Of Kings and Queens – A lifelong obsession
CHAPTER 1
Like any other little girl I was still very young when I became aware of Kings and Queens, princes and princesses. Cinderella was a staple in my arsenal of books. Yes, I was born before videos and DVD’s but that did not prevent us from living in a fantasy world where every story had a happy ending.
I can not remember exactly when I was introduced to the adult world of royalty and became aware that there were such things as real live kings and queens, princes and princesses, but suffice it to say that at some point I must have watched a reel of Queen Elizabeth on her way to some ceremony in her shiny carriage, wearing her royal mantel, a crown and lots of jewels, because that was the image I had of a real life queen. For a couple of years that image persisted because the magazines we had in our country obviously showed just the pomp and ceremony, the good and the glittering events and along with my parents I poured over full page photographs. Visiting my grandmother, who was addicted to her British Women’s Weekly, I once again had the opportunity to read about the British royals and look at pictures to my heart’s content.
So enthralled was I with the British royals that I never thought there could be a different kind or royalty.
We lived in Kwa-Zulu Natal at the time and my father owned a farm and a butchery in town. As children we were aware that he traded cattle in Ulundi and Nongoma, the ‘headquarters’ of the Zulu king, King Goodwill Zwelithini. We listened to my father telling my mother stories of his day trading cattle and all the things he saw and experienced while in the heart of Zululand, but the picture I conjured up in my mind was in fact far removed from what it was truly like.
My father had a contract with one of the local mines to provide meat to their compounds (single quarters) and was in his butchery making up these orders every morning at 5 am. One day he came home all excited because he had a massive order for later in the week as there was some celebration at the mine with traditional dancing and the king was going to be in attendance. Although the festivities were taking place on mine grounds, the entire town was on high alert and suddenly our tiny quiet town was flooded with people. Sitting under trees were groups of people wearing traditional clothing, bearing shields and spears or breastfeeding shiny babies. The air was thick with the scent of human bodies and anticipation.
Although my father kept us off our bicycles that day he promised to take us to watch the king’s arrival from the freshness of his utility vehicle’s clean cab. However, there truly is such a thing as ‘Africa time’ and true to tradition the king was late and it was warm. Dad wanted to go home, but I wanted to see a real king, so we exited the vehicle and squashed into a tiny spot of shade next to the vehicle. Finally we heard the approaching vehicles and saw the flashing lights of the police vehicle accompanying it. As it approached the voices of the Zulu women raised into the air and along with their jilliy the excitement grew.
I searched for the shiny carriage and horses which were to bring the king of the Zulus, but there were none. Behind the police vehicle was a big black utility van and behind that a few other vehicles. The procession came to a halt a couple of meters away from us and I remember how glad I was that I had an unobstructed view of it all. Yes, indeed, I remember thinking that today was the day I would see a real king, and witness his finery, but was I sorely disappointed… when a uniformed man opened the door an average sized man dressed in ‘beshu’ (usually made from cow hide and covering the crotch area) and carrying a large shield and assegai