THE BEGINNING

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Paul Burrell

 

A ROYAL DUTY

PENGUIN BOOKS

A ROYAL DUTY

‘Powerful. Poignant. And extremely important. I am amazed by this wonderful book’ Patricia Cornwell

‘A tender, insightful memoir of a special and sometimes bizarre relationship … Burrell’s testimony is powerful … his decency shines through on every page’ Christopher Silvester, Sunday Times

‘It’s unputdownable’ Lynn Barber, Daily Telegraph

‘A standout memoir … you cannot fault the energy of his storytelling … A Royal Duty may come to be recognised as an historical document in its own right’ Tim Teeman, The Times

‘Riveting … and ultimately rather touching’ Anne Chisolm, Spectator

‘Burrell has not betrayed the trust of The Boss. Her ghost must be raising a flute of champagne’ Mark Lawson, Guardian

‘The most gripping book I’ve read this year … Not only a riveting account of the butler’s life with the Queen and Princess Di, it also illuminates the murky ways in which Britain is run and poignantly depicts the strange ways in which some relationships founder while others endure’ Liz Ryan, Sunday Independent

‘A vivid picture of home life in the house of Windsor’ Robert McCrum, Observer

‘A mine of gems’ Anne Fine, Sunday Herald

‘Affectionate, amusing and authentic’ Richard Davenport-Hines, TLS

‘It is fascinating, lucid and will one day be respectable social history’ Sarah Sands, Daily Telegraph

‘A terrific read’ Ireland on Sunday

Preface

The princess died at four a.m. in a hospital in Paris on Sunday 31 August 1997. The last time I saw her was when she was waving goodbye from the back of her BMW, being driven away from the front door of Kensington Palace on Friday 15 August.

The previous day, we had been to Waterstones bookshop in Kensington High Street. We drove because time was tight, and we didn’t fancy walking back with what she called her ‘heavy reading matter’: half a dozen books, hardback and paperback, on spirituality, psychology and healing. She put them in the boot and got into the front passenger seat, and we headed back to the palace so she could finish packing with assistance from her dresser, Angela Benjamin.

As we turned into the palace drive, she was in a relaxed mood. ‘I’m looking forward to a quiet holiday, good company and lots of light reading!’

Her friend Rosa Monckton had hired a yacht with a crew of four to sail her and the princess around the Greek islands on a six-day Mediterranean holiday. When she returned, the princess was due to go on holiday with another female friend, Lana Marks, for a five-day break to Italy, staying at the Four Seasons Hotel in Milan. She had not intended to spend that final week of August with Dodi Al Fayed. Reservations had been made and flights booked for her to be with Lana. That holiday was cancelled at the last minute because Lana’s father died suddenly, which left the princess at a loose end until the boys returned to Kensington Palace on 31 August. She accepted Dodi’s offer to spend more time with him on the Jonikal, cruising around the French Riviera and Sardinia.

Before she flew out to join Dodi, she would be back at the palace for one day, on 21 August, but I wouldn’t be there because I had deliberately booked my family holiday to Naas, in the Republic of Ireland, to fit in with the princess. As she finalized her packing on 15 August to head off to the airport, I was sharing that demob-happy feeling as I waited with Rosa inside KP. ‘We must do something about this one. He’s not right for her, you know that. Will you do what you can?’ I asked her. I knew that the princess would listen to Rosa, and I sensed that Rosa shared my concern, because ‘this one’ was Dodi. Rosa nodded and smiled. She understood.

The princess had been fussing around in the sitting room, tidying her desk, putting the wastepaper bin out in the landing to be emptied, checking her shoulder-bag. As the two friends came down the stairs to leave, she stopped half-way down and went through her crosschecking routine, thinking aloud: ‘Passport, phone, Walkman …’

I was leaning on the wooden banister, looking up at her. She was wearing a simple Versace shift dress. ‘Do you know?’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen you looking as good. You look perfect. You don’t need the sunshine – look at your tan already!’ and she skipped down the stairs, smiling.

We went through into the inner hallway. ‘Hang on to that a minute.’ She thrust her shoulder-bag into my hands and disappeared into the ladies’ room. Within minutes, she was ready to go. She stepped out into the sunshine and into the rear passenger seat of the BMW as the chauffeur started the engine. I pulled out and stretched the seatbelt, then leaned across her to fasten it. ‘If you have a chance to ring me, you will, won’t you?’ she asked me.

