Buckingham Palace for confirmation but could not get through. He then rang Mike at the lodge, who realised the only way they were going to find out for sure was to tune into the radio.
The problem was that the only set was in the princess’s sitting room.
Mike managed to sneak in and get it without her noticing. After a few minutes of static and frantic tuning, we finally made out the faint sound of the solemn music with which the BBC had replaced all its programmes and the tolling of Big Ben.
Breaking the news was done with great gentleness. Mike went straight in to tell Prince Philip, who lifted up his newspaper to cover his face in a gesture of despair. ‘This will be such a blow,’ was all he said.
Then Philip walked into the sitting room and asked his wife to come with him into the garden. Mike and I watched them on the lawn as they walked together slowly, up and down, up and down. My heart went out to her. I knew how much the princess loved her father and how much he had adored her.
When they returned, I instinctively gave her a hug. But then, remembering that she was now Queen, I quickly dropped into a deep curtsy.
She remained completely calm and said simply: ‘I am so sorry. This means we all have to go home.’
I couldn’t believe the King had died. We had all imagined that it would be at least 20 years before the princess succeeded her father to the throne. But our shock and grief was put to one side. There was business to attend to.
The new Queen returned to her desk to approve telegrams that Martin had drafted for Prime Minister Winston Churchill and the governors-general of the Commonwealth countries.
Mike began making arrangements for our journey back while Bobo threw things into suitcases. Since there was nothing suitable for mourning, the Queen had to wear a beige dress with a white hat. But word was sent ahead for a black coat, handbag and shoes to be found for her so she could arrive home suitably dressed.
Within two hours, we were ready to leave. As we drove to a small local airport, 40 miles away, villagers lined the roads, calling out ‘Shauri mbaya kabisa’ (‘the very worst has happened’). At the airport, Mike asked the Press not to take photographs, and every one of them stood to attention, box cameras at their feet, in a mark of respect.
We flew to Entebbe in Uganda, where the royal plane, a BOAC Argonaut, was waiting for us. But a severe electric storm grounded us, and the Queen had to sit waiting for two hours under the gaze of officials. I felt so sorry for her as she made polite conversation at a time when her heart must have been breaking with grief.
When we finally took off, she and Philip retired to their cabin at the rear of the aircraft and she was at last able to have a good cry in his arms.
It was late afternoon the next day when we landed at Heathrow. As we waited to disembark, the Queen peered over my shoulder, looking for her private car but seeing only the huge black royal limousines in morbid ranks. ‘Oh,’ she said, softly and slowly ‘they have sent the hearses.’
I was suddenly conscious that the private life of this 25-year-old woman had come to an abrupt end. From now on, she would never be able to escape the public eye.
On June 2 the following year, the world witnessed the most public of coronations, broadcast for the first time live on television to an estimated 40 million people. I was there in Westminster Abbey, and I was struck by how young, vulnerable and alone the Queen appeared as the Archbishop of Canterbury anointed her. But though she looked fragile, the certainty in her voice as she said her vows was inspiring.
It was a blessing that she had Prince Philip. As the abbey resounded with the dramatic and thunderous acclamation of ‘Long Live the Queen!’ he was the first to pay obeisance to her, bowing and kissing her cheek.
I listened intently that evening as the Queen made a speech to her subjects around the world. ‘Throughout my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust,’ she vowed. ‘In this resolve I have my husband to support me. He shares my ideals and my affection for you.’
As I listened, I knew from everything I had seen of my two cousins over the years that this was absolutely true. Philip would be her godsend over the next six decades and more. As one New Zealander told me on a subsequent tour: ‘The best investment that the Royal Family has ever made in all its history is the Duke of Edinburgh.’
On that trip, as the Queen sought to come to terms with her new, onerous role, she performed her duties so conscientiously that she put the rest of us to shame. But one thing did not return on that tour. Dancing, she ruled, was out of the question (in public, at least).
Her reason was that if she did dance she would be devoting a considerable amount of time to one man, whereas if she stuck to talking and mingling, she could have a few words with a large number — which was her job.
