The royals - Kitty Kelley [260]
Fighting back tears, Britain’s Prime Minister Tony Blair tried to comfort a nation convulsed by grief. “She was the people’s princess,” he said, “and that’s how she will stay, how she will remain, in our hearts and in our memories forever.”
Sobbing in the streets, people gathered to mourn Diana. In London, they prayed in churches, stood outside her gym, left flowers in front of her favorite restaurants. They thronged the grounds of Kensington Palace, where she had lived, and heaped bouquets in front of the wrought-iron gates. “Born a lady, became a princess, died a saint,” read one card. A hand-lettered sign said: “She now reigns as the Queen of broken hearts.”
The President of the United States expressed his country’s condolences, as did South Africa’s President Nelson Mandela and Mother Teresa of Calcutta. (The aged nun, in failing health at the time, died a few days later in India. Her death was treated as little more than a media footnote compared to that of Diana.) In Washington, D.C., Americans treated the departed princess like a queen. Hundreds gathered outside the British embassy to pay their last respects, standing in line for hours to sign the condolences book. At the U.S. Open in New York City, the tennis star Andre Agassi wore a black ribbon on his shoulder. And in Geneva, the International Red Cross lowered its flag to half-staff in memory of the Princess whose last humanitarian mission had been to Bosnia to campaign against land mines.
Only weeks earlier, British opinion polls showed for the first time that a majority of the country no longer supported the royal family. Disappointment with the badly behaved House of Windsor was widespread, especially among eighteen- to twenty-four-year-olds, who believed the country would be better off without them. “A hand full of gimme and a pocket full of much obliged,” was one assessment. Within the horde of mourners gathering in front of Buckingham Palace to pay homage to Diana, there was muted criticism of the Queen, who remained secluded in her castle at Balmoral.
“Just once,” sobbed a woman kneeling in prayer, “couldn’t Her Majesty step down to confront her subjects? It wouldn’t impair her dignity…. Just a word, a tear, some kind of gesture—just once—to show she cares.” For five days after the tragedy, the Queen remained silent. The media criticized her for failing to appear in public and join in the outpouring of sorrow sweeping the country. “Show Us You Care,” shouted a headline in the Daily Express. “Where Is Our Queen? Where Is Her Flag?” cried The Sun. Over large photos of stricken mourners, The Mirror pleaded, “Your People Are Suffering. Speak to Us, Ma’am.”
Concerned, the Prime Minister suggested to the Palace that a few words of sympathy from the Queen might help mollify the animosity. The Queen’s courtiers resisted. They felt it was not the monarch’s responsibility to minister to mourners. But the politically astute Prime Minister disagreed. He got in touch with the Prince of Wales, who interceded with his mother, telling her that it was “mandatory” the royal family appear responsive. So she agreed to allow the Union Jack to be flown at half-staff over Buckingham Palace on the day of the funeral. This was a historic concession on the Queen’s part because the honor is accorded only to monarchs who have died. She later disclosed through a spokesman that she had been “hurt” by the suggestion that she was indifferent to her subjects’ sense of loss.
On the eve of the funeral, the Queen agreed to leave Balmoral, return to London, and address the public on television. But even in a scripted speech, which she delivered live against a backdrop