The church bells were pealing for Princess Margaret Rose (as she was known when she was a pretty and vivacious child) as I arrived on a bright, cold Sunday morning. Breaking with the habit of a lifetime, I decided to attend divine service at one of the more upscale Anglican churches, and see if I could test the temperature of the nation. The pews were almost empty as the choir struck up the opening hymn, and the prayers for the departed one–which augmented the Church of England’s mandatory weekly prayer for the Royal Family–were muttered only by a few of the sparse and elderly congregation. The newspapers had done her proud, splashing big pictures and running long obituaries, but the question was: Had Fleet Street overestimated demand for royal obsequies?
The queue to sign the book of condolence at her personal palace was almost humiliatingly small, and the attempt to create a mound of floral tributes outside the railings was positively pathetic. (She might not have minded this: She detested the show of crowd emotion that followed the death of the Spencer girl, and indeed took a very frigid view in general of the "People’s Princess" and her doings.) All through the week I was in town, I met people younger than myself, many of them workers in the media, who had not known that there was any such person as Princess Margaret. This surprised me more than perhaps it should have done (I never tire of G.K. Chesterton’s definition of journalism–that it involves the press telling the reader that Lord Jones is dead, when the reader never knew that Lord Jones had been alive), but it also reinforced something that is otherwise very much noticeable: the deroyalization of British life. The most recent symptom of this was a portrait commissioned for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, which falls in the summer. Painted, or perhaps I should say executed, by Lucian Freud–what could they have been thinking?–it shows a sour-faced, prune-like old lady with a rather vacant look.
When I was a lad, everyone had heard of Princess Margaret, all right. You stood a fair chance, if you went to a nightclub in London, of actually tripping over her. More than one young squireen of the town, indeed, could boast of doing more than that. I myself cannoned into her at a cocktail party, without sufficient warning. She was standing there agreeably enough, with a baby’s bath of gin in one hand and a lancelike cigarette-holder in another. "Evening, ma’am," I ventured, forgetting that with royalty you are supposed to wait to be addressed. "Know anything about China?" she screeched in reply. Whether it was porcelain or Peking that she intended, I was equally at a loss. Her complexion even then–this was the late 1970s–had acquired a sort of smoked-salmon tinge, which slathers of rouge, alternating with tanning holidays on the privately held Caribbean island of Mustique, did little to soften.