Return to 1997 CHRISTMAS Index
Return to 1997 CHRISTMAS Index
On the morning of my birthday this year I woke up uncharacteristically early. I was a bright summer day, full of promise and I shuffled towards my first cup of tea in a cheerful frame of mind, inanely humming happy birthday to me as I switched on the kettle and the radio.
The radio stared to percolate through my fuzzy consciousness almost immediately, a stern voice saying “It has been confirmed that the Princess of Wales has been killed in a car crash in Paris." The sentence echoed as I sipped my birthday tea and tried to wake up. The moment suspended reality, like a dream, utterly unreal and unthinkable.
Some things are like that: unimaginable and yet not impossible - strange and frightening moments when life ceases to be familiar and veers off into the stuff of fiction. Indeed, had this been a novel the writer might well have been criticised for being fanciful and unbelievable in the plot line. Nevertheless, it had happened. Here was that voice again, "it has been confirmed…"
The ensuing days were dominated by the news of Diana's death and by the shuddering grief of
thousands of people, who for thousands of reasons, felt compelled to make their pilgrimage to St
James, Kensington or Buckingham Palace and place their contribution to the cruciform lake of flowers
which spread steadily outwards from the gates.
I had never experienced such a oneness of feeling in London. As the funeral day approached small shops and businesses everywhere prepared to lose their valuable Saturday income as a mark of respect. On the underground trains people sat with bunches of flowers and their fellow travellers knew which stop they would get off at. It was a palpable grief, perhaps the repressed emotions of centuries of stiff upper lips finally making heir way out, perhaps the accumulation of tiny everyday griefs sparked into conflagration or perhaps a shocked country mourning the sudden and violent death of a beautiful princess.
Since her marriage to the Princess of Wales, Diana had been a symbol for he hopes of many. Their wedding was described as fairytale, she was a fairytale Princess; thousands had turned out on that day as the country was overwhelmed with enthusiasm, to say nothing of souvenir trays, mugs and biscuit tins. The disintegration of her marriage coincided with economic recession and an era of cynicism; her reinvention came at a time of renewed hope and a change of Government that promised to tackle ethics as well as politics. In a strange way she had been an accurate reflection of the country and in so embodying what, it might become she had, perhaps been a custodian of future hopes.
There has been endless speculation and discussion about the role of the press in he life and death of the Princess of Wales. Burgundy cheeked tabloid editors in silly stripy shirts and even sillier braces chuntering on about how mystifying they found her schizophrenic attitude. On the one hand objecting to photographers following her every move, going to the gym, going shopping, going on holiday with her children and yet (very confusing this) she invites them to report on and publicise her charity work. Good grief, my paper clip could work that one out but not apparently the editors of our major papers. Mind you, these are the people who send out freelance photographers to do the intrusive jobs that their own staff photographers will not be sent on so that if it goes wrong they cannot be seen to be at fault. I wonder if their vocabulary extends to the word hypocrite.
That the paparazzi were involved in her death is, in a way, incidental; they were so involved in her life that it was made miserable and that is what we must remember. They took the photos that were bought by the editors that were published in the papers that were bought by the thousands who condemned the paparazzi. Even in death she was providing good copy.
The day before her funeral I decided to go and spend the night in Whitehall. Camped out by a statue of some Colonel on a horse I curled up on the unforgiving pavement and watched the candle I had brought guttering in the cold night air. In an effort to pass the time I walked up to Buckingham Palace. The silence everywhere was eerie, it was as if the whole of the West End had become an open air cathedral. People spoke in hushed voices, the traffic was diverted away from the area, thousands of candles flickered in the darkness.
Nearing the Palace the smell of the flowers preceded the sight, a heady aroma; small shrines dotted the surrounding area like saplings growing alongside the parent tree. The cellophane wrapping on the bunches of flowers sounded like the sea as the breeze stirred them. People quietly filed past the flowers, stopping occasionally to read a card or point something out to a companion.
The Mall was already several people deep, curled up forms bunched together like survivors of some dreadful natural catastrophe. The experienced campers had come prepared with thermos flasks of hot drink, boxes of sandwiches, torches, candles, things to sleep on, in and under; others had brought nothing but their clothes and a bunch of flowers and were sitting on discarded plastic bags huddled together for warmth. Impromptu friendships were springing up like mushrooms as people began to share their food and blankets, there was a camaraderie of campers, a strange `round the campfire' feeling. The funeral had been supplanted by a kind of huge group outing feeling…
I kept expecting to hear boy scout camp songs. It was how I have always imagined British wartime spirit. In a city where people are herded together everyday and urban hostility is the only mode of communication this was something new to me. People were pulling' together, being aware of others, recognising a common humanity and acting upon it. We were the tough ones, the campers out on the pavement, the dedicated, the few and throughout the (very) long and (very) cold night we suffered together.
With the first thawing rays of the sun came the arrivistes. Regarded as Johnny Come Latelys by those of us who had spent the night they were not immediately welcomed as they infiltrated their way in, making the predictable, if somewhat tactless, comment, "Have you been here all night?" Hours before the cortege was due to pass the new pressure from the back forced us to stand and lean against the barriers lining Whitehall. The atmosphere shifted from the caring and sharing one of night to a more competitive territoriality. So we eased cramped and cold bones into the day as the early morning light crept around the buildings of the Government and ever more people came down from the nearby stations.