She loved dancing, but she was now Queen and those days were sadly over.
WHEN SHE was a young woman, my cousin the Queen loved to whirl round the dance floor. I know this because she came to stay with my family in Malta in 1950 and she and I shared a party for her 24th birthday and my 21st.
We had Scottish reels and country dances and the vivacious Princess Elizabeth, as she then was, threw herself into the fun and danced extremely well.
For a brief period, during that time she spent with us, she was able to live a normal life with her husband, Prince Philip. They ate at home with us or we all went out for dinner and more dancing. When they wanted to be alone, they would drive out around the island in a little Hillman car, just the two of them.
These were simple pleasures that most young couples could take for granted, but not the heir to the throne.
When the time came for her to return to England, my mother, Edwina Mountbatten, remarked that it was like putting a little bird back in its gilded cage. All too soon, the carefree young princess’s dancing days would be over.
I’d known the Royal Family all my life. They were our relatives. My father, Louis (later Lord) Mountbatten was a second cousin of the King, George VI, and I grew up going on outings with ‘Lilibet’, as I knew her, and her younger sister, Princess Margaret Rose.
But it was another of my cousins, Philip Mountbatten, whom I adored being with most. He was eight years older than me and I hero-worshipped him. He was the son of my father’s sister, Princess Alice of Greece, and I remember him coming to stay with us in the summer of 1938, when I was nine.
Philip was such good fun and the inspiration behind all the naughty, boisterous games we played.
It became clear, however, that his heart was set not on me but on Lilibet, a romance which began in the summer of 1939 and flourished in secret during the war.
I was present when the world got the first inkling of their love for each other. It was my older sister Patricia’s wedding in October 1946, at which I was one of the bridesmaids, and the ceremony was at Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, close to our family home at Broadlands. It poured non-stop that day.
When they reached the door of the Abbey, Princess Elizabeth turned to Philip and he casually reached over and took her coat. The watching Press glimpsed an air of ease and understanding between the pair, and royal gossip went into overdrive.
I was back on bridesmaid duties again for their wedding a little more than a year later in November, 1947. The night before the royal wedding there was a grand reception and ball at which kings and queens who hadn’t seen each other for six years because of the war were reunited.
Crown Princess Juliana of the Netherlands caused a stir by remarking that ‘Everyone’s jewellery is so dirty’. To me it was just remarkable that all those royal jewels had survived at all.
The next day was a frenzy of activity as we all got ready in Buckingham Palace. There were eight of us bridesmaids and it took a small army of dressers to get us into our Norman Hartnell gowns of tulle and white satin.
People may imagine that big royal events go like clockwork. They do not. There was a moment of panic when, as the bride’s veil was being fitted, her tiara broke. An aide was bundled into a taxi and sent hurrying to the jeweller’s.
Then more consternation broke out as the pearls the princess wanted to wear went missing. After a frantic search, someone remembered they had been put on public display with the other wedding presents at St James’s Palace. Another aide was dispatched.
Then, just as the bride was about to leave, her bouquet could not be found, and there was a lot of rushing around until it turned up. It had been popped in a cupboard to remain fresh — and forgotten.
Yet throughout all this mayhem, the bride was totally unflustered. As ever.
My friendship with the royal couple continued after the wedding. I remember a particular rowdy weekend with Prince Philip, his sister Tiny and her husband, Prince George of Hanover. After dinner, Philip did a wonderful imitation of a coy lady preparing for a bath, complete with imaginary slipping towel.
It was not long after that they stayed with us in Malta.
The couple enjoyed themselves immensely, but, as my mother feared, their carefree days were numbered — and I was a witness to that moment, too.
In 1952, I set off with them on a royal tour of the Commonwealth as one of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting. She was undertaking the tour in place of her parents. The King had been ill for some time and had recently had an operation to remove a tumour from his left lung.
On a cold morning on the last day of January 1952, the King came to see us off at the airport, against the advice of his doctors. I was struck by how frail he looked as he waved goodbye to his daughter.
Also among the entourage were Martin Charteris, her private secretary, and Mike Parker, Prince Philip’s private secretary. But the queen bee was Bobo MacDonald, the princess’s dresser.
