Illustration by Chelsea O'Byrne
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“You’ve just reminded me of something Princess Diana told me…”
For the past 39 years, I’ve been looking for opportunities to insert this comment casually into a conversation.
It’s been hard. Dinner parties aren’t the place for sudden impulsive remarks about the Royal Family unless there’s been a recent birth or a scandal of note; and mentioning it at a school event to a teacher, especially one with anti-monarchist tendencies, could have prejudiced my children’s futures.
So I’ve kept it to myself (well, more or less).
But King Charles’s coronation might be my last chance to share the encounter with viewers of The Crown and Anglophiles who spend sleepless nights wondering what royalty is like up close.
My husband John and I met the princess and senior members of the Royal Family at Buckingham Palace, at an evening reception for diplomats, in 1984 when we were posted to the Canadian High Commission in London. It was not our first palace occasion. We were already veterans of two Royal Garden Parties (ahem). But this was the first time we were asked to come inside.
Naturally, when you receive an embossed gold-crested invitation from the Lord Chamberlain, who “has been commanded by Her Majesty,” you don’t decline because your daughter’s playing in a field hockey tournament final that night, not even if she’s in goal. No, you think, “Heavens, I have nothing to wear!”
John had no such problem: he already had the evening dress required on the invitation – tails; a wing-collared starched shirt; studs and cufflinks; cummerbund – all dating back to his university days. And he could slide into them effortlessly, even after 20 years, because he hadn’t been pregnant three times.
I had. And after four fruitless days spent shopping for something appropriate, I wound up wearing an old bridesmaid’s dress from the bowels of my closet: a shiny, polyester, floor-length, salmon-coloured shirtwaist that made my skin look jaundiced like I was a candidate for a liver transplant.
Other women there looked fabulous. Those from countries with zest wore dresses with zing. The British aristocrats attending as co-hosts had on elegant gowns that smelled of mothballs and looked like they’d last been trotted out for the Queen’s coronation 31 years earlier. The dresses, that is, and not the ladies of high birth.
I’m convinced my ghastly dress and pudding bowl haircut were what prompted the princess to approach me.
The reception started at 9:30 p.m. to allow for adroitly choreographed security checks, including spotlights and mirrors to illuminate the undercarriages of each of the many cars. But it was worth the wait: Up the magnificent staircase we processed, through the Throne Room, past the Royal Collection in the Picture Gallery – all those Van Dykes, Canalettos, Titians, Rembrandts you see in coffee table books and on calendars – and eventually funneled into the various State Rooms where we waited for the Royal Family to pass.
They appeared promptly and in a clump. Small, I can report, but bijoux. Prince Charles wore court dress: tails, black breaches (think RCMP jodhpurs) with the blue Order of the Garter insignia just below his left knee, black stockings and shiny black slippers. Princess Margaret looked glum; Prince Philip, to whom we were unexpectedly presented (cue the bow and clumsy curtsy), was taller than the rest; the Queen was the star. But Diana was the superstar. And she came straight at me.
“Is your husband going to dance with you later?” she asked.
“I hope so!” I said breathlessly, looking up at her nearly six feet of sublime perfection.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see John, utterly smitten, start to rock forward in anticipation of a waltz or foxtrot or possibly a polka. Even his arms were beginning to levitate.
“My husband never does,” she said. “I’m expected to leave as soon as we’ve greeted the guests.”
And then, after confiding in a perfect stranger with weird hair and a hideous dress, she moved on. And out, presumably.
John and I danced all evening in the magnificent ballroom, and when at midnight the Guards Bandsmen, dazzling in their red uniforms, ended with God Save the Queen from the musicians’ gallery above, I have to admit my little Canadian heart beat faster.
I needed to make one more urgent stop before the golden coach turned back into a pumpkin (a.k.a., a Ford Escort): the splendid palace powder room, one of 78 apparently.
The furniture in the anteroom was made of rich dark mahogany. Not likely of a Henry or even a George vintage, but the perfect setting for small subtle lamps and the silver-plated brush sets and salvers set out for guests. Dark varnished wood extended into the cubicles. There were no white plastic seats or blinding white clay tanks or even garish flush handles in evidence. Everything was discreetly enclosed. The effect was not unlike an elegant cottage outhouse, though, unlike a kybo, there was a black wrought-iron pull handle tastefully recessed in a hollow to the right, and a bowl, which from my somewhat distant inspection was blue and white painted ceramic and made by the Royal Doulton Company. Yes, the company that produces the fine bone china dinner plates with gold rims that you got for your wedding and haven’t used in 20 years, the set your children are not interested in taking under any circumstances, also makes the royal toilet bowls.
To say this was a night to remember would be a profound understatement. The palace, the princess, and even the privy would become a thing of family lore. Nevertheless, finding a place to insert the details casually into conversation with outsiders was a problem. Thank goodness for the King’s coronation. Maybe it’ll give me a couple of opportunities to introduce the story into conversations (“You’ve just reminded me of something Princess Diana told me, and can you pass the avocados please?”).
Alena Schram lives in Toronto.