It was a beautiful morning, a limpid blue sky canopied the city and the early sun illuminated the buildings like a celestial floodlight, showing every contour in stark relief. For the most part the crowd was quiet, a few of our country's bewildered looked on, wondering at the sudden mass of people sleeping out on the street that is their usual bed place. Clutching their tins of Extra Strong Export Old Kilt Lager and watching us suspiciously through yellowed eyes they murmured their confusion and drifted on. I watched them with new respect as my body was crying out for a hot shower and warm, soft bed.
The silence now was intense. Broken only by sobs and the distant tolling of the bell. As the cortege made its way through Horse Guards and into Whitehall the radios were turned off, cameras dangled from wrists as inappropriate trinkets in this moment. The cortege drew closer into view and a wave of emotion as palpable as an ocean current surged down the crowd. My eyes were fixed on the coffin, draped with the standard drawn on the gun carriage. I did not see the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Edinburgh or Princes William and Harry or Earl Spencer as they walked behind the carriage, only the coffin as it passed by so slowly. Suddenly it was all so very real and the impact hit everyone there. Once the carriage had passed and moved into the precincts of the Abbey we drifted away from the barriers unable to speak of what we all felt. A young couple sat on the kerb, bereft, hugging each other for mutual comfort, people drifted by with burning eyes and cheeks scorched by sorrow. Slowly we migrated down to the Abbey and into the warm sun as Taverner's music echoed down the silent street.
The emotion that had swept through the crowd mingled grief, rage and bitterness. Anger at the Royal Family had been building for some time, their indiscretions, their apparent heartlessness, the very public way they had shunned Diana who by now had become practically beatified. There had been endless speculation in the newspapers about the future of the monarchy and a general impression that to honour the Queen was to dishonour Diana. The public had managed to make clear their feelings without resort to violence. As a friend of mine says, `in a caring, fluffy way' the point had been made, the Union Jack flew at half mast on Buckingham Palace breaking with hundreds of years of tradition. The Royal family had their heads down behind the parapet.
The opening bars of `God Save the Queen' were therefore a litmus test of the utmost significance and certainly within my view everybody stood up for it, straight and dignified, eyes turned toward the Abbey. Perhaps not a salute to the Windsors (or the Saxe Coberg Gothas) but to the tradition of Monarchy, to the institution and or what it still represents. From what I saw I would have to say it would be a fool who believed that Britain would ever become a republic. As Churchill said a propos of something else touching the British character "Never!"
The large numbers in the crowd listened attentively to the service. There was a slight shudder in the crowd despite the warm morning as Diana's sister, Lady Jane Fellowes, haltingly recited `Time is too slow for those who wait…'
Her voice is uncannily like that of her sister and without the benefit of seeing her the illusion was hard to break.
Elton John's Candle in the Wind/Goodbye England's Rose with its new, rather saccharine, lyrics caught the emotional mood of the moment perfectly. I think part of the success of the song lies in the echoes from the original lyrics that in some places are painfully apt.
And it seemed to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind,
Never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in...
The applause that followed the song began as a spontaneous expression of approval from the crowds around me. We had not forgotten the solemnity of the occasion but we also wanted a part of it, to be heard. The fine and brave speech of Earl Spencer finally gave a voice to the silent crowd. At last someone was saying what we felt to be rue, saying I with dignity, clarity and sincerity. Not misappropriating, misunderstanding and misrepresenting public sentiment as tabloid newspapers had done in a simplistic way.
Approval had to be shown and signalled to those in the Abbey who had hitherto resisted the temptation to applaud. I did not hear the end of the Earl's speech over the clapping, only the crack in his voice and the unbearable pain it betrayed beneath the composed exterior. We loved him all the more for this and the applause was not only an expression of approval but also of support for a man in the midst of grief daring to stand up to the Royal Family. Had British reserve not finally won the day I think the applause would have gone on forever. As it was, it lasted for several minutes and I think finished as a distant echo within the Abbey itself.
The minute's silence that followed the service was immaculately observed as people bowed their hands around me and I looked up blinking away tears that I did not fully understand.
The coffin, now transferred to the hearse in which it would make its final journey to Althorp, passed by without ceremony. A ripple of applause in its wake. People drifted away from the Abbey calmly, like and ebb tide. As I made my way up Whitehall I found myself hemmed in on all sides by hundreds of people unable to get past barriers at Horse Guards. Feeling claustrophobic I turned aside to face a man who had been, I felt, pushing a bit too enthusiastically. Normally this would be an invitation to open hostility but he was immediately apologetic and stood back to make space. I didn't know what to say; this was London… but not as I knew it.
The feeling of compassion and understanding prevailed for several days but as the tide of events has moved on so it has been diluted and is now all but gone.
Even as I made my way towards the Thames and (happily) a drink on one of the floating pubs, the stalwart Westminster cleaners were emerging like moles into the bright sunlight. Their brushes sweeping gently along the roads and pavements, clearing away the detritus of the night. Only the candles remained, thousands of them, burnt down to guttered stumps welded into the tarmac of Whitehall.