Diana--A Closely Guarded Secret (19 page)

Even if I had not worked for the Princess, the lighter moments of the job would have made being a protection officer worthwhile. One memorable occasion made a particular impression, not merely because I found it funny, but because it summed up the distance between the couple, as well as Diana’s absolute lack of appreciation of her husband and his sense of humour. It was the evening of the state banquet held for the King of Norway in London. The Prince’s policeman, Colin Trimming, had the night off, and I had said I could handle security for both our principals. That night, Diana was in a particularly impatient mood. She was not above tutting and tapping her feet to express her frustrations, in this case at having to attend this most formal of functions, at her husband, at having to dress to the nines, at delays and any other irritations that came to her mind.

In complete contrast, the Prince was extremely relaxed. He knew the form on state occasions like this, when all the senior, and many of the so-called ‘minor’ members of the royal family were on parade. Everything had to be done in almost military fashion. Royalty would arrive according to ascending order of rank, with the most senior, the Queen herself, arriving last at exactly the time listed in the programme. It may sound a little
absurd, but this is how the business of monarchy works (and has done for a very long time), and state banquets, when the principals turn out in all their finery, tiaras, dress uniforms, evening dress, decorations and all, is when the business of royalty becomes very serious indeed. Diana did not quite see it like that. As far as she was concerned, a state banquet was just an irritation, something to go to, be seen at and then get home from as early and unscathed as possible. In the mood she was in tonight, this was doubly, or even trebly, the case.

The Princess and I, in full evening dress, were in the hall of the apartments at Kensington Palace, waiting for the moment when we would set off in the limousine according to the prescribed order of precedence. The Princess sighed and turned to me. ‘Ken, can we go early? I don’t want to hang around here any more,’ she said. There was a faintly childish whine in her voice.

‘Ma’am, it’s really not as simple as that, there is an order…’ but before I could finish she snapped back, ‘Ken, I know all about their bloody orders. All about them. I want to go now. Simon [her chauffeur] is ready, and I want to go now.’

Fortunately, Charles, also in evening dress, appeared in the hall right on cue, tugging on his cuffs in his slightly nervous manner, like an actor in a West End comedy. He clearly sensed an impending tantrum from his volatile wife.

‘Are we ready to go, Ken?’ he asked. There was a stony silence from both of them as I pointed out that it was not our slot yet.

‘Have I got time for another Martini then?’ he asked politely. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help smiling broadly. It struck
me as vaguely absurd that the future King was asking me if he had time for another drink, even if the question was rhetorical. I told him that he probably did have time. The frost emanating from his wife became icier.

‘Is anything the matter?’ he asked, not directing his question to anyone in particular. I decided to say nothing, aware that the impending storm was about to break. Diana was ready for a fight, if not spoiling for one.

‘Well, Charles, there is, actually. I want to go now. I don’t want to hang around here. Why can’t we go now?’ There was a dangerous edge to her voice now.

‘Diana,’ he replied reasonably, ‘you know the system. We have to go at the set time, so that we arrive just before Her Majesty.’ He took a step back as though preparing himself for an onslaught. He was right to. Diana, drawing herself up in her high heels (or ‘tart’s trotters’ as she called them) turned on him.

‘But Charles, why can’t you go on your own? I can get there earlier, nobody will worry about me,’ she said. Of course, she knew that if she turned up without her husband the waiting media would plaster it all over the front pages, speculating, quite rightly, that the Prince and Princess had had yet another row. When Charles pointed this out to her, however, she became even more frustrated, angrily repeating that she wanted to go now, and that he could follow her when he wished.

The Prince, who clearly did not want a fight, retreated, asking the butler, Harold Brown, for a Martini, his favourite tipple, en route to his study. As soon as he left I told the Princess that I thought the whole row was silly. It was not what she wanted to hear, and she sounded off again. I was actually trying hard
not to laugh, partly at the ridiculousness of the situation, and partly at her husband’s antics. A few minutes later Charles emerged into the hall again, as his wife paced up and down like a caged animal. ‘Charles, I have really had enough of this. I’m off,’ she fumed. ‘No, Diana, we really have to wait,’ he insisted. Whereupon he ordered another Martini from Harold and departed again. At this point I let out a little chortle.

