Authors: Margaret Rhodes
We made camp that night on a horrible, windswept plain. We hardly slept and left very early, with no other vehicles to be seen. We were now to cross the Chalbi desert and passed a noisy and
colourful meeting place, for what I think was the Rendille tribe. There were a hundred of them with their camels, and it was a great treat to have seen them. Later we reached a small oasis of tall
reeds, and decided to stop and have a look. We had with us our guide, armed only with a spear. We were walking in the grove when suddenly some atavistic instinct brought on a sense of danger. Then
I saw the glint of metal and dark faces hiding in the reeds. It was the Shifta bandits, who originate mostly from Somalia, and their guns were pointing directly at us. It was not a good idea to
run, and so with our hearts in our mouths we assumed nonchalance and sauntered back to our vehicles. The Shifta could have finished us off and stripped us of our belongings. Why they didn’t
I’ll never know. Wild animals would have completed the job and we would have simply become another example of travellers who had just disappeared.
Our journey became increasingly rough as we drove over ridges of black lava. It was incredibly hot, and ridge after ridge succeeded one another as we began to despair of actually ever reaching
the lake, which is about three hundred miles long. But at long last, as we crested yet another rise, we caught a glimpse of water ahead. It was the Turquoise Sea, stretching as far as the eye could
see. Our first instinct when we reached the shore was to jump straight in to cool down and we waded out into the deliciously cold water. Then one of the guides spotted a flotilla of two-eyed lumps
breaking the surface. They were crocodiles, the sight of which put a dip right out of our minds. We were told afterwards that Lake Turkana contained Africa’s largest population of Nile
crocodiles, 14,000 of them, and all very hungry indeed. It was a lucky escape.
Our next problem was to find a possible campsite. We saw a line of trees some distance away, but when we got nearer, to our horror, we spotted a land rover already parked there, the first
vehicle we had seen for over 200 miles. We drove on regardless, and to our astonishment, found that the occupant of the camp was none other than Wilfred Thesiger, the remarkable explorer of Africa
and Arabia. He was kindness itself and showed us another site a little further away, where we camped. We invited him to dinner and he told us enthralling stories of Kenya and the Empty Quarter of
Southern Arabia — and also frightening ones of the murders of local missionaries by the Shifta. Wilfred Thesiger had lived with the tribal peoples of East Africa since 1968, only occasionally
returning home. He was knighted in 1995 and I met him again over lunch with Queen Elizabeth at Clarence House. He was nearly blind by then, but he remembered our chance meeting so many years
before.
We went off the following morning to scout out the land further north. There was a howling, hot gale and there were no visible tracks to follow, though the ground was hard and easy to drive on.
At one point, Jolyon leant out of the window to point out some lion spoor. We stopped to look further, only to suddenly see two large black-maned lions lying down about twenty yards away; we
re-embarked pretty fast. It now became clear that we would not succeed in our planned aim of reaching the Ethiopian border. The drive to the lake had taken far longer than anticipated, due mainly
to the very slow going over the endless plains.
We rescheduled our plans and aimed instead for Mount Kulal on the eastern side of the lake. Over 7,000 feet high it was split in two by a great chasm. One side had a mission station on it, while
the other was largely unknown, with no track up it. We had some confusing and unclear notes made up by a British Army survey team, which included such gems as ‘turn left where there are three
thorn trees’. There is, of course, one thorn tree per foot of ground in Kenya. Despite such difficulties, we looked for any wheel tracks and continued to climb until darkness fell and our
headlights carved columns of light into the black sky. We could no longer see what was under our wheels and had to stop.
We camped in the teeth of a howling gale: it was impossible to cook so we bedded down hungry, and with a sense of potential danger. We had seen a rhino in the headlights before we stopped and
there had been signs of other animals around. We left at first light and soon came upon the ruins of a pipe-laid water supply. Sadly, with no Europeans still here, it had not been maintained,
though no doubt elephants had something to do with it. At last we reached a bare grass mound and found two wood cabins, protected from the eternal wind, looking like a Wild West film. They had been
built to allow the local British administrators to escape the heat of Lake Rudolf below. We quickly made them our home and that night enjoyed a proper cooked meal. There is no pleasure to equal
that of sitting round a campsite at night, after a long hot day, drinking a whisky under the vast and wonderful canopy of the African sky.