She had started out as the princess’s nursery maid and had been with her ever since. If Bobo was upset, the princess was upset, so we all took great care to stay on her good side. The first stop was Kenya. After a few days of cheering children, hospital and church visits and receptions in the capital, Nairobi, we travelled to a fishing lodge in the mountains.
On our third evening we set off for Treetops, a tree-house-turned-hotel built in the fork of a huge, 300-year-old fig tree. Way out in the African bush, it had a view over a large waterhole, where every type of wild animal came to drink. The last quarter of a mile had to be made on foot down a track also used by the animals. We were told to walk in total silence.
We went in single file. Our guide pointed out ladders nailed to worryingly small trees every 50 yards. They would be our escape route if a dangerous animal suddenly appeared.
‘The safe height is 10ft for rhino and buffalo but 20ft for an elephant,’ he hissed. Mike Parker whispered in my ear: ‘Pammy, if you have to climb one of those things and feel someone overtaking you, it will be me!’
But we got up into the tree house safely, despite a belligerent-looking elephant just a few feet away. It turned out that a crack-shot hunter was hidden in the undergrowth, just in case.
Treetops was very simple, with four small bedrooms and an observation balcony. Just before our arrival, baboons had stolen rolls of lavatory paper from the minuscule loo and now the branches were festooned with swags of white.
That night, we watched a procession of animals coming to the waterhole. But, as we chuckled at the sight of baby elephants blowing water from their trunks over the monkeys, little did we realise that 4,000 miles away in England, the 56-year-old King was dying in his sleep.
The princess who had climbed up the ladder at Treetops came down the next day as a Queen — though, at the time, none of us knew it.
We left Treetops that morning and drove to the fishing lodge, oblivious of the news that the rest of the world already knew. We finished lunch. Prince Philip was dozing on his bed and the princess was in her sitting room writing to her father to tell him about all the wonderful sights she had seen.
Quite by chance, Martin Charteris was in the nearby town and heard a report that the King had died. He tried to telephone Buckingham Palace for confirmation but could not get through. He then rang Mike at the lodge, who realised the only way they were going to find out for sure was to tune into the radio.
The problem was that the only set was in the princess’s sitting room.
Mike managed to sneak in and get it without her noticing. After a few minutes of static and frantic tuning, we finally made out the faint sound of the solemn music with which the BBC had replaced all its programmes and the tolling of Big Ben.
Breaking the news was done with great gentleness. Mike went straight in to tell Prince Philip, who lifted up his newspaper to cover his face in a gesture of despair. ‘This will be such a blow,’ was all he said.
Then Philip walked into the sitting room and asked his wife to come with him into the garden. Mike and I watched them on the lawn as they walked together slowly, up and down, up and down. My heart went out to her. I knew how much the princess loved her father and how much he had adored her.
When they returned, I instinctively gave her a hug. But then, remembering that she was now Queen, I quickly dropped into a deep curtsy.
She remained completely calm and said simply: ‘I am so sorry. This means we all have to go home.’
I couldn’t believe the King had died. We had all imagined that it would be at least 20 years before the princess succeeded her father to the throne. But our shock and grief was put to one side. There was business to attend to.
The new Queen returned to her desk to approve telegrams that Martin had drafted for Prime Minister Winston Churchill and the governors-general of the Commonwealth countries.
Mike began making arrangements for our journey back while Bobo threw things into suitcases. Since there was nothing suitable for mourning, the Queen had to wear a beige dress with a white hat. But word was sent ahead for a black coat, handbag and shoes to be found for her so she could arrive home suitably dressed.
Within two hours, we were ready to leave. As we drove to a small local airport, 40 miles away, villagers lined the roads, calling out ‘Shauri mbaya kabisa’ (‘the very worst has happened’). At the airport, Mike asked the Press not to take photographs, and every one of them stood to attention, box cameras at their feet, in a mark of respect.