‘Do you find my husband funny, Ken?’ Diana snapped, by now extremely irritated with me, as well as everything else. ‘Well, do you?’ I paused for a second, and then said, ‘Well actually, I do, ma’am. I think he has a great sense of humour.’ Foolishly, I then added, ‘It’s not too far removed from my own.’ From her expression, Diana was clearly exasperated. At the moment she and I were simply not on the same comic wavelength.

‘So, what kind of humour is that?’ she retorted curtly. Too late I realised that I had said the wrong thing. The Princess did not find her husband funny, so nor should her protection officer. For the rest of that night she said not one word to me, other than a few perfunctory answers to my necessary questions. It was an amusing incident – to me, at least – but also a sad one. It demonstrated the extent to which the relationship between Charles and Diana had deteriorated, and how difficult that could be for members of their household. For by this stage, early 1992, Diana had to be handled very carefully. Not surprisingly, she had become increasingly unstable emotionally and felt betrayed if a member of her inner circle demonstrated any empathy with the Prince or his team of advisers.

The formal separation of the Duke and Duchess of York, announced on 18 March 1992, had a huge impact upon everyone
in the Waleses’ household. We all knew that if the Yorks’ marriage was over – something the Queen must have sanctioned – then it could only be a matter of time before the inevitable happened, and the Prince and Princess of Wales followed suit. Whatever her emotional state, however, Diana kept a very cool head. As the Yorks’ separation played out in public, she scanned the newspapers to learn how it was affecting her own popularity. Of course this was cynical, but in the prevailing climate, it was wholly understandable.

For the Prince and Princess, the first important public event of the year was their joint tour of India, planned for months and due to start in February. Diana knew that they would come under the microscope during the visit, but she no longer cared who knew – press or public – the depths to which her marriage had sunk. Even before the trip began, the press fired the first salvo when
The Sun
published an exclusive piece revealing that she would be visiting the Taj Mahal, the great marble mausoleum, near Agra, built in the seventeenth century by Shah Jahan in memory of his favourite wife, and perhaps the world’s greatest monument to love, alone. ‘Di To Visit Taj Mahal On Her Own’, the newspaper trumpeted triumphantly, once more exposing the gulf between the Prince and Princess. Gleefully, the accompanying article quoted Prince Charles who, in accordance with the tradition that surrounds the Taj Mahal, had said during a previous visit in 1980 that he would return to the monument with the woman he loved. Could there ever be a more significant statement about the state of the royal marriage?

Despite the headlines, Charles did not change his schedule. After their arrival in India, he insisted that he would attend a business function in Delhi, 200 miles away, on the day when Diana went to the Taj Mahal. Everyone could see the symbolism of this decision, but the sycophants surrounding the Prince were simply not prepared to tell him how short-sighted he was being.

Back in Britain, the predictable headlines followed. The
Daily Express
criticised the Prince for his PR blunder, publishing a huge photograph of a demure Princess sitting alone in front of the Taj Mahal under the banner headline: ‘Temple of Loneliness’. For her part, Diana had done her best to ensure that she got her message across, although it should be noted that it was not she who arranged that sad solo picture, but the press. When we arrived at the Taj Mahal photographers bellowed at me to keep her entourage and the accompanying dignitaries back. I obliged, and they got the picture they wanted, out of which they made such capital. Diana did not mind – as I have said, she was past caring – but it is wrong to describe the setting-up of the photograph as one of her guerrilla raids in the PR war against her husband. Had he wanted to, Prince Charles could have turned the whole thing on its head, simply by going with her to the Taj Mahal. Instead, he chose to let matters run their course.

Even so, the Princess, who was genuinely upset by her husband’s refusal to join her at the Taj Mahal, drove home the point with a few carefully chosen words, when, perhaps – in my opinion, at least – it would have been better to have said nothing at all. When Sky TV News reporter Simon McCoy
asked the Princess what she had thought of the magnificent tomb, she paused for a few seconds before firing her first public shot across the Prince’s bows.

