THE PRETTY ONE

THE PRETTY ONE

It was the first time since her father’s death that she had visited her mother and sister at their new home. She had wanted it to be a surprise; to show that her inherited, unasked for role would not mean a drastic change in their lives. While her father had lived, they had all been so happy, dwelling a quatre, sharing every aspect of their exalted status, her beloved sister her closest companion.

How happy they had been. It seemed that nothing could ever come between them. Of course, she had, from the age of six, been groomed to follow her father as the heir presumptive but it hadn’t really changed her life too much in those early years. Though she was aware that her sister was allowed, even encouraged, to be more outrageous in her behaviour, glorifying in the laughter that her ad lib remarks would engender, she, herself, while, also longing to say something out of the ordinary, felt constrained by the invisible cloak that was to be her destiny.

She was quite pretty of course; everybody said so. Just not as pretty as her sister. Occasionally, she had caught glimpses of newspaper articles in her father’s study and, always, while studying the photographs that accompanied the news story, the reference would be to her sister’s beauty. She had come to accept this, no envy apparent, and their lives continued on happily and contented until everything had changed upon their father’s death.

No longer without this wonderful father figure whom they could run to whenever there was a problem that needed solving, the two sisters, also, found their lives diverting, the pain of separation difficult to come to terms with. She had been forced to watch on as her only sibling, though lonesome for her elder sister, continued her life virtually unchanged while she, herself, was forced to embrace a strange and demanding austerity.

When her mother and sister had, as protocol demanded, departed the place that the sisters had come to think of as home, their familiar, natural habitat, she had felt a great pain as if, somehow, it was she who was being abandoned though it was her mother and sister who were being outcast. This, today, was her first opportunity to show that, despite the necessary changes, things could still be the same between them.

She should have called ahead, had her secretary make an appointment but, in an unusual, unscripted moment, she had wanted her visit to be entirely unexpected; wanted her actions to be the centre of attention for once. Of course, it was not to be as she discovered that both her mother and sister were absent.

Undeterred, she dismissed the servant and decided to await their return and tour this house, one she had never before entered though, in reality, she owned it as part of her inherited estate.

Wandering from room to room, her handbag in hand, she admired the decor, recognised pieces that had accompanied her mother and sister in their exodus and dwelled emotionally over the numerous photographs of her father. She recognised the casual informality of these surroundings, something that she would never be allowed to have.

On an impulse, she climbed the winding staircase, eager to view the personal boudoirs of her family and was surprised to find that both her mother’s and sister’s bedrooms were almost exactly the same as they had been when they had all lived together.

She lingered in her sister’s room, the intimate smell of her perfume heavy in the air as always. On a silver platter were several letters unopened. So typical of her sister not to open her mail immediately upon waking. Out of curiosity, she fingered through the pile, all formally addressed, until her eyes lit upon one; a plain white envelope that lacked a conventional postmark and said simply: The Pretty Princess.

What on earth could this mean? Was it a joke? Who would dare to address her sister in this manner? The pretty princess? Was this emphasising the fact that her sister was prettier than her? Her heart beating wildly, she crossed the room and closed the bedroom door before returning and, her hands trembling, took the envelope, sat on the side of her sister’s bed and, though she hesitated, finally, against her better instincts, tore open the letter.

As she read the contents, she felt her face flush, the tears flood her eyes. The words the writer expressed, his total devotion to her sister, were words of love that she, herself, would never, could never, imagine being spoken to her. They spoke of devotion beyond anything one human being could feel for another. As she read the signature at the bottom of these words of adoration, she gasped. Her father’s own equerry? Her sister was carrying on an affair with this man, fifteen years her senior? Suddenly, realising the enormity of this awful breach of etiquette that she, the Queen of England, had committed, she stuffed the letter into her handbag and fled the house, ashamed of her actions, dismayed by her sister’s behaviour, jealous of such affinity.

It was to be several months before the Princess Margaret returned to her childhood home, formally requesting a meeting with her sister, the Queen, to discuss a matter of the utmost urgency. As her car drove into the grounds of the palace, she felt the bile rise in her throat for this was the home she had loved, had grown up in, had first met her lover, her father, the King’s, equerry. This was the home that she had been forced to leave, bundled out off ignominiously along with her mother. They had not been given a choice. She had watched on as her sister had been crowned the new Queen, receiving the adoration of fifty million subjects, the centre of attention; a position that, once, she had always dominated.. Four mere years being the difference, the reason why one sister became the ruler of a Commonwealth, the confidante of Prime Ministers and Presidents the world over, while the other was expected to live the life of a nobody.

