My life changed completely the day my father died. Of course, that would be traumatic for any 18-year old girl; but in my case it meant I went from being a first year student at university, to being Queen Victoria the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and the British Commonwealth of Nations!
The first I knew of it was at 6.15 a.m. one cold, wet Saturday morning, when a black limousine turned up at my college accompanied by two police cars flashing their blue lights. I was still in bed, and I thought my flatmate was winding me up when she shook me awake and said I had visitors -- a junior minister from the Home Office and my father's Private Secretary. Dressed in my Winnie the Pooh pyjamas and Porky Pig slippers, I stumbled into our lounge, and found the two gentlemen, dressed very formally, perched uncomfortably on the edge of our couch.
Daddy's P.S., Sir William Merchant, had been like a grandfather to me down the years, and if their very presence at that unearthly hour hadn't told me something dramatic was happening, his demeanour did --he looked as if he was about to burst into tears. Clearing his throat three times, his normal rich booming voice was little more than a croak as he said, "Vicki -- your Royal Highness -- I have the most dreadful news."
Then he proceeded to tell me that Daddy had taken a tumble the previous day while playing squash. His doctor had checked him out and cleared him, and he'd seemed fine the rest of the day, but he'd gone to bed complaining of a headache, and had been found dead in the early hours of the morning. Apparently it had been caused by a blood clot on his brain which had burst. No announcement had been made to the press yet, and less than a dozen people knew the position. Sir Will finished off, "We're here to take you back to Buckingham Palace with us -- Your Majesty."
To say I was stunned would be rather like saying Einstein was quite bright. My flatmate had made a tactical withdrawal to her bedroom, to give us some space, but now I saw her standing in the doorway staring at me with her mouth hanging open. While the junior minister started to explain to her about the Official Secrets Act, I, in a dreamlike state, tottered back into my room and started to get dressed. I'd got about halfway when I collapsed on my bed in wracking sobs. It wasn't just that I'd lost my father -- obviously that was upsetting, but in truth I'd always been slightly nervous around him, he was quite a stern, forbidding person, very different to his public image. It wasn't that I was going to miss university either. Obviously that was over, but I hadn't been overly keen in the first place, not because I doubted my academic ability, but simply because I would rather have stayed at Windsor with my beloved horses.
The reason I felt so desolate, as if it was my life which had just ended, was that I was not remotely ready for that responsibility. My parents had taken a conscious decision to keep me out of the public eye as far as possible until I'd finished my education, and the press had largely respected that. My father had only just turned 50, he was quite proud of his state of fitness, and I had received absolutely no training up to that point for my future role -- which I had assumed was decades away -- as queen. The most high profile thing I'd ever done was appearing on a kids' TV show to promote a children's charity of which it had been agreed I would be the patron! As I wept uncontrollably, I felt arms reach around me and I was pulled to Sir Will's chest, as he whispered comforts to me. My flatmate hovered at the door, in tears herself, clutching a mug of tea for me.
On the drive from Oxford to London I was still in a daze, not really hearing Sir Will explaining to me all the arrangements which had to be made. As the car glided towards the private entrance to Buck House I glanced across at the crowd of people, many of them tourists, gathering happily at the formal entrance to the building to watch the Changing of the Guard, in front of the statue to Queen Victoria -- Victoria the First as she now was -- with no idea that, yards from them, the king lay dead. Long live the Queen! My mother met me at the door of the building, and we hugged in silence, both crying softly.
The official announcement was made at ten o'clock that morning, and within an hour or so the profile of the crowd outside Buck House had changed. The brightly dressed tourists were gone, replaced by a small flock of people dressed uniformly in black, standing in the drizzle reading the death notice which had been posted on the front gate. My mind still a blur, I signed various official papers as they were placed in front of me, having no idea what I was doing. Thankfully my mother sat next to me throughout the whole horrid process, asking the occasional sharp question. By seven p.m. I was ready for bed, heavily tranquilised by my doctor.
The next few weeks were a bit of a blur too. It took me ages to truly realise that I was now queen, and not just playing some silly childish game. There was Daddy's state funeral, arrangements for my own coronation, meeting the Archbishop of Canterbury, heads of state from various countries, ambassadors from all over the world, posing for my official portrait, approving my image for new stamps and banknotes, for God's sake! And meeting my Prime Minister.
Mark Prentiss was 43 at the time, and had been Prime Minister for four years, and Leader of the Opposition for three years before that. I had known him slightly throughout that time, meeting him at scores of official functions. When I was a little kid, as he filed past the family bowing, on a couple of occasions he shook my hand, gave me a wink and secretly slipped me a sweetie, which naturally made me fond of him. As I reached my mid-teens I could see why the press called him his party's secret weapon with women voters: he was unquestionably devilishly handsome, six feet tall, with lots of dark hair, twinkling eyes, a ready smile and a trim figure. His face reminded me of an actor who used to play James Bond, Timothy Dalton, only better looking. He was also a brilliant Parliamentary performer, and had a charismatic personality. It was even suggested that the female Leader of the Opposition was in love with him.
Every Tuesday the monarch had a private meeting with the PM. Just the two of them, not even a Private Secretary or whatever present. Not a lot of people know that, as Michael Caine never actually said. In the early days the meetings between us were very formal, and I felt extremely nervous, not sure what to say or how to react as Mark told me the issues to be discussed in Parliament in the coming week, probable developments on the horizon and so on. Gradually, though, I began to relax and actually quite look forward to the meetings. Mark had a soothing, rhythmic voice, and it was an intimate hour or so of tranquillity in a life which had changed beyond recognition, with everyone seemingly wanting a part of me. Whatever public engagements I was lined up for -- opening new hospitals in Burnley, meeting children of courage in Cardiff, whatever, I insisted to my diary secretary that I wanted to be in London every Tuesday evening for my meeting with the Prime Minister.
Mark's party had a majority of only three seats in the House of Commons, and as we got to know each other better he used to spice up his reports with occasional little anecdotes, usually amusing, occasionally risqué, of the tricks his party whips had to get up to in order to maintain his wafer-thin voting advantage. He also told me the odd bit of Westminster gossip, like the Minister who was having a torrid affair with the daughter of another MP. I asked if Mark was going to keep the guy in his cabinet; he told me "Bill's damned good at his job, the unions trust him, and, from what I can gather, his wife's more than happy to let someone else have the fat sweaty pig grunting on top of them for a change." I giggled in a most un-queenly manner, and told Mark I'd bet he didn't used to talk to my father like that.
One evening when Mark arrived for our meeting, he flourished a pale blue and white box, tied with pink ribbon. It was from Fortnum and Mason, the retailers who supply the royal Christmas food hamper every year. Intrigued, I opened it to find a cream cake with a huge strawberry on top -- my absolute favourite naughty treat. Grinning with delight, I asked him how he knew. He tapped the side of his nose and muttered something about government spies. Pretending haughtiness, I drew myself up straight and, in a booming voice, said, "Tell me! Your queen commands it." After that, it became a sort of little joke between us. On Mark's next weekly visit, the first time he called me Your Majesty I said, "Prime...Mark -- call me Vicki, please. Your queen commands it."
