Chapter Twenty-Six ‘Our Chance to Say Thank You for the Way You Brightened Our Lives…’ #2
I could not get over how tiny, and slight, and bereft, Harry looked. Too small to be doing this, I thought, and I wondered how on earth this heartbroken child could bear the ordeal of that moment, or how he could possibly be expected to deal with the agony that the day ahead would insist upon.
William, although doubtless suffering equally terribly, looked more self-possessed. He was the image of his mother then, tall and handsome and dignified. Although I cared deeply about what he must be going through, his greater composure and maturity made him my secondary concern that morning.
Before we set off, Prince Philip told us with continued quiet authority that we must march together, so that we did not look like we were simply out for a stroll.
We must try to stay in step. This was immediately a concern to me, as I realized that I was the only one of the three adults present lacking military training.
We should also, Prince Philip told us, look directly ahead at all times, with our heads bowed.
There must be no glancing left or right at those lining the streets.
While this would help to lend us a somewhat martial air, the advice was also practical: keeping our eyes front would help us sidestep what we were warned would be the inevitable scattering of horse droppings in our path.
I saw a huge wave of civilians fall in behind us, as we set off down the Mall.
These were the five hundred representatives of the charities that Diana had supported during her active royal life, including landmine victims, children, and those connected with her fights against homelessness and HIV/AIDS.
Tony Blair’s team, quietly but determinedly helping both royal palaces with PR advice throughout the week, had correctly insisted that these comprise as many of the charities’ beneficiaries as possible, and not be made up of the ‘suits’ who ran them.
The Queen had approved the plan for the five hundred. She also bowed when Diana’s coffin passed her and agreed to the flag on Buckingham Palace being lowered to half-mast once she had left for the service. A one-off set of royal plans had been graciously agreed for the funeral of a unique lady.
What followed was the most harrowing experience of my life, far more so than reading my eulogy, and one that has been replayed for me in dozens of fitful nightmares since.
It was hellish, entering that tunnel of grief, particularly because we were unable to put a face to it by looking at the individuals in the crowd. We were buffeted by the rawest of emotions on a terrible scale, for the longest time, and we could not process it. We could just feel it.
The five of us quickly picked up a rhythm that we struggled to stick to, as we headed into the horror. Harry – no doubt to get it all over with as quickly as possible – seemed often to be a step ahead of the rest of us, despite having by far the shortest stride of our quintet.
It is the sounds that have haunted me since.
The horses’ hoofs, and the soldiers’ heavy boots crunching rhythmically into the road ahead, gave a heavy cadence against which to measure our softly falling tread.
But it was those endless waves of emotion, crashing in at us from every side, that took their toll.
Despite being so well-meaning, they constituted a form of mental torture.
While the shock and grief were palpable throughout, each section of the crowd of onlookers seemed to have a distinctive feel to it.
There could be silence, apart from the sobs, for 100 yards or so, then a voice might wail mournfully, provoking a chorus of ‘We love you, Diana!’ while others shouted out messages of compassion and support for William and Harry.
Many sections of this endless, engrossed mass seemed caught up in a rippling grief that was very much alive, and dangerously contagious. It crackled with demonic energy, sparking into life in a dozen dizzying directions, while remaining squarely focused on our pitiful parade.
At one point, I heard a bagpiper playing a Highland lament. Another stretch of mourners erupted in energetic applause – for Diana, but also for her boys, as they took one step after another in this grim procession of human tragedy and royal pageantry.
What was Prince Charles actually doing there?
I thought at one moment. This ex-husband, from a marriage that had collapsed so bitterly four years before, and finally ended in divorce a year earlier, surely had no place at his ex’s funeral.
Supporting his sons was the reason given for his prominent place, but what were the boys doing there, anyway?
It all seemed mad to me – the more so as I began to appreciate the extent of the ordeal we had embarked on.
Unaware of the length or direction of the planned route, and being unable to look around, it dawned on me that this was going to be a much longer procession than I had ever anticipated.