‘It was a fascinating experience – very healing.’ Pressed to say exactly what she meant by that, she paused again. Then, ‘Work it out for yourself,’ she said with a glint in her eye. The press pack had their story, as well as their picture to go with it, and Diana had effectively given them
carte blanche
to write what they liked about the state of the royal marriage.

As soon as she had uttered these words I could visualise the headlines that would follow. Yet I could not help sympathising with her. The Prince might very easily have made the visit to the Taj Mahal a positive statement about his marriage, and impressed his wife in the process. Instead, his refusal to accompany her made it clear that he did not care about her, and that he did not care what people thought about his marriage. Publicly, he admitted at the time that he had got it wrong, saying that some people might think that he had been a ‘fool’ for not going and adding that a wiser man would have accompanied his wife to the Taj Mahal. Privately, I knew that he never intended going along with what was in fact a complete charade, no matter what anybody did to try and make him see the wisdom of doing so. To have done so would have made him a hypocrite, and I believe that he drew the line at that.

Whatever the rights or wrongs surrounding the Princess’s visit to the Taj Mahal, after it things went from bad to worse. The situation reached a head on Valentine’s Day. The royal party was in the ancient city of Jaipur, the magnificent capital of Rajasthan that had been painted pink in honour of a visit
by Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert, in 1883. The Prince was asked to play in an exhibition polo match there and, buoyed up by the invitation, was looking forward to it keenly. At the same time, a PR exercise was organised. After the match, the Princess was to present the cup to her husband with a kiss. Diana, however, was in no mood to be used, something that Charles’s aides should have foreseen – they had, after all, had enough warning.

On the day of the match thousands of local people ringed the polo field in the heat and dust, making it, in security terms, almost impossible to police. As far as any protection officer might have been concerned, a thousand assassins could have been lost in the crowd, and we would not have known until it was too late. I looked on anxiously, but everything went to plan. The Prince’s team won, and everything was set for the presentation. At this point, however, the crowd invaded the pitch, so that the Prince and Princess were barely visible amid the colourful, frenzied mêlée, and completely inaudible in the din of voices. The Prince was triumphant, his face alive, flushed with success at having just scored a hat-trick, a fine feat for someone who admits his lack of prowess at the ‘sport of kings’.

Nevertheless the Princess, who was never knowingly upstaged, was determined to have the last laugh. When her husband walked up to the rostrum in his sweaty polo outfit to collect his prize and kiss his wife on the lips, she turned her head to the side, forcing him to air kiss, and worse, humiliating him in front of the world’s press. He was furious. Diana had made him look a fool, and he was not about to forgive her for it. Later, when I asked why she had behaved as she did,
she replied: ‘Ken, I am not about to pander to him. Why the bloody hell should I? If he wants to make a fool out of me with that woman, he deserves it. But I am not about to make a fool of myself so all his friends can laugh at me.’

I could see her reasoning, and even sympathise with it, but that was not how the Prince and his staff saw it. They accused Diana of petulance – ‘She is nothing but a spoilt schoolgirl,’ one of his household said to me. I defended her position but tired of the argument, Charles’s aide simply shrugged his shoulders and walked off, though not without a final sally: ‘Surely she could put on a show just once!’ he said bitterly. Actually, I thought, she has been doing just that for almost all her adult life. So surely she is allowed some time off for good behaviour, to be herself?

On the following day
The Sun
published a front-page photograph by Arthur Edwards under the banner headline: ‘The Kiss That Missed!’ Charles was pictured grimacing as the Princess bluntly rejected his kiss. Inside the paper cruelly published a guide for the Prince, showing him how to kiss a woman properly. Diana had shown Charles up as unfeeling at the Taj Mahal; now she had made him look a fool.

There was no going back after that. The battle lines had been drawn up, and the Prince and Princess hardly spoke to each other during the rest of the tour. As Diana and her entourage headed for Calcutta to see at first-hand the work of Mother Teresa, her husband, still seething over his humiliation at the polo match, flew instead to Nepal.