We flew to Entebbe in Uganda, where the royal plane, a BOAC Argonaut, was waiting for us. But a severe electric storm grounded us, and the Queen had to sit waiting for two hours under the gaze of officials. I felt so sorry for her as she made polite conversation at a time when her heart must have been breaking with grief.
When we finally took off, she and Philip retired to their cabin at the rear of the aircraft and she was at last able to have a good cry in his arms.
It was late afternoon the next day when we landed at Heathrow. As we waited to disembark, the Queen peered over my shoulder, looking for her private car but seeing only the huge black royal limousines in morbid ranks. ‘Oh,’ she said, softly and slowly ‘they have sent the hearses.’
I was suddenly conscious that the private life of this 25-year-old woman had come to an abrupt end. From now on, she would never be able to escape the public eye.
On June 2 the following year, the world witnessed the most public of coronations, broadcast for the first time live on television to an estimated 40 million people. I was there in Westminster Abbey, and I was struck by how young, vulnerable and alone the Queen appeared as the Archbishop of Canterbury anointed her. But though she looked fragile, the certainty in her voice as she said her vows was inspiring.
It was a blessing that she had Prince Philip. As the abbey resounded with the dramatic and thunderous acclamation of ‘Long Live the Queen!’ he was the first to pay obeisance to her, bowing and kissing her cheek.
I listened intently that evening as the Queen made a speech to her subjects around the world. ‘Throughout my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust,’ she vowed. ‘In this resolve I have my husband to support me. He shares my ideals and my affection for you.’
As I listened, I knew from everything I had seen of my two cousins over the years that this was absolutely true. Philip would be her godsend over the next six decades and more. As one New Zealander told me on a subsequent tour: ‘The best investment that the Royal Family has ever made in all its history is the Duke of Edinburgh.’
On that trip, as the Queen sought to come to terms with her new, onerous role, she performed her duties so conscientiously that she put the rest of us to shame. But one thing did not return on that tour. Dancing, she ruled, was out of the question (in public, at least).
Her reason was that if she did dance she would be devoting a considerable amount of time to one man, whereas if she stuck to talking and mingling, she could have a few words with a large number — which was her job.
She loved dancing, but she was now Queen and those days were sadly over.
We had Scottish reels and country dances and the vivacious Princess Elizabeth, as she then was, threw herself into the fun and danced extremely well.
For a brief period, during that time she spent with us, she was able to live a normal life with her husband, Prince Philip. They ate at home with us or we all went out for dinner and more dancing. When they wanted to be alone, they would drive out around the island in a little Hillman car, just the two of them.
These were simple pleasures that most young couples could take for granted, but not the heir to the throne.
When the time came for her to return to England, my mother, Edwina Mountbatten, remarked that it was like putting a little bird back in its gilded cage. All too soon, the carefree young princess’s dancing days would be over.
I’d known the Royal Family all my life. They were our relatives. My father, Louis (later Lord) Mountbatten was a second cousin of the King, George VI, and I grew up going on outings with ‘Lilibet’, as I knew her, and her younger sister, Princess Margaret Rose.
But it was another of my cousins, Philip Mountbatten, whom I adored being with most. He was eight years older than me and I hero-worshipped him. He was the son of my father’s sister, Princess Alice of Greece, and I remember him coming to stay with us in the summer of 1938, when I was nine.
Philip was such good fun and the inspiration behind all the naughty, boisterous games we played.
It became clear, however, that his heart was set not on me but on Lilibet, a romance which began in the summer of 1939 and flourished in secret during the war.
I was present when the world got the first inkling of their love for each other. It was my older sister Patricia’s wedding in October 1946, at which I was one of the bridesmaids, and the ceremony was at Romsey Abbey in Hampshire, close to our family home at Broadlands. It poured non-stop that day.
When they reached the door of the Abbey, Princess Elizabeth turned to Philip and he casually reached over and took her coat. The watching Press glimpsed an air of ease and understanding between the pair, and royal gossip went into overdrive.
I was back on bridesmaid duties again for their wedding a little more than a year later in November, 1947. The night before the royal wedding there was a grand reception and ball at which kings and queens who hadn’t seen each other for six years because of the war were reunited.