The crunch underfoot was punctuated every minute by the doleful sounding of a bell[*2] in the distance.
It had the pendulous energy of a failing metronome.
Only afterwards did I learn that there had been more than thirty tolls of the bell, so we had walked for more than half an hour. The original course planned for the procession had been extended to two miles so that hundreds of thousands more could venerate Diana’s coffin.
I was anxious that I could not look sideways to check how Harry was doing.
But at one point I found us marching briefly out of sight, under a massive arch.
[*3] Relieved that nobody could see us here, I quickly leant across to Harry, bent down towards his slight frame, and gave him an encouraging hug while concentrating on not losing my footing.
‘Well done, Harry!’ I said. ‘You’re doing bloody brilliantly!
’ We then carried on, five abreast, in sombre silent step before the world.
The gun carriage halted when we arrived at the Great West Door of Westminster Abbey. Eight strapping soldiers, chosen for the Princess of Wales from the Welsh Guards, now stepped forward to take charge of the coffin.
Diana’s bespoke casket – so thickly lined with lead – weighed her pall-bearers down to such a worrying degree that they buckled.
For a moment I thought they might not manage the weight of it and could even let it crash to the ground.
But the guardsmen dug into their reserves and determinedly shouldered the burden.
As we entered the Abbey, I rested my right hand on the small of William’s back and placed my left arm round Harry, ushering them in to their mother’s funeral a footstep ahead of me.
I was shown to my place, next to my mother, in the North Lantern of the Abbey. My family had been escorted to their seats there shortly before, the congregation kindly rising to stand as they passed, in a gesture of condolence.
I had not appreciated the layout of the service before that moment.
Now I saw that Diana’s coffin, our family and the Royal Family would share the area between the high altar and the quire.
This is the section of the Abbey that is grand and theatrical enough for the staging of coronations.
It seemed almost like a separate church, carved out from the innards of the wider edifice: I looked round at my close family, who were white with desolation, while Diana’s coffin was – with continued difficulty for the straining pall-bearers – set before us on a catafalque.
It was draped in the Royal Standard, the white lilies and the note on the bouquet at the front, with that word ‘Mummy’, still so eye-catching and heartbreaking.
Beyond the coffin, in the South Lantern, sat the serried ranks of the Royal Family.
I thought how some had supported her in life while others had taken delight in the demotion that had followed her divorce.
I saw the face of Princess Michael, whom Diana had considered her ‘nightmare neighbour’ at Kensington Palace.
She had accosted my sister after she was deprived of her HRH title, and said, with feigned kindness: ‘Don’t worry, Diana – you only need to curtsy to me when we are in public! ’
There was Princess Margaret, who had been a good ally of Diana till the Panorama interview had taken place. Margaret could never forgive what she viewed as an unforgivable act of treachery against the Royal Family and had chosen not to bow to Diana’s coffin when it had passed her that morning.
I realized, as I had failed to before – even during the previous day’s funeral rehearsal – that when I came to speak, I would be directly addressing this assorted collection of Diana’s former in-laws across the aisle.
Drained by the extreme emotion and unexpected length of the march to the Abbey, I thought the best way to prepare for my bit part in the coming funeral was to focus as tightly as possible on my task.
I looked in the service sheet to check when I would be speaking, reminding myself of the words of ‘Candle In The Wind’s final refrain – my prompt.
The service was suffocating in its intensity. The music was every bit as glorious as it had been at Diana’s wedding. But whereas sixteen years earlier there had been the lightness of hope and celebration, this time it was all unbearably sad.
I could not help looking repeatedly at my nephews.
I felt compelled to check how they were doing, but I did not want to catch their eye in case they felt they were being judged or stared at.
This while they had no privacy, sitting so near to their mother’s coffin, the world caring for them very much while devouring their every move.
I listened to the opening words of the Bidding, written and spoken by the Dean of Westminster. He succinctly set out his thoughts about the life we had gathered to mourn, in this historic place of kings: