Elizabeth the Queen (35 page)

The second lunar launch coincided with Prince Charles’s twenty-first birthday, which his mother marked with a grand ball at Windsor Castle for four hundred guests. It was a high-spirited celebration, and the Queen danced in her stocking feet past midnight. One party crasher, an Oxford undergraduate, scaled a garden wall and joined a group of guests. The Queen saw him and recalled that “he was so drunk that he couldn’t say anything apart from a few incivilities.” Yet after the police arrested the young man, who turned out to be an excellent student, she forgave his act of bravado. She said she hoped that he would not be expelled from college, and would only be “severely reprimanded and frightened.”

The Windsor gala had been the handiwork of Patrick Plunket, 7th Baron Plunket, since 1954 the Queen’s Deputy Master of the Household, who was one of her closest advisers as well as a friend since childhood. Three years older than the Queen, Plunket was a lifelong bachelor, always immaculately turned out, with military bearing and an impish grin. As the coordinator of the Queen’s private social life, he had impeccable taste. He liked to fill Windsor Castle with imaginative floral arrangements incorporating zinnias, nicotiana, and alchemilla with peonies and tall white delphiniums, all dramatically spot-lit. “You must have emptied every greenhouse in Windsor Great Park,” Elizabeth II once said to him. “Very nearly,” he replied. “There’s a little bit left.”

Under Plunket’s watch, Elizabeth II’s guest lists expanded to include names from the artistic world—“people who never in the past would have been there,” recalled a long-serving lady-in-waiting. He was a key adviser in creating a trendy mix for the Queen’s informal luncheons at Buckingham Palace, and he even injected some variety into her weekend shooting parties. “He knew everybody and things like who Princess Margaret didn’t like and who she shouldn’t sit next to at dinner,” said Margaret Rhodes.

But Plunket had a less obvious role as well, of equal importance to the Queen, that was grounded in their deep friendship. Plunket’s parents, Teddy and Dorothé, who had been close to George VI and Elizabeth, had died in 1938 in an airplane crash. Plunket was just fifteen when he and his two younger brothers were orphaned, and the King and Queen took a strong interest in their upbringing. After Eton and Cambridge, Plunket served as an officer in the Irish Guards during World War II and was wounded in Belgium in 1944.

On his return to London, the King made him his equerry, and when Princess Elizabeth became Queen, she immediately asked Plunket to stay on and serve her as well. “She realized quickly that Patrick was someone she could depend on,” recalled his brother Shaun Plunket. “He had a wonderful memory for names and faces, plus the knack of good judgment and an amazing instinct for the right and wrong thing to do, and she relied on that.” In a household where many aides avoided delivering uncomfortable truths, Plunket spoke frankly to the woman he called “my boss”—“often with a smile, and she would smile back,” said Shaun.

A connoisseur with several Rubenses in his collection of paintings, Plunket also advised the Queen on art purchases. Along with Prince Philip, he was a driving force behind transforming the bombed-out private chapel at Buckingham Palace into the Queen’s Gallery, which exhibited royal artwork to the public for the first time in 1962. He shared his enthusiasm and knowledge with Elizabeth II, who came to appreciate her treasures with a zest evident in her after-dinner tours for guests at Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace.

It was often said he was the brother she never had. He was certainly a trusted confidant. The Queen knew she could talk to him, even about personal matters, and depend on his total discretion. His cousin Lady Annabel Goldsmith called him “a great protector.” If he thought the Queen looked tired, he would say, “Ma’am, do you feel I ought to close this down, or ask someone to close this down?” rather than, “I think you are looking tired.” He always called her “Ma’am,” and understood who she was and where she stood.

Yet he had an irreverent sense of humor perfectly pitched to hers. At ritualized events, Plunket would wink at his friends or nod at them in mock solemnity, sometimes over the Queen’s shoulder. Afterward, he would regale her with stories, such as the time at a garden party when he found a sticky bun containing an entire set of dentures. He lightened the atmosphere and created a sense of fun, dancing with her when Philip was elsewhere, while never usurping her husband’s role. The consort and the courtier enjoyed each other, and Philip was relieved that his wife had someone so capable to consult on matters beyond his own sphere.

With his wit and unstuffy demeanor, Plunket found a kindred spirit in Martin Charteris, who helped create a more open atmosphere around the Queen. The two men had been with Elizabeth II from the beginning, their admiration for her intensifying as their loyalty deepened. They both had country homes, but in London they each lived near the Queen, Plunket in a small bedroom, bathroom, and office in Buckingham Palace, and Charteris in an apartment on Friary Court in St. James’s Palace.