In the morning we received a visit from a good-looking young warrior. He was bare-headed and was wearing only the ubiquitous piece of red cloth, and armed with a spear. He had a particularly
handsome necklace, on which the Halses commented. He told them that it indicated that he had killed a man. We decided to go exploring and soon came upon a spring in the forest, where the cattle
were watering. We were greeted with suspicious looks by the cattle herders, as water is such a precious commodity and intruders are unwelcome. After a bit of Swahili banter, they offered to show us
the way to the summit, which we had failed to reach the day before. This was great news, as of course there were no tracks to follow.
Our guide was a splendid man with a turaco feather stuck in his curly hair. As we climbed, the trees became stunted and we were fascinated to see the tracks of lion and elephant as we climbed,
which was surprising at such a great height. At last we reached the top, which was bare and grassy. Almost immediately below us was the chasm dividing the two parts of Kulal. The ground fell away
into dizzying depths, where the mist swirled and one really felt that no European had set foot before. We could see swifts flying and we could hear the thrumming of their wings. Far, far below we
could see the faint blue smudge of the lake. I shall never forget that particular sight. There were other safaris, but this one has always stood out as the most exciting of them all.
Another adventure was to Petra. Years later, after Denys died, I was at Sandringham staying with the Queen, when I met Crown Prince Hassan of Jordan and his wife Sarvath, the daughter of the
Foreign Minister of Pakistan. They were very nice and friendly. One traveller’s tale led to another, and over dinner one evening I told Prince Hassan that I had long wanted to visit Petra,
described by John William Burgon as ‘a rose red city, half as old as time’. They immediately invited me to stay with them at their place in Amman, together with Lady Susan Hussey, one
of the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting, who was at Sandringham at the time of their visit.
Prince Hassan had been heir to the Hashemite kingdom of Jordan for three decades, until in 1988 his brother, King Hussein, named his own son Prince Abdullah as his heir. It must have been a
great shock to him, as it was done so abruptly and so unexpectedly. Hassan and Sarvath were charming hosts, but they kept apart in the day because of the regulations for Ramadan. When we
accompanied them we went everywhere in a heavily armour-plated car, the doors of which weighed a ton to open or shut. Hassan and his wife were greeted enthusiastically by the villagers we met and
it was obvious that they were very popular. At one time we stayed in their small country house on the banks of the Jordan.
Petra was a breath-taking climax to our visit. A troop of small Arab ponies and their handlers were waiting for us, and we entered the Petra complex through a cleft in the high walled cliffs, so
narrow that two people could not travel abreast. Black shadows and shafts of brilliant sunshine alternated, and then suddenly before us, rearing up to a majestic height were the tall columns of
Petra’s Treasury, lost to the world for six hundred years before being rediscovered in 1812. I was told that more than 30,000 people once lived in Petra, but the whole area has never been
explored archaeologically. Think how much must be hidden there, what ancient treasures lie beneath the surface. The magic of Petra and most of Jordan is its vivid relationship with Biblical times.
The Bedouin tents are still the same as they were thousands of years ago, but now cars and pickups are parked outside them instead of camels. I had resigned myself to the thought that my trekking
days were over. Petra was a bonus.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sometime in 1990 Queen Elizabeth asked me to lunch at Clarence House: Ruth, Lady Fermoy, the exceedingly elegant maternal grandmother of Princess Diana was also there. In her
way she was as much a fashion plate as her granddaughter and was a senior Woman of the Bedchamber. When the meal was over Ruth, Lady Fermoy invited me up to her sitting room. It was all rather
mysterious, but she finally got round to the point. To my complete surprise she told me that Queen Elizabeth wanted me as one of her Ladies-in-Waiting, but found it difficult to ask me herself in
case I was reluctant. It would have been impossible to say ‘No’ to her face. My answer, however, was an emphatic and immediate ‘Yes’. I had been a widow for nine years and
having a job gave me a focus which had been lacking since Denys’ death.
