Chapter Fifteen ‘A Very British Girl, Who Transcended Nationality’ #2
Diana thought through whether she could bear to take on the duties and scrutiny that being Princess of Wales would entail.
My mother had advised, ‘Can you live without this man? If you can, then you should not marry him. If you can’t, well, then, you must.’ Diana had made her decision, during her fortnight hidden away from the press on the other side of the world, so here we all were, on 29 July 1981, preparing to attend the Royal Wedding.
That morning, before heading to St Paul’s Cathedral, I went to Clarence House, the Queen Mother’s London residence, to see Diana.
I took a cab past a fraction of the hundreds of thousands of people who would pour into London’s streets on that national holiday, to be part of the historic day that seemed, with its young and popular bride, to be so full of renewal and optimism.
At Clarence House I found Diana sitting quietly in front of a mirror already in her wedding dress. One of the news services would describe what she wore that day as ‘a swirl of ivory silk taffeta and lace embroidered with sequins and pearls with a gently curved neckline enhanced by a wide frill’.
Diana looked up at me, from above the lusciousness of her dress, waiting for the Spencer tiara to be attached to her hair, and I noticed with concern that she was clearly very tired.
She was also dramatically transformed from the casual Diana who I knew so well.
The generous make-up, applied to counter the punishing lights set up by TV crews in St Paul’s, gave her a stately pallor.
I suddenly realized, for the first time in my life, that my big sister had grown into a beautiful woman.
I opened with ‘Best of luck, Duch – you look amazing!’ and she smiled at that extremely rare brotherly compliment on her appearance.
But her face had a wistful sadness to it, too, as we chatted that morning.
Only much later would I discover that, as she confided to a close friend, her husband-to-be had told her the previous day that she needed to know that he was very happy to marry her, but he was not actually in love with her.
Diana had to absorb that hammer blow while also feeling certain that Prince Charles was entering their marriage with his heart elsewhere.
While I was ignorant of this secret agony, I was party to a more obvious family concern that day.
We were all praying that my father would succeed in escorting Diana down the aisle.
He had suffered a massive brain haemorrhage three years earlier, buckling at the knees while arriving for a meeting in Althorp’s Estate Office.
He was rushed to the hospital in Northampton, unconscious.
My sisters and I hurried to his side on hearing the news.
A doctor broke it to us that our father was expected to die very soon.
He was in a coma, which he seemed most unlikely to wake from.
If he somehow pulled through, the doctors advised, then it was certain he would remain for ever in a vegetative state.
With that prognosis, I remember hoping he would be granted a gentle death.
But my father had a strong constitution.
He was greatly assisted, at this crucial time, by his never having smoked and by his being only an occasional drinker.
After eighteen months’ convalescence, during which he conquered pneumonia and a severe kidney infection, he may have emerged as a shadow of the robust, handsome figure of our childhood, but he had – to our amazement and joy – survived.
The difficult road to recovery left my father with soft, breathy speech, and precarious balance for the rest of his life.
Each time he stood up, after lying or sitting down, he had to remain stock still for a full minute while his equilibrium returned, before he could risk a step forward.
Even then, he tended to veer off course when he moved, because he had to keep his eyes to the ground, inspecting the floor immediately ahead, rather than being able to look out towards his destination.
His natural progression tended to be at 45 degrees rather than straight ahead.
The Queen Mother had seen my father recently, and she was concerned that the long walk to the altar would be too much for him.
She told my grandmother, Ruth Fermoy, that I must be in reserve, ready to escort Diana the 160 yards down the aisle if this traditional father-of-the-bride’s duty was – as she felt sure it must be – beyond him.
But my father showed the same determination on Diana’s wedding day as he had in hospital, when fighting for his life, and I was not needed.
My immediate family and I sat in chairs opposite the senior royals – my mother, grandmother, Ruth Fermoy, and I in the front row – waiting anxiously to see how my father did.
He arrived with Diana in the Royal Family’s one-hundred-year-old Glass Coach – selected so the crowds could get a clear view of the bride – then entered St Paul’s on the arm of his Althorp driver, Barry.
He then reached out and latched on to Diana.
She grabbed him tight and led the way, my father leaning heavily on her the whole way.
Diana would later tell her biographer Andrew Morton that, as she progressed towards the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was to marry her, she was looking for Camilla Parker-Bowles in the 3,500-strong congregation.
‘I knew she was in there, of course,’ she recalled.
‘I spotted Camilla, pale grey, veiled pillbox hat. Saw it all…To this day, you know – vivid memory.’
What my father’s course up the centre of St Paul’s lacked in straightness – the angle he took was clear from live, overhead camera shots – it made up for with guts.
Diana’s and his walk down the aisle took three and a half minutes and deservedly earned him huge respect among onlookers.
After he arrived at our family seats, he stumbled slightly on a kneeler while trying to find his place, and the pressure of the occasion got to him.
He snapped at my mother, wrongly claiming that she had tripped him.
She looked quietly appalled and said nothing, merely raising a quizzical eyebrow at the false accusation.
Only later did I realize that that was the first time I had registered seeing either parent ever talk to the other.
I believe I recall moments from the service, but they might just as easily come from having watched recordings of it soon afterwards.
It seemed to be a joyous concert as much as a wedding, Prince Charles bringing in three choirs, three orchestras, and a fanfare ensemble from the Royal Military School.