Although he had served only as assistant private secretary for nearly twenty years, Charteris had his fingerprints on every important decision, and he was close to the Queen’s children, particularly Charles, who felt “Martin was someone he could relate to,” said Gay Charteris. But as the 1960s ended, the long-serving courtier figured his career would conclude where it began. Michael Adeane was just three years older, so when he reached retirement age, a promotion to private secretary “would have been too late for Martin,” said his widow.

“One of the pleasant things about the Royal Household,” David Bruce observed early in 1969, “is the admiration entertained by everyone in it for the Queen. I believe this is thoroughly deserved.… The atmosphere of cordiality in which she swims certainly impresses one as being completely genuine.” She holds her employees to high standards, treats them with respect and fairness, only rarely showing anger.

I
N ADDITION TO
her cadre of courtiers, the Queen from the outset has surrounded herself with an equally capable group of ladies-in-waiting, organized into a strict hierarchy, with medieval titles and clearly delineated tasks. They are almost exclusively drawn from the aristocracy, many of them are friends of the royal family, and all have shared interests, inbred caution, an intricate understanding of court etiquette, and sociable personalities.

The “head girl” beginning in 1967 was Fortune FitzRoy, the Duchess of Grafton, the Queen’s Mistress of the Robes, although she had nothing to do with what the monarch wore. The position has historically been held by a duchess, and Fortune took over when the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire retired. Fortune Grafton was an experienced hand, having served in the second echelon as a Lady of the Bedchamber—again, bearing no relationship to the monarch’s bedroom—since 1953. The third tier are called Women of the Bedchamber. Both the second and third levels have “Extra” ladies who are pulled in on special occasions, bringing the typical total to eleven.

As the senior lady-in-waiting, Fortune Grafton accompanies the Queen to the most prestigious events and tours, and the Ladies of the Bedchamber work in rotation at home and abroad, while the Women of the Bedchamber focus primarily on dealing with correspondence as well as attending the Queen on various occasions. All the ladies-in-waiting are adept at circulating through receptions, running interference for their boss by engaging overeager guests in conversation, or arranging for introductions.

The ladies understand—as do the equerries who perform the same duties—that even if Elizabeth II seems to be ignoring them, she always knows where they are. When she directly stares at them, she needs something done. They also know from her body language when she is ready to move along and one of them needs to step in to pick up the conversational thread. Sometimes she may shift her handbag or twirl her ring. The cues are subtle—the result of learning to read her over the years rather than any specific instructions she has given. “There are no set plays,” said one former senior aide. “It is just intuition, like a wife knowing from long experience when her husband is ready to leave a drinks party.”

The ladies-in-waiting have finely tuned antennae for what they call the “Awkward Squad,” those who need to be calmed before meeting the monarch. On receiving lines, they stand ready to hold bouquets and unanticipated gifts pressed into the Queen’s hands. “She will say, ‘Can you cope? If you can’t, get one of the policemen to help you,’ ” said one of her veteran attendants. “She will be given an enormous basket filled with flowers, and she will turn and say, ‘What
are
we going to do with this?’ ”

Most of the time they do their drill perfectly, but when they miss their mark, they can get what Elizabeth, the Countess of Leicester, for twenty years a Lady of the Bedchamber, called “a glare.” Once when Lady Susan Hussey, a Woman of the Bedchamber, began arguing with historian Paul Johnson in a “fierce whisper,” the Queen, who was standing nearby, gave them a “comprehensive monarchical glance” and “said sharply, ‘stop bickering, you two!’ ”

Riding in the car with the Queen, her ladies-in-waiting generally let her take the conversational lead. “It would be ghastly for her to have a talkative lady-in-waiting,” said Esme, the Dowager Countess of Cromer, who was appointed in 1967. “She would have to be thinking about what to do, whom to meet, giving speeches. It would drive her mad to have a wretched woman talking away, so I would keep my mouth shut.”

The ladies-in-waiting often spend long hours on their feet, keeping up with their indefatigable boss, and since they have plenty of money, they can afford to work virtually as volunteers, with token compensation and small allowances for expenses. They can be rivalrous over choice assignments, but they tend to keep their competition among themselves. The point of their position is the honor of serving the monarch, and admission into an exclusive club where it is “easy to relax into luxury,” wrote Frances Campbell-Preston, a lady-in-waiting to the Queen Mother.

While staying in one of the royal residences, they can choose from a pool of lady’s maids to take care of their daily needs, and while on duty at Buckingham Palace, the Queen’s attendants gather in their own sitting room on the second floor, opposite the nursery. Most days they have lunch in the household dining room with the private secretaries, equerries, and other senior officials. In the late afternoon they congregate for tea and drinks in the Equerry’s Room. “We never talked about the Queen and Prince Philip,” recalled Esme Cromer. “Never any complaining, or making observations. We were all very discreet, always. There was no telling stories, ever.”

As with her top advisers, the Queen has always called her ladies-in-waiting and equerries by their Christian names. The staff (never servants, a word she dislikes) such as footmen, maids, and housekeepers go by their surnames, except for the Queen’s closest personal aides, her dresser and her page. Two decades into the Queen’s reign, dresser Bobo MacDonald was sui generis in the Palace hierarchy—a mother figure who had been caring for her boss’s most private needs since she was a baby, generally acknowledged to be the sovereign’s eyes and ears. In Buckingham Palace, the small, bespectacled Scotswoman lived in an apartment above the Queen’s, where she had her meals served by liveried footmen instead of eating with the other staff in the dining room. She styled her wavy hair similarly to Elizabeth II and wore a triple strand of pearls as well as silk dresses tailored by royal couturier Norman Hartnell.

Nobody outside the family could match Bobo’s knowledge of the Queen or the unbroken link to her childhood. They had shared a bedroom until Princess Elizabeth was a teenager, including the war years in Windsor Castle. Bobo had been there for the Queen’s honeymoon, the King’s death, the unfettered idyll in Malta, the months when Philip was traveling, the births of four children, the holidays, the foreign trips. “Bobo could say anything to the Queen, like ‘You look awful in that dress,’ or ‘You can’t wear green,’ ” said Margaret Rhodes. “She was a confidante, very much so.”

Elizabeth II’s principal clothing designers, Norman Hartnell and Hardy Amies, understood that Bobo not only organized the Tuesday afternoon fittings, but that her conservative taste weighed heavily in her employer’s selections. To a certain extent, the Queen viewed her wardrobe as a military officer regards his various uniforms, clothes to be worn as the occasion required. But as Crawfie had observed when Elizabeth II was a princess, she took pleasure in crafting her look. “The sketches were put all over the floor and the rolls of fabric,” recalled Valerie Rouse, a vendeuse for Hardy Amies. “She used to crawl around the floor saying, ‘Well, I’ll have this with that.’ She absolutely knew she didn’t want too many shoulder pads. She didn’t want it too short. She did a lot of sitting down and waving.”

Bobo inclined toward the practical and comfortable, especially in the winter when she fussed about her “little lady” being warm enough. She also considered accessories her bailiwick, particularly the Queen’s boxy handbags that gave the couturiers fits. Bobo developed such a dislike for Amies that when the Queen knighted him she said, “Bobo will give me hell for this.”

Monarch and faithful servant had a tight partnership, but few knew what passed between them, which made Bobo a powerful presence. “She knew everything about the Queen,” said a long-serving footman. “They were stuck with each other. Miss MacDonald was not going to hand anything over to others.” Nearly everybody—from the Lord Chamberlain to the housemaids—was intimidated by Bobo’s strong personality, although she was “quite friendly when thawed,” wrote valet John Dean, and had a good sense of humor. When the Queen visited a stud farm in Normandy owned by the Duc d’Audiffret-Pasquier in 1967 to see the stallions that had been covering her mares for several years, Bobo wandered away from the château for a walk in the woods and got lost, only to be arrested by the French secret service—a cause for much merriment among the royal party.

T
HE
Q
UEEN’S SMALL
group of good friends has been known for the same rigorous discretion as her most faithful retainers. She has never particularly encouraged new friendships, but she has been open-minded enough to enlarge the circle from time to time. To be a friend of the Queen is an inherently lopsided experience. Those admitted to the inner sanctum understand the rules and have an instinctive sense of the invisible barriers. The women curtsy when they meet her, she kisses them on the cheek, and they feel free to return the affectionate gesture. They know how to make her relax and laugh, and she lets down her guard enough to share her piquant views of people and events, if not her innermost feelings.