Chapter Twenty-Seven ‘I Stand Before You Today…’ #3
My chief memory of that train journey is of being concerned at the lack of obvious care for Harry, as he decompressed from the ghastliness of the morning.
He needed Diana’s hugs, of course, and they would for ever be denied him.
But instead of calm and nurture, he was allowed to spin out of control.
I have often looked back, reckoning that a more caring hand at such points as this would have helped him enormously in the future.
Instead he seemed so very alone in his despair and torment.
When we had gone some miles, Robert beckoned me to follow him into a quiet corner of the carriage. ‘I have just received a call from Her Majesty,’ he said, in the grave tone that he always adopted when talking about the Queen, ‘and she would like to offer Diana her HRH title back.’
I looked at him and tried to digest the significance of what was being suggested.
What would Diana want?, I thought. She had been dreadfully hurt by the removal of that title as she exited her marriage.
It had seemed so petty and vindictive. While she was no longer to be married to one future king, she would always be mother to another.
After a moment, I felt that I knew in my bones how she would view this posthumous award: ‘That’s very kind of the Queen, of course. But what’s the point, Robert?, Now? I mean – Diana’s dead.’
He nodded and looked down, then said: ‘I thought you might say that.’
I have wondered since whether mine was the correct reply. Maybe Diana would have seen some point in having HRH carved on her tombstone. More importantly, perhaps her sons would have valued this gesture from their paternal grandmother to their mother?
But I felt especially protective of Diana in that moment and had no doubt that the consolation prize was hollow, however well-meaning the Queen’s gesture. The title should never have been removed during her life, in which case it would not have been necessary to offer it to her in death.
It must have been a particularly tricky day for Robert as he straddled the difficulty of being married into Diana’s family while representing the Queen and all that went with that.
I would one day find out that he reported his thoughts about me to the prime minister that evening.
He told Tony Blair that he did not believe I meant my speech as a great attack on the press or the Crown but that emotion had simply overcome me.
He would later ask the Queen how she felt about it, and she replied to Robert that I was talking as a brother, on Diana’s behalf, and I had every right to say whatever I felt fit.
I also discovered later that, as we sat on the Royal Train, Tony Blair made it his priority, ‘even though he had a stack of kings and queens and others coming for lunch’, as his press secretary noted, to take Hillary Clinton to one side for her advice: what should he say publicly in response to my speech with regard to the press?
Mrs Clinton advised the prime minister to play it long, to say something bland along the lines that there were clearly problems that had been raised, and that they would need careful thought. Nothing more should be said for now.
Her proposal was a relief to Blair, who knew that Rupert Murdoch’s power had delivered many of the votes that had so recently secured his premiership.
Murdoch had told the editor of his market-leading tabloid, the Sun, to abandon its traditional right-wing stance with an Election Day front page that read:
The Sun Backs Blair – Give Change a Chance
Murdoch had since been a frequent visitor to Downing Street, where he felt entitled to influence policy.
In the week between Diana’s death and the funeral, one such visit was cancelled, because Blair’s press advisers realized it would not look good.
But the new prime minister had no wish to upset his mighty patron, in the wake of my words, by restricting the media in any way.
Hillary Clinton’s wily advice – to pay lip service to the national mood, while being noncommittal about actually doing something about it – would be followed.
After an hour we decanted the train at the site of the former Althorp station. It was a relief to find that there were no photographers or camera crews there. Nobody could have guessed that this anonymous siding would be our destination, and nobody had been tipped off.
We were all driven to Althorp, past photographers at the gates, where thousands of floral tributes from the public were piled high.
We nudged past the sheep on the drive and reached Althorp’s courtyard.
As I entered the front door, into the Wootton Hall where Diana had so often tap-danced in her teens, one of my team sidled up to me, and said in a quiet voice: ‘You did your sister proud today. One of the policemen on duty here watched the service with us all, and turned to me after your eulogy and said: “Well, I don’t know if I’m a monarchist any more, but I’m definitely a Spencerist.” ’
‘That’s very kind of him,’ I said, genuinely touched.
*
There was clearly going to be a sizeable lull – nobody knew for quite how long – between us getting back to Althorp and Diana’s coffin joining us there.
Prince Charles seemed to be ill at ease.
He challenged my unassuming girlfriend Josie with a combative: ‘And who might you be?’ before making his excuses and saying he wanted to wander round the portraits in Althorp’s Picture Gallery.
The rest of us turned on the television in the Sunderland Room – the same set on which my mother and I had watched Diana’s fateful interview on the BBC’s Panorama less than two years previously – to keep a vague eye on the live coverage of the hearse’s progress from London.
Its path was very slow indeed, made more so by mourners throwing flowers onto the car – their tribute to Diana’s extraordinary life, and an expression of their grief at her tragic death.
They fell so quickly and bountifully that the driver had to go even more slowly than planned, with his windscreen wipers on. At one point, the car had to stop on the motorway and William and Harry’s police protection officer, Graham Craker, got out to sweep the weight of flowers away.
This part of the TV coverage was punctuated by various commentators coming on screen who were trying to analyse the meaning of the words of my eulogy. I was puzzled that they were bothering to do this, since there was no hidden message in what I had said. It was straight from the heart.
I had simply composed a celebration of Diana. I felt that, other than for the worst parts of the British media, criticism could only be sensed by those whose consciences had been pricked, and I took no responsibility for that.
I started to realize that any control I had had over my eulogy had ended at the moment at which my words had left my lips. This did not strike me as particularly important then. What did matter to me was that I had – if only just – managed to get my words out before buckling under the emotion.
At some point, my family and I were informed that the hearse carrying Diana had broken down. Because of the strain of having to go so slowly, the engine had burnt itself out. It seemed to be yet another truly bizarre component to that extraordinary day.
But, impressively, the possibility of such an eventuality had been foreseen by Buckingham Palace, and we were told that a reserve hearse was apparently within striking distance and was being driven to the rescue. Diana’s coffin would resume its journey to us in the back-up vehicle.