I joined a Household which was legendary for its hospitality, conviviality and wit, but underscored by an inexorable sense of duty. It was the unstuffiest of Courts — the animating spirit
of all this was, of course, Queen Elizabeth. It was not in her nature to behave as though her privileged position was a crushing burden. By temperament an enjoyer of life, she entered into
everything she did with gusto and expected those close to her to do the same. I can only say that I did my best. She turned even the most tedious occasion into a party and from my own experience I
fully agree with the anonymous leader writer at
The Times
, who once said of her: ‘She lays a foundation stone as though she has discovered a new and delightful way of spending an
afternoon.’
She never, however, forgot what she owed to people whose lives were less comfortable, pleasant and interesting than her own. She kept her politics from the public gaze, but no one could say that
she leaned towards the Left. Despite this she got on well with many Labour politicians and had a deep concern about social conditions. But I do remember my daughter Annabel having tea with her; and
the conversation touching on Tony Blair’s then latest wheeze, ‘Cool Britannia’, prompting Queen Elizabeth to remark wistfully: ‘Poor Britannia. She would have hated being
Cool.’
When I was recruited there were two Ladies-in-Waiting with titles, who only turned out for the very grandest of occasions, and eight Women of the Bedchamber. We ‘Women’ did
fortnightly periods ‘in-waiting’ and accompanied the boss on her official engagements. Our rather elderly entourage was very well briefed on how to behave before we went out to meet the
public — as if we didn’t know — and the Private Secretary would warn us about any potential trouble spots, like tricky stairs and steps. Fortunately when I was
‘in-waiting’ there were no mishaps, and Queen Elizabeth even coped with the twists and turns of the aircraft carrier
Ark Royal
without any disasters. We were always supplied with
the names of everyone we could possibly meet, and what they were interested in, so that there would be no awkward silences. Our handbags contained the little extra necessities of life to make a
Royal visit go like clockwork. I did not know the contents of Her Majesty’s handbag, but there was astounded merriment at Clarence House when the satirical magazine
Private Eye
suggested that she never ventured far without an ironed copy of
The Sporting Life
, a packet of Marks and Spencer chocolate éclairs, a ready mixed gin and Dubonnet in a hip flask and a
large number of £50 notes ‘just in case’.
The key figures in the Household were Sir Martin Gilliat, the Private Secretary, an ebullient figure who sometimes took on the role of master of the revels; the less ebullient, but wonderfully
organised Sir Alastair Aird, the Comptroller, and the Treasurer, Sir Ralph Anstruther, who was a whiz with figures, down to the last decimal point, and who doled out my very modest expense
allowance. Retirement was not an option, except for the young Equerry, always from the Irish Guards, who was seconded to Royal duties for three years.
One of my colleagues, approaching her eightieth birthday, began to drop hints that it was about time for her to go, but before she could breathe another word her employer said:
‘Congratulations! You will find that you feel marvellous after you’re eighty.’ The subject of retirement was never mentioned again. At the time Queen Elizabeth was ninety-eight.
It seemed death was the only exit and I sometimes wondered whether my aunt would see me out. She never mentioned dying, only occasionally obliquely referring to someone having ‘gone
upstairs’.
An example of an intensely loyal courtier staying in post until the end was Martin Gilliat, a very brave man who had been a Colditz prisoner like my brother John. He had been diagnosed with
cancer, but although he was seriously ill Queen Elizabeth threw a party in 1993 to celebrate his eightieth birthday, which ended with the usual nostalgic sing-song round the piano. Afterwards
Martin carried on for more than three months, a shadow of his former sparky self but still forcing himself to work from his flat in St James’s Palace. Finally he went into hospital and died
three days later. He was much loved and I know Queen Elizabeth deeply mourned the indomitable man who had run both her official and private life for nearly forty years. Shortly afterwards Ruth,
Lady Fermoy died of inoperable cancer and the two deaths left her bereft.
There were a number of other people in the Household: the Lord Chamberlain, who when I arrived was the Earl of Dalhousie; a Page of Honour, and two Apothecaries — an antique description
for the two highly qualified medical consultants who were on call, one for Clarence House and the other for Royal Lodge. There were three secretaries, described as Lady Clerks; one of them worked
for the Comptroller, and one for the Ladies-in-Waiting. The third worked in the office of the Press Secretary, Sir John Griffin. Her duties included fielding media calls, and she had a notice
pinned on the wall proclaiming: ‘We don’t leak’. This was in the days when reportage of the Royal Family was running wild and out of control.