Ever since she and her mother had moved into Clarence House, the gap between herself and her sister had grown wider and wider. Though her mother had been shown the graciousness due to a parent, she, herself, had been left to drift aimlessly. This visit marked the first occasion that she had returned to her former home and, ridiculously, she had had to make an official appointment in order to do so. Her resentment grew as she climbed the main staircase to her sister’s drawing room where she was forced, as never before in her life, to curtsey and address her sister as Her Majesty.

The coldness between the pair was noticeable once the footman had deposited the tea tray and departed.

“I wondered, Margaret, when you might deign to visit”.

“Well, I could say the same, Lillibet. You did come once, I’m told, but departed in a mad rush after ten minutes”.

The Queen blushed at this reminder of her secret contravention of etiquette as she poured the tea.

“But, here you are, today. To what do I owe this unexpected honour?”

“Hardly unexpected, sister. I made my appointment two weeks ago and this was the earliest that you could receive me”.

“Yes, well I’m sorry about that, Margaret. Time is not something I am blessed with these days. Oh, please don’t smoke, dear. You know how much I dislike it”.

Margaret bristled as she returned her cigarette case and lighter to her bag, deciding to get straight to the purpose of her visit.

“I am to get married and, apparently, I need your permission”.

The Queen stood, long prepared for this request, of course. She chose her words carefully before speaking.

“The press is full of your romance with Peter Townsend, dear. I presume that it is he you wish to marry? I would just like to point out that he is fifteen years older than yourself...”

“Hah! Phillip is hardly your junior!”

“Phillip is only five years older than me, Margaret. Group Captain Townsend is also a divorced man. You know...”

“You were allowed to marry Phillip even though he wasn’t English, had no fortune, no country, no...”

“Stop! This is completely different and you know it. You are completely aware how the Church of England views divorce. As the monarch, I am the Defender of the Faith and Supreme Governor of the Church. I cannot go against...”

“Are you saying that you are going to refuse me this chance at love?”

“What is love, after all?”

In response, Margaret opened her handbag, withdrew her cigarette case and lighter and, provocatively, lit a cigarette before putting it out in her tea cup and stomping from the room.

The months passed, the iciness between the two sisters unthawing. The press latched onto the romance like limpets to a fishing boat and their every move was reported on, photographed and broadcast worldwide. Would she? Could she? Would an exception be made by the monarchy in allowing a member of the Royal family to marry a divorcee? Would the lovers elope? No other event came close to removing this story from the front pages. Everybody, it seemed, had an opinion to offer. The general public favoured the cause of the Princess but the Queen, alone in her palace, became ever more entrenched. The Princess revelled in her fame... for a while. Then grew tired of all the attention, even more tired of the constant stream of emissaries sent by the government, the palace, the church to lecture her on her duty to the Crown and, eventually, inevitably, tired even of her suitor.

The one-time equerry, the war hero, sensing this shift in his relationship, was forced by the government to accept a diplomatic role at the British Embassy in Belgium, far removed from his Princess. Time and distance took their toll and, finally, under much external pressure but to her internal relief, the Princess issued a formal statement, as drafted by the Church, ending, forever, her love affair.

The Queen, though eternally shamed by her inappropriate action in opening her sister’s letter that day, felt that, finally, her actions were justified, putting state before family, a path she would never be diverted from. She would go on to rule for seventy years, the longest living queen in history. Though her husband philandered, her children and grandchildren scandalised, she reigned in the same restrained manner that had been ingrained in her from the age of six; her demeanour and dignity paramount. Her quite pretty looks unchanged.

Not so for the sister. Princess Margaret, who closed off her emotions forever, sought solace in marriage to a commoner, a man, wholly unsuited, who would seek to hide his own insecurities by delighting in mocking her in company and treating her even more cruelly in private. She bore two children but felt no empathy for either becoming ever more embroiled in her own scandals, spending much of her time in the Caribbean where tales of her escapades involving a would be gangster whose claim to fame was the number of beer glasses he could dangle on his manhood, were seized on by the British press, serving to widen the gulf between the sisters. She divorced, seeking ever more comfort in alcohol and tobacco, the combination of which began to ravage her looks and her health as the years passed until, one day, she woke up ...no longer the pretty one.