‘Of course,’ I said, having arranged that week for her mobile telephone to be allocated a new number that only a handful of people would know.

‘Have a nice time, Paul.’

I walked back to the doorstep, and the princess waved. I watched the BMW turn left and out of sight. She was heading for Heathrow and an aeroplane to Athens.

The Burrells joined Maria’s side of the family, the Cosgroves, on a four-day holiday in Naas. We visited Kilkenny Castle and then the village where the BBC series Ballykissangel was filmed, visiting the famous Fitzgerald’s pub. I was under strict orders from Maria to forget about work and the princess. ‘This is a family holiday and family time,’ she said.

The only problem was that I had promised the princess I would ring. Four days of no contact would be noticed by the Boss, so I found myself making excuses to go for long walks.

The princess was on the deck with Rosa when I rang. She told me how sunny and hot it was. I told her how wet and miserable the Republic of Ireland was. She had completed a book on spirituality and was tackling a new one already, she said. I hung up, promising to speak to her again when I was back at my home in Farndon, Cheshire, and she was on the Jonikal with Dodi. I told Maria that the long walk had done me a power of good.

On 21 August, she made a flying return to Kensington Palace then dashed off to Stansted Airport for a flight to Nice to meet up with Dodi and head back to the Jonikal. While she had been away, the refurbishment of the sitting room had been finished so she saw the reupholstered sofas and sky blue curtains.

The refurbishment was ironic because, after flicking through the property brochures from America, the chance had arisen to purchase a clifftop property in California: the home of British actress Julie Andrews. The princess was seriously considering a new future there, but it would not have been a permanent move. She wanted to buy a holiday home where she could spend up to six months of the year, while she kept KP as her London base.

A move to America had been on the cards since the spring. In August, between holidays, she had spread out the brochure and said, ‘America is where my destiny lies, and if I decide to do this, Paul, I would like you, Maria and the boys to join me.’

As we knelt on the sitting-room floor, she pointed at the Julie Andrews property, featured on several colour pages and floor plans. ‘This is the main reception area. This is where William’s room will be, and Harry’s. And that annexe is where you will live with Maria and the boys. This can be a new life. Isn’t it exciting? It is a land where anyone can achieve,’ she said.

I had longed to live in America but it all seemed too sudden. ‘I think you should slow down. Even I’m finding it impossible to keep up with you,’ I said, trying not to burst the bubble.

That afternoon the princess peppered me with questions. ‘Well, if we don’t live there, what about Cape Cod? It’s nearer to London. We can travel the world, Paul, and seek out all those people who need help.’

We sat there imagining the American lifestyle: the jogs along the beach, the constant sunshine, the sense of freedom. And there was one more thing. Something she had always talked about. The one thing she had always wanted at Kensington Palace but felt was not possible. ‘And we can get a dog,’ she said. The princess had always longed for a black labrador. The thought of America made her so happy. ‘I always said we would end up living in America, didn’t I?’ she said.

The princess was making clear-cut decisions. Many things were discussed. Secrets that I cannot mention here. Secrets that will go away with me. But surprises would be coming, and the prospect of all that excited her.

After the holiday in Naas, I spoke to the princess nearly every day, but I never rang her from home. When we spoke, she was either lying on the deck of the Jonikal or relaxing out of the sun in her cabin. From the first call, I knew she was getting restless in that environment. ‘It’s roasting on the deck, it’s like a fridge downstairs – I’m crawling the walls here!’ she said.

Dodi had given her a silver photo frame, inscribed with a poem. She read it to me.

‘That’s a bit deep and meaningful, isn’t it?’ I jested.

‘No!’ She laughed. ‘It’s sweet and romantic.’

He had also given her a necklace and a pair of earrings. ‘He’s got it bad, hasn’t he?’ She giggled.

I could see what was happening. The Boss had enjoyed the frisson of a new liaison, the excitement of the chase, the flattery of an attentive man who had fallen head over heels. As they all did. But for her the novelty was wearing a bit thin. She knew that Dodi had fallen in love. He had told her so over dinner. But she hadn’t reciprocated. It was too early, she said.

‘So what did you tell him?’ I asked curiously.

‘I told him, “Thank you for the compliment.”’

In the mythology that has been peddled since the princess’s death, there have been two ludicrous claims: that she and Dodi were going to get married, and that she was pregnant. The monstrous suggestion of pregnancy is not true.

