Later, I gave up the unequal struggle with my needle and thread and tackled the last of my chores for the evening. I phoned the Princess, as we had agreed I would. I imagined her at KP making her own last-minute preparations for departure in the morning. It seemed harder to imagine her waiting expectantly for me to phone.
This would not be an easy call, I thought, as I dialled the familiar number. The agreement was that I would tell her how I was getting on in general and, in particular, what she could expect to find when she finally stepped off the plane in Kuwait. She knew the programme was liable to change at short notice and, like any element of uncertainty in her public life, she found that very unsettling.
Should I tell her the changes I had been forced to agree to on my own initiative? Pre-tour morale – hers and mine – was fragile and I had no wish to incur her severe displeasure at this late stage. If I just presented her with a fait accompli when she arrived, however, I might face accusations of keeping her in the dark – a cardinal sin, if sometimes a necessary one. Perhaps I could fudge it…
‘Patrick!’ came a breathy voice. ‘I thought you must have fallen down an oil well. Where have you been?’ She giggled expectantly.
This was terrible. Often it was worse if she was nice. Goodwill expenditure was carefully noted in the royal ledger and there was usually a price to be paid sooner or later. Still, it might be worth testing. Should I tell her that new joke about the camel who applied for a sex change? Or would any sign of levity be seen as damning proof that I had been living the life of Riley in the sunshine?
‘Did you hear the one about the camel who—’
‘Patrick! I haven’t time for your smutty jokes now. Have you managed to sort the programme out? Assuming you haven’t been sitting by the pool all day.’
‘Well, there are a few small changes …’ I explained them briefly. The silence on the other end of the line was heavy with disapproval. When I had finished my excuses her voice acquired an ominous tone of reproach.
‘Patrick! All that extra work, and after such a long flight. We’ll be on our knees.’ It always switched to ‘we’ when she was trying to imply that I – or life in general – was being unfair.
‘Yes, Ma’am, but it’s serious stuff – it’s not just something to keep you occupied while the Prince does the grown-up bits – and it’ll give the press something to write about apart from what you’re wearing.’
There was a pause, and then a sigh. ‘So what you’re telling me, Patrick, is: “Shut up, Diana, and do your job.”’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that …’
‘Ha! I know you wouldn’t. All right, Patrick – I’ll do what my male nanny tells me.’
‘Thank you, Ma’am.’ Hmm. Male nanny. It could be worse. It was certainly worth a facetious parting shot. ‘Have a nice flight.’
The reply was a violent raspberry.
In the event, of course, everything did work – at least as far as most people could see. The royal VC-10 whistled to an ear-splitting halt precisely on time, raising the curtain on a show essentially as old as diplomacy itself. The stars smiled for the cameras, spoke their lines and performed their routines with the charm and ease the world had come to expect. The machinery we had laboured to set up whirred into action and carried us all along on a conveyor belt of engagements, each a one-act play before an audience as faithful to the script as we were.
Nobody saw the little dramas behind the scenes. Nothing stirred a ripple on the smooth public surface of the tour. There were no cameras to snap the Princess testing her mattress by bouncing on it. Nobody recorded the staff’s impromptu late-night revue, complete with the butler’s impersonation routine that had us crying tears of laughter into our whisky. No outsiders, fortunately, witnessed the other tears and tantrums that inevitably erupted from time to time in our highly strung party far from its home base.
In fact, memorably, it was an outsider – a hysterical military attaché – who caused one of the greatest dramas by threatening a soldier in our team with court martial for insubordination. The poor, choleric colonel did not realize that the offender was a vital part of the royal support system and hence beyond the reach of normal military censure. Later, he recovered sufficiently to try to wheedle an official portrait photo of the Prince and Princess out of me. These trinkets had a remarkable attraction for some people and I could see the attaché’s mantelpiece was not going to be complete without this happy snap. There were real tears in his eyes as I explained that he was not on his Ambassador’s list of those deemed worthy of such recognition.
Disaster always seemed a hair’s-breadth away. Usually the crises were self-inflicted, as with our departure from Bahrein. Until that point the whistle-stop visit for lunch with the ruler had lived up to its expectations as a stress-free interlude between the exertions of Kuwait and the Emirates. Everything had gone smoothly and we returned to the airport to resume our journey in a state approaching euphoria. The accompanying party were already installed back on the VC-10 and I could see their faces pressed against the portholes as they looked down at the departure ceremony at the foot of the aircraft steps.
With a final wave to their host, the Prince and Princess started to climb the steps to the forward door of the aircraft. The remaining members of the party, me included, hurried up our own set of stairs to the doorway further aft (a sensible piece of aeronautical class distinction for which the venerable VC-10 might have been specifically designed). Speed took precedence over dignity, because we knew that slick RAF practice demanded that the engines should be started as soon as the senior VIP passengers were aboard. Any underlings following in their wake had therefore better look sharp or be left behind.
Sure enough, as we clattered up the last few steps I heard the first of the four Conway jets start to whine into life. Suddenly there was an urgent call from below. ‘Patrick!’ I turned round. At the bottom of the steps one of the local Embassy staff was holding out a suitcase. Had I forgotten something? I racked my brains, ready to blush at the thought of some duty not done.
Then it hit me. The watches! This was the almost mythical bonus that awaited members of royal tour parties visiting certain countries where ancient customs of hospitality had survived into a more material age. The suitcase was filled with gold, cunningly disguised as wristwatches, and each member of the accompanying party, down to the most humble secretary, expected his or her share of the windfall. No wonder their noses had been pressed to the windows as my car drew up. I had almost forgotten the most important piece of luggage of them all.
Quickly I turned and ran back down the steps to the ground. Fervently thanking my guardian angel, I started the return climb to the beckoning doorway, swag secure in my clammy hand. Imagine going down in history as The Equerry Who Forgot The Rolexes…
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the forward door was now firmly closed and a party of soldiers was hurriedly rolling the red carpet back towards the ceremonial dais from which our hosts were waving a final farewell. In my ears the Conways were rising to a crescendo. I did not have a second to spare.
With a final heave, I reached the platform at the top of the steps and thrust the suitcase at a large RAF figure who was blocking the doorway. ‘Quick, take this!’ The figure did not move. What was the matter with the idiot? ‘Hurry up! They’re waiting for us to go!’ I shouted above the steady roar of the jets. I could sense a dozen sets of eyes burning resentfully into my back. This stupid naval officer was delaying everything and spoiling the perfection of their departure ceremony. And what is the problem with our suitcase? Are our gifts unworthy?
The RAF figure was quite oblivious. ‘Has this item been security cleared?’ it asked impassively.
Still standing exposed on the platform, I felt a sudden rush of exasperated anger. ‘Of course it bloody well hasn’t! It’s a gift from the Emir and he’s watching us right now wondering what the f***’s the matter with it!’
‘I don’t care who it’s from,’ said the