Patrick Jephson - Shadows of a Princess

With a final heave, I reached the platform at the top of the steps and thrust the suitcase at a large RAF figure who was blocking the doorway. ‘Quick, take this!’ The figure did not move. What was the matter with the idiot? ‘Hurry up! They’re waiting for us to go!’ I shouted above the steady roar of the jets. I could sense a dozen sets of eyes burning resentfully into my back. This stupid naval officer was delaying everything and spoiling the perfection of their departure ceremony. And what is the problem with our suitcase? Are our gifts unworthy?

The RAF figure was quite oblivious. ‘Has this item been security cleared?’ it asked impassively.

Still standing exposed on the platform, I felt a sudden rush of exasperated anger. ‘Of course it bloody well hasn’t! It’s a gift from the Emir and he’s watching us right now wondering what the f***’s the matter with it!’

‘I don’t care who it’s from,’ said the figure, still blocking the doorway. ‘It’s not coming on this aircraft until it’s been searched. It might be a bomb for all I know.’

‘All right then! You search it!’ I shouted, dropping the case at his feet and pushing past him into the cabin.

To his credit and my shame, he squatted on the platform under the baleful gaze of the Bahreini ruling family and the jubilant scrutiny of the British press corps and searched the suitcase from top to bottom, very thoroughly.

As we made our progress down the Gulf, schizophrenia seemed inevitable. One moment I was standing at the royal elbow, trying to wear an expression appropriate to the business in hand, be it the Emir’s banquet, the centre for children with disabilities, or the display of folk dancing. The next moment I was scurrying around in the false sanctuary of one of our guest palaces, humouring the hairdresser, placating the baggage master or fighting with the unfamiliar shower controls as I hurried to change for the Embassy reception.

With astonishing speed, the engagements painstakingly researched, recced and re-recced came and went. The closely typed pages of outline programmes, detailed programmes, administrative instructions and security orders had their brief moment of frenzied importance and then were forgotten, turned to paper vermicelli in our mobile shredder.

The leading lady did not even appear in the final scenes. She made a suitably stylish departure from Dubai in a borrowed jumbo jet, lent by a solicitous Sheikh. Never one to disappoint a damsel in need, when he heard that her scheduled return flight was delayed, he sent for his pilots three and dispatched her towards London in nothing less than a flying palace.

It was not clear who felt most upset: the Queen’s Flight at not being properly consulted about the use of an unfamiliar aircraft, or me at having to watch the Princess and her homebound team fly away in an aeroplane I would have liked to bore my grandchildren about.

The baggage master and I rattled back to our hotel in the elderly Embassy Land Rover and tortured ourselves with thoughts of the luxuries now being enjoyed by the lucky passengers. We had no trouble agreeing we were much more deserving. This was probably debatable. She had earned her seven hours of airborne fun.

With the departure of the Princess, her lady-in-waiting, dresser, assistant dresser, hairdresser and detective – and practically all the press – something approaching a holiday mood settled over the remaining party. The last leg of the journey was a private visit by the Prince to another desert kingdom, a male sanctuary where the exclusive club rules of worldwide royalty offered an understanding welcome for a fellow member. Compared to the tensions of the preceding week, even someone feeling as neurotic as I was could afford to relax.

‘Here’s the medicine you ordered,’ said the man from the Embassy as we settled into the last of a series of guest palaces. He handed me a suspiciously heavy dispatch case.

‘I didn’t order any medicine,’ I replied, mystified. Then I heard a muffled chink from inside the box. ‘Ah … yes, of course. Medicine. Thank you!’

Our accompanying doctor was unimpressed. ‘What you lot don’t need is more whisky,’ he grumbled, handing out supplies of pills to help us either sleep or stay awake.

Now alone among the Prince’s staff, I could not escape the feeling that the Princess’s mark was metaphorically stamped on my forehead. Although encouraged to feel part of the team, I was still a guest among guests. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the unbuttoned atmosphere of the male court, where discussion of real political and philosophical issues was possible in an atmosphere reminiscent of the wardrooms I had left behind. I noticed the same cautious deference to the senior officer’s opinion and marvelled again at the intricacies of his domestic arrangements, which could suddenly override almost all other priorities.

In addition, the experience of working briefly in what was later to become a hostile camp was invaluable. In later years, when events suggested that this camp was capable of conspiracy against the Princess, I could reassure myself – and her – that its capacity for cock-up was even greater. The passage of time and further rotations of advisers has not greatly altered that early impression.

The Prince’s office had acquired a rather patchy reputation, not because of incompetence or lack of effort, but because a support organization constantly on the verge of meltdown seemed to be an essential accompaniment to the Prince’s sense of being unfairly burdened. In a revelation gleefully reported by the press, he even once disclosed that he was forced to spend time correcting elementary errors in correspondence originating from his own office. His obvious regret at such a slip was not quite in time to prevent an understandable dent in fragile secretarial morale.

At last we reached the end of the tour. The euphoria was almost tangible as we clambered out of the final motorcade, made our last farewells and headed for the elegant white and blue VC-10 which was waiting to take us home. With a reassuring nod from the top of the steps, the baggage master signalled that all the other passengers and our mountain of luggage were safely aboard.

Taking a deep breath of scented Arabian air, I turned to follow my companions up the ladder. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Prince give his final wave and disappear inside. As expected, the first of the four jets immediately began to whine into life. Remembering Bahrein, I smiled to myself. That fuss with the suitcase seemed a long time ago. I had come a long way since then.

I turned for a last look and saw something fluttering on the bonnet of the Prince’s car. ‘Christ! The Standard!’

I ran back down the stairs and sprinted towards the car. It was my most elementary duty to ensure that we always carried with us the little flag that flew from the royal limousine. To leave it behind was a guarantee of ridicule, or worse. The royal Standard was a coveted object, laden even now with a mystical significance. Thank God I had spotted it.

Seeing me approach, the driver leapt out of the car and started to unscrew the flag from its special attachment. How helpful, I thought. Behind me I could hear the VC-10 getting up steam. Panting, I reached out to take the scrap of multicoloured cloth, a grateful ‘ Shucran ’ already on my lips. Suddenly it was snatched away. ‘No!’ said the driver, his dark eyes flashing. ‘I keep! Always I keep VIP flag!’

I grabbed a handful of flag and started to pull. ‘Let go!’ I shouted. ‘You can’t keep this one!’

For a ludicrous few moments we tussled over the flag. I had a hysterical vision of it tearing down the middle as the VC-10 taxied away, leaving us to squabble in the gathering dusk. With a final, frantic tug it was mine. I ran back to the aircraft, cursing all collectors. The idling jets shrieked with laughter. It must have made a great cabaret for the invisible audience behind the row of lighted portholes.