As for marriage, which seems to have been a story that emerged from Dodi’s friends, he might well have told them that he was planning to pop the question, but the princess was in no mood to accept. Happy she might have been. Hasty she was not.

In another call from the boat, she speculated about whether the next gift would be a ring. She was excited at the prospect but becoming increasingly worried about what it all meant. ‘What do I do, Paul, if it’s a ring? I want another marriage like I want a bad rash,’ she said.

‘It’s easy. You accept it graciously and slip it on to the fourth finger of your right hand. Don’t put it on the wrong finger if you don’t want to send the wrong signals!’ I warned light-heartedly.

Fourth finger. Right hand. We kept saying it.

‘That means it will become a friendship ring,’ I said.

‘What a clever idea. I will. I will,’ she said.

We never had another conversation about a ring, or whether one was actually produced.

There was another nagging doubt in the princess’s mind about Dodi. ‘He keeps going into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. He keeps sniffing, blaming the air-conditioning system, and it disturbs me. Maybe I can help him, Paul.’ The conversation switched to how much she was looking forward to spending time with William and Harry. She couldn’t count the days fast enough until she was with them. She was so desperate to come home that she wanted to cut short her time with Dodi and return to London two days early. She had considered rearranging her flight, but Dodi persuaded her to stay.

‘I’m just ready to come home now,’ she said. ‘I need to go to the gym.’

‘You’ve had enough of all that pampered luxury, then?’ I asked.

There was a sigh. I did what I often did and tried to second-guess what she was thinking. ‘Don’t tell me. You’re feeling trapped on the boat and he’s controlling your every move?’

‘Right again. I need to come home.’

She told me about the last-minute diversion to Paris on Friday 29 August. She spoke to me from the deck of the Jonikal. It was one of the last six phone calls she made in the final twenty-four hours of her life, as recorded in the call-register of her mobile telephone.

I was on the telephone, sprawled on the sitting-room floor at my brother-in-law Peter Cosgrove’s house in Farndon, two doors down from our first house, bought that spring as a holiday home. The family – Maria, the boys, Peter, his wife Sue, and their daughters Clare and Louise – had all given me privacy, but were growing impatient in the kitchen because I must have been on the telephone to the princess for around forty minutes.

In that call, the timetable for her arrival had changed. Originally she had been due to come back to London direct from the Mediterranean, arriving on Saturday 30 August ahead of the boys’ arrival on the Sunday. But Dodi had told her he needed to go to Paris for ‘business reasons’. She seemed reluctant to go but, again, Dodi had persuaded her.

‘We’ve got to go to Paris, but I promise I will be back on Sunday,’ she said. ‘Now, I bet you can’t guess where I am.’

I tried Sardinia.

‘No. Monaco. And I bet you can’t guess where I’m going tonight.’

I hazarded a fine restaurant.

‘No. I’m going to visit the grave of Princess Grace. It will be a special moment.’

It would be the first time she had returned to the grave since she attended her funeral in 1982. ‘I’m going to lay some flowers and say a few words,’ she added.

Then, her mind was back on land. She was thinking ahead and making plans, giving me instructions: remember to book Mr Quelch at Burberry (the boys’ tailor) for the following Monday. The Armani fitting for 4 September. She asked what was in the diary. I told her lunch with Shirley Conran, and an appointment with aromatherapist Sue Beechey. Otherwise she had plenty of free time with William and Harry.

As that marathon call neared its end, the princess told me: ‘I’m looking forward to catching up with friends and I can’t wait to see the boys. There’s a lot we have to talk about, so don’t be late! I’ll tell you everything else when I see you.’

In the background, an impatient family was calling me from the kitchen.

‘Paul?’ the princess asked. ‘I want you to promise me something.’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘Promise me you’ll be there,’ she said, in a chirpy voice, and I laughed at her worrying about me being late or not being on the front doorstep.

‘Say it!’ she demanded. ‘I want to hear you say those words!’

I started to laugh. ‘Okay, okay, if it makes you feel happier, I promise I’ll be there.’

The princess laughed. The family guffawed behind the kitchen door. The poignancy of those final words only hit me later but they have stayed with me ever since. I will carry on that responsibility of being there for her – even when others object.

‘Good!’ said the princess. ‘I’ll see you when I get back.’

It was the last time I spoke to her.