Crown Princess Juliana of the Netherlands caused a stir by remarking that ‘Everyone’s jewellery is so dirty’. To me it was just remarkable that all those royal jewels had survived at all.
The next day was a frenzy of activity as we all got ready in Buckingham Palace. There were eight of us bridesmaids and it took a small army of dressers to get us into our Norman Hartnell gowns of tulle and white satin.
People may imagine that big royal events go like clockwork. They do not. There was a moment of panic when, as the bride’s veil was being fitted, her tiara broke. An aide was bundled into a taxi and sent hurrying to the jeweller’s.
Then more consternation broke out as the pearls the princess wanted to wear went missing. After a frantic search, someone remembered they had been put on public display with the other wedding presents at St James’s Palace. Another aide was dispatched.
Then, just as the bride was about to leave, her bouquet could not be found, and there was a lot of rushing around until it turned up. It had been popped in a cupboard to remain fresh — and forgotten.
Yet throughout all this mayhem, the bride was totally unflustered. As ever.
My friendship with the royal couple continued after the wedding. I remember a particular rowdy weekend with Prince Philip, his sister Tiny and her husband, Prince George of Hanover. After dinner, Philip did a wonderful imitation of a coy lady preparing for a bath, complete with imaginary slipping towel.
It was not long after that they stayed with us in Malta.
The couple enjoyed themselves immensely, but, as my mother feared, their carefree days were numbered — and I was a witness to that moment, too.
In 1952, I set off with them on a royal tour of the Commonwealth as one of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting. She was undertaking the tour in place of her parents. The King had been ill for some time and had recently had an operation to remove a tumour from his left lung.
On a cold morning on the last day of January 1952, the King came to see us off at the airport, against the advice of his doctors. I was struck by how frail he looked as he waved goodbye to his daughter.
Also among the entourage were Martin Charteris, her private secretary, and Mike Parker, Prince Philip’s private secretary. But the queen bee was Bobo MacDonald, the princess’s dresser.
She had started out as the princess’s nursery maid and had been with her ever since. If Bobo was upset, the princess was upset, so we all took great care to stay on her good side. The first stop was Kenya. After a few days of cheering children, hospital and church visits and receptions in the capital, Nairobi, we travelled to a fishing lodge in the mountains.
On our third evening we set off for Treetops, a tree-house-turned-hotel built in the fork of a huge, 300-year-old fig tree. Way out in the African bush, it had a view over a large waterhole, where every type of wild animal came to drink. The last quarter of a mile had to be made on foot down a track also used by the animals. We were told to walk in total silence.
We went in single file. Our guide pointed out ladders nailed to worryingly small trees every 50 yards. They would be our escape route if a dangerous animal suddenly appeared.
‘The safe height is 10ft for rhino and buffalo but 20ft for an elephant,’ he hissed. Mike Parker whispered in my ear: ‘Pammy, if you have to climb one of those things and feel someone overtaking you, it will be me!’
But we got up into the tree house safely, despite a belligerent-looking elephant just a few feet away. It turned out that a crack-shot hunter was hidden in the undergrowth, just in case.
Treetops was very simple, with four small bedrooms and an observation balcony. Just before our arrival, baboons had stolen rolls of lavatory paper from the minuscule loo and now the branches were festooned with swags of white.
That night, we watched a procession of animals coming to the waterhole. But, as we chuckled at the sight of baby elephants blowing water from their trunks over the monkeys, little did we realise that 4,000 miles away in England, the 56-year-old King was dying in his sleep.
The princess who had climbed up the ladder at Treetops came down the next day as a Queen — though, at the time, none of us knew it.
We left Treetops that morning and drove to the fishing lodge, oblivious of the news that the rest of the world already knew. We finished lunch. Prince Philip was dozing on his bed and the princess was in her sitting room writing to her father to tell him about all the wonderful sights she had seen.
Quite by chance, Martin Charteris was in the nearby town and heard a report that the King had died. He tried to telephone Buckingham Palace for confirmation but could not get through. He then rang Mike at the lodge, who realised the only way they were going to find out for sure was to tune into the radio.
The problem was that the only set was in the princess’s sitting room.
Mike managed to sneak in and get it without her noticing. After a few minutes of static and frantic tuning, we finally made out the faint sound of the solemn music with which the BBC had replaced all its programmes and the tolling of Big Ben.
Breaking the news was done with great gentleness. Mike went straight in to tell Prince Philip, who lifted up his newspaper to cover his face in a gesture of despair. ‘This will be such a blow,’ was all he said.
Then Philip walked into the sitting room and asked his wife to come with him into the garden. Mike and I watched them on the lawn as they walked together slowly, up and down, up and down. My heart went out to her. I knew how much the princess loved her father and how much he had adored her.
When they returned, I instinctively gave her a hug. But then, remembering that she was now Queen, I quickly dropped into a deep curtsy.
She remained completely calm and said simply: ‘I am so sorry. This means we all have to go home.’
I couldn’t believe the King had died. We had all imagined that it would be at least 20 years before the princess succeeded her father to the throne. But our shock and grief was put to one side. There was business to attend to.
The new Queen returned to her desk to approve telegrams that Martin had drafted for Prime Minister Winston Churchill and the governors-general of the Commonwealth countries.
Mike began making arrangements for our journey back while Bobo threw things into suitcases. Since there was nothing suitable for mourning, the Queen had to wear a beige dress with a white hat. But word was sent ahead for a black coat, handbag and shoes to be found for her so she could arrive home suitably dressed.
Within two hours, we were ready to leave. As we drove to a small local airport, 40 miles away, villagers lined the roads, calling out ‘Shauri mbaya kabisa’ (‘the very worst has happened’). At the airport, Mike asked the Press not to take photographs, and every one of them stood to attention, box cameras at their feet, in a mark of respect.
We flew to Entebbe in Uganda, where the royal plane, a BOAC Argonaut, was waiting for us. But a severe electric storm grounded us, and the Queen had to sit waiting for two hours under the gaze of officials. I felt so sorry for her as she made polite conversation at a time when her heart must have been breaking with grief.
When we finally took off, she and Philip retired to their cabin at the rear of the aircraft and she was at last able to have a good cry in his arms.
It was late afternoon the next day when we landed at Heathrow. As we waited to disembark, the Queen peered over my shoulder, looking for her private car but seeing only the huge black royal limousines in morbid ranks. ‘Oh,’ she said, softly and slowly ‘they have sent the hearses.’
I was suddenly conscious that the private life of this 25-year-old woman had come to an abrupt end. From now on, she would never be able to escape the public eye.
On June 2 the following year, the world witnessed the most public of coronations, broadcast for the first time live on television to an estimated 40 million people. I was there in Westminster Abbey, and I was struck by how young, vulnerable and alone the Queen appeared as the Archbishop of Canterbury anointed her. But though she looked fragile, the certainty in her voice as she said her vows was inspiring.
It was a blessing that she had Prince Philip. As the abbey resounded with the dramatic and thunderous acclamation of ‘Long Live the Queen!’ he was the first to pay obeisance to her, bowing and kissing her cheek.
I listened intently that evening as the Queen made a speech to her subjects around the world. ‘Throughout my life and with all my heart I shall strive to be worthy of your trust,’ she vowed. ‘In this resolve I have my husband to support me. He shares my ideals and my affection for you.’
As I listened, I knew from everything I had seen of my two cousins over the years that this was absolutely true. Philip would be her godsend over the next six decades and more. As one New Zealander told me on a subsequent tour: ‘The best investment that the Royal Family has ever made in all its history is the Duke of Edinburgh.’
On that trip, as the Queen sought to come to terms with her new, onerous role, she performed her duties so conscientiously that she put the rest of us to shame. But one thing did not return on that tour. Dancing, she ruled, was out of the question (in public, at least).
Her reason was that if she did dance she would be devoting a considerable amount of time to one man, whereas if she stuck to talking and mingling, she could have a few words with a large number — which was her job.
She loved dancing, but she was now Queen and those days were sadly over.
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