I decided to go by train — I wasn’t going to take my Nissan to Sandringham with all those Rolls Royces. Then I thought, ‘Well, I’d better go First Class, because that shows that I know how to behave.’ I had decent clothes to wear on the journey, but decided to wear my trainers on the train. I thought, ‘I’ll just wear those and then when I get out, I’ll put on smart shoes.’ Thanks again to Hodge, I was properly kitted out, even down to the required ballgown. She had even upgraded my handbag to one of those posh Longchamp totes, and I put the court shoes and my bits and bobs in that.
As we approached King’s Lynn station, I changed my shoes, putting my trainers in the Longchamp bag. I teetered down the platform in my uncomfortable, polite heels to be greeted by a gentleman in a dark suit and an elegant, smiling lady. I shook hands with the gentleman. ‘How kind of you to meet me, thank you so much.’ That was my first mistake: he was the chauffeur.
The smiling lady and I got into the car. She introduced herself. I didn’t catch her name and asked again. I didn’t catch it the second time, but let it pass. The whole way to Sandringham, which was about twenty-five minutes, she chatted away to me in the friendliest way imaginable, but her upper-class accent was so inpenetrable that I couldn’t understand a single word. I just kept nodding, looking interested and saying, ‘Oh, goodness, yes!’
Eventually we passed through some imposing, iron gates and along an immaculate gravel drive to the house itself, a Victorian country mansion, three storeys high, with a sloping tiled roof and lots of windows, the pointing in the red brickwork in perfect condition. A line of uniformed members of staff stood waiting to receive us. They took the luggage out of the boot of the car, and my Longchamp bag with my trainers and socks, and somewhat shabby wheelie case, were whisked off.
We were ushered inside to a drawing room, which had a lovely, cosy, country-house feel. All the other guests were assembled. There were about eighteen of us. I immediately recognised Stephen Fry, Michael Morpurgo, Jeremy Paxman, David Hockney, Sir Antony Sher and his partner Greg Doran, Peter Shaffer, Lord Gowrie and his wife, and Mrs Drue Heinz — of the 57 varieties of Heinz. I was particularly thrilled to see David Hockney; I’d always wanted to meet him.
After about half an hour or so, Prince Charles and Camilla joined us, and the prince went in turn to every single person and welcomed them. When he came to me, I got a hug, then he said, ‘There’s something I want to show you. Here, come with me.’ I followed him, and there in the entrance of the house was a curious chair. It was a big leather chair, but it wobbled — it seemed not to be properly stable on the ground. He said, ‘I want you to have a look at that. What do you think it is?’ So I said, ‘Well, it looks like a big fireside seat, or a sofa, or something.’ He said, ‘No, it’s a weighing machine.’ Prince Charles explained that when Edward VII, his great-great-grandfather, had his house parties, he would weigh each of his guests when they arrived, and then he would weigh them again when they left: and if they hadn’t put on weight during their stay, he felt that he had failed as a host. He showed me the original weighing book with all the famous people, their weights noted alongside. What a terrifying thing to see as a guest! I said, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of weighing me!’
The next day was the annual flower show at Sandringham. Thousands of people come from all over England to see the royal party at the flower show. It was a blisteringly hot summer’s day. After breakfast, I went back up to my room but I couldn’t find my sunglasses. And I couldn’t find my trainers. I hunted all around in my room and realised then that they must have been in my Longchamp bag, which obviously hadn’t come up with the rest of my luggage. The staff had made a judgement: the smart luggage goes with the smart lady, and not, alas, with me. I didn’t know quite what to do about it, but everyone was waiting downstairs to go off to the flower show, so I rushed to join the rest of the party.
The flower show was great fun and I was delighted to hear people shouting, ‘Miriam, Miriam!’ And I waved back in regal fashion, because I was part of the royal party, after all. After the show we had an al fresco lunch in the grounds. At the long table I sat next to Prince Charles, and opposite the smiling lady with the white-blonde hair and the elongated vowels I’d met at the station. It turned out that she was Lady Solti, widow of Georg Solti, the music director of the Royal Opera. And she was wearing my sunglasses. Yes, my sunglasses! I was dumbfounded, but not for long. I realised the only thing to do was to say straight out, ‘Where did you get those sunglasses?’ Lady Solti took them off, and said, ‘$@%^$£&?’ which in translation (I believe) was, ‘Oh, are they yours?’ I replied, ‘Well, yes. I think they are.’ It turned out that I was correct: the servants had made a judgement about me and my tatty suitcase and decided that my smart Longchamp bag couldn’t possibly belong to me and had taken it to Lady Solti’s room instead. They’d unpacked everything, and she had assumed sunglasses were provided for guests. Once she realised they were mine, she immediately handed them over. I liked her very much, and knew that in other circumstances we would have been quite friendly. She had no ‘side’.
The weekend continued swimmingly, so much so I even went swimming with Camilla at Holkham Sands. Prince Charles and Camilla are cracking good hosts; the food is spectacularly good — I went to the kitchens and was given a doggie bag of the grouse to take home. I will never forget it, especially a supper under the stars, sitting with Stephen Fry and Tony Sher, after which Prince Charles entertained us in the drawing room with a monologue written by Barry Humphries. The prince is a fine actor, he had a superb Aussie accent and he made us all laugh.
I think he’s a good man who cares a great deal for the country, and I can’t bear the horrid things people write about him and the other members of the royal family. I don’t talk politics with him, I don’t think it’s fair, but I’d a damn sight rather he ran the country than the incompetent buffoon who sits in Number 10.
Spliced
Bastille Day 1968 was the First Fuck — for Heather and me, that is. It’s fifty-three years ago and the joyous memory ignites me still. Through the years we have made our lives together and apart. It was essential for me to live in an English-speaking country and essential for Heather to live in a Dutch-speaking country, accessing the archives for her work. She and my old Cambridge ADC lighting-man beau, David Bree, met and liked each other and they bought a house together on Amsterdam’s Prinsengracht canal. And the years went by and the laws got sharper and we realised that although we didn’t believe in ‘marriage’ as such — and the thought of referring to one another as ‘wife’ makes me feel sick — without a formal civil partnership, should one of us fall ill, no hospital or doctor would release information to the other. It seemed the obvious thing to do and we decided that doing it in England was probably easiest.
Lambeth Town Hall was to be the venue for our nuptials. I had decided the date should be 26 June 2013, seventy years to the day after my parents’ wedding. Heather would come over shortly before and I had to leave for a job in Australia on 17 July. Our very close friends, my Australian lawyer and his wife, Sandy and Dianne Rendel, who happened to be visiting London at the time, would meet us at the town hall and be our witnesses. My favourite restaurant is Brasserie Zédel, opposite the Piccadilly Theatre in Sherwood Street, and I invited Denise, my beloved assistant, and my best friend, Carol Macready, to join us after the ceremony. I had no idea what was involved but I went to the register office and booked the day and the table at Zédel. It was deliberately low-key.