Patrick Jephson - Shadows of a Princess

Arriving gasping in the cabin, I was met by the chief steward. He was holding a tray on which a large gin and tonic clinked musically. ‘I expect you could do with this, sir,’ he said.

My first overseas tour had given me a rare opportunity to work directly for the Prince. Although nominally in attendance as his equerry for the entire tour, in fact I had spent most of the time accompanying the Princess on her programme. John Riddell had accompanied the Prince, who had been quite content for me to concentrate on looking after his wife in the same way as if we were in England. On this particular occasion, however, he had agreed to visit the British frigate Hermione currently taking a break from patrolling the Persian Gulf, and it made sense that he should be accompanied that day by an aide in uniform rather than the (very) civilian John.

This engagement had already caused me some amusement. Taking my seat at one of many mahjlis in the Emirates, I found myself next to the Prince’s then polo manager, Ronnie Ferguson. I knew he had flown out to Dubai some days earlier and I was anxious to confirm that the frigate had also arrived safely. ‘Is Hermione here yet?’ I asked in a low whisper, conscious of the royal pleasantries being exchanged close by.

Ronnie started out of his reverie, looking at me with sudden new interest. ‘I say, you’re a quick worker!’

‘What do you mean, Ronnie?’

‘Hermione. You’ve already got some bird lined up here! Very quick work!’

Under bushy brows, his eyes twinkled with admiration. It was painful to have to explain the identity of the distinctly unsexy Hermione with whom I had planned this tryst. The twinkle slowly died and Ronnie lapsed once more into thoughts of polo.

Although the Prince was undoubtedly the senior figure in my royal world, I approached my day with him with few qualms. In all my brief encounters with him since starting the job, he had been friendly but reassuringly distant. Unlike his more volatile wife – who could switch from warm intimacy to frozen exclusion in an instant – he had the air of a man who did not care very much who or what you were so long as you did your job. In this he resembled a certain type of senior naval officer, a species very familiar to me. The Captain’s uniform he wore for the occasion reinforced this comforting impression.

As I sat with him in the back of the car I felt a distinct relief. The essentially female world I inhabited most of the time had its undoubted attractions, but it was a welcome break to be contemplating a day in uncomplicated masculine company in familiar surroundings. I felt as if I had been let out to play.

Hermione and the Prince both did themselves proud, I thought. The elderly ship looked brand new in the morning sun and her welcome was warm, enthusiastic and self-assured. The Prince was in his element, adapting his script instinctively to suit his varied audience of sailors, senior ratings and officers.

His visit was to end with a medal presentation in front of the entire ship’s company and I knew he would be expected to make a short speech. In the car I had felt an attack of panic as I realized I had not drafted anything for him to say. The Princess would have needed a script cleared well in advance, and coaching too.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t drafted anything for you, Sir,’ I said in some trepidation.

The Prince examined the backs of his hands. It was impossible to know what was coming next. ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll think of something.’ And he did, completely unrehearsed and much to the delight of the assembled sailors.

A few days later I saw a different side of him.

The halfway point in the tour came and went, and I had my first experience of the phenomenon known as ‘mid-trip dip’. Even the best tour could suffer from an attack of mid-term blues. The initial adrenaline surge wears off; the trip home lies on the other side of a mountain range of difficult engagements. An enervating climate and unsuitable food, bad sleep and bad hangovers combine to dull the reflexes, stunt new thought and confuse the body’s systems.

As our fatigue accumulated, so too did our immunity to anxieties that had seemed overwhelming on day one. Who really cared where we sat on the aeroplane – a matter of supreme importance in some households – so long as everyone was actually on board? And did it really matter that I had run out of a certain type of key ring which the Prince gave as a farewell gift to local staff?

Late one night in Dubai I discovered that it did matter, very much indeed. I had arranged our dozen farewell gifts on a sideboard in the Prince’s quarters, ready for him to hand them to the 12 – theoretically – most deserving officials who had helped with that leg of the tour. (This was the beauty parade for which the tearful colonel had failed to qualify.)

My job was to adjudicate on the list submitted by the Embassy, assemble the recipients and make sure they appeared smartly when I announced them. The size and combination of gifts – mostly signed photos, but also a few small items such as cuff links or purses – had to correspond to the perceived importance of the recipient. A short briefing was required on each so that the appropriate royal platitude could be murmured while the lucky winner bowed and grinned expectantly.

It was without doubt the worst part of any tour. The list of things that could go wrong was endless. Even if the Embassy could produce their proposals on time – and it was required at a stage in the proceedings when they were already under enormous pressure – its composition was fraught with protocol poison as jealous officials vied to be included. We were strict to the point of meanness about the number of recipients allowed and I often felt there was scant justice in the compromises that resulted.

Even if we had remembered to bring the right number of gifts from London – and for a long tour like the Gulf it could take several large cases to carry them and all their likely permutations – the Waleses were always liable to impose last-minute changes to the choice of photograph, the design of cuff link or the style of purse. In its most virulent form, this wish to control unimportant minutiae could grow to exclude all other considerations. It was as if this was the only part of our employers’ lives with which they could directly tinker, and goodness, how they relished it.

The result was a tension bordering on suppressed hysteria as prizegiving time approached. It was always shoehorned into a passage of frenetic activity in the programme – shortly before departure – and the logistic planning required to ensure the appearance of effortless efficiency was more appropriate, I felt, for the Nobel Prize itself. The tension was shared in full by our royal employers, who were sometimes unable to resist the temptation to be sharply pernickety with those responsible for any shortcoming. That night in Dubai, the responsible person was undoubtedly me.

The Prince had recently chosen a new style of key ring to give to drivers. Only a limited number had been available before we left, but enough, we thought, to cope with the expected demand. Just to be on the safe side we had brought a number of the old pattern as well. Fate – or the Prince’s enthusiasm for his new design – now caused us to break into our reserve stock of the older version.

I was congratulating myself on my foresight in bringing this spare supply as I completed my preparations for the imminent ceremony. It was perhaps unrealistic of me to expect royal recognition for my prudent planning. In fact, self-congratulation was usually followed very quickly by nemesis, but I had not expected it to arrive quite so quickly.