The royals - Kitty Kelley [256]
“The view that Charles is not fit to be King is shared by three-quarters of the people in the country,” said Paul Flynn, a left-wing MP. “Forget the sycophantic drivel that the royals are somehow superior beings who have stepped out of a fairy tale. That has gone forever.”
It looked as though the buzzards were circling the monarchy. Calling it an anachronism, another Labor MP demanded a referendum at the end of the Queen’s reign on whether Britain should continue to have a hereditary head of state. The Press Association conducted a straw vote of the Labor Party and reported a majority favored an open debate on the future of the monarchy.
“I was threatened with assassination when I made that suggestion twenty years ago,” said former Labor MP Willie Hamilton, reflecting on the dramatic change in attitude. “I was called a crank and a communist. It was easier to criticize God in this country than to criticize the monarchy. But no more.”
“At such a turning point,” asked the Guardian newspaper in 1996, “is it not also time seriously to consider the mechanisms for constructing the British Republic?”
The question seemed preposterous to those who judged the royal family by its entertainment value. “The American answer is simple,” said a New York Times editorial, recommending that Britain retain its monarchy. “Of course they should keep it—for our amusement.”
There were no more seasoned actors than the British royal family. Like an old vaudeville troupe, they filed on stage to go through their practiced routines. Looking like rouged curiosities, they performed at weddings and funerals. In costume, they still drew a few regular spectators, but they lost their biggest crowds with the departure of their ingenue Princess. They knew that they were viewed best from afar; up close, their imperfections showed.
They had learned the hard way, and perhaps too late, the wisdom of the eighteenth-century revolutionary Thomas Paine. “Monarchy is something kept behind a curtain,” he wrote, “about which there is a great deal of bustle and fuss, and a wonderful air of seeming solemnity. But when, by any accident, the curtain happens to be open, and the company see what it is, they burst into laughter.”
The colorful cast was ridiculed when Fergie starred as its vixen. But when she bowed out, she had left behind a prince who finally became charming. Through his failed marriage Andrew had learned to behave with dignity in the face of disgrace. No matter what his former wife did to humiliate him and provoke criticism, he remained blessedly silent, discreet, and steadfast.
His father continued playing his role of leading man, although he had faded slightly as a matinee idol. His handsomeness had disappeared beneath age spots, which emphasized his sharp features under taut skin and made him look like a hawk. Still, at the age of seventy-five, he managed to stir a few hearts when he marched alongside the elderly veterans of World War II. Instead of standing with the royal family during a Remembrance Day ceremony, Philip stood with his shipmates. His noble gesture brought tears to the eyes of many who remembered the dashing naval officer, kneeling before a young queen at her coronation and promising to be her liegeman for life. After fifty years of marriage (give or take a few mistresses), he was still at her side with his elbow crooked, ready to receive her hand.
Because of his constancy to the Queen, most people tried to overlook his gaffes. But it was difficult, especially when his boorish remarks caused international incidents. In France he infuriated half his wife’s subjects by saying, “British women can’t cook.” During a trip to Holland he observed crossly, “The Dutch are so po’faced.” In Canada he snapped at officials, “We don’t come here for our health.” In Egypt he complained about Cairo’s traffic. “The trouble with you Egyptians is that you breed too much,” he said. In Peru he was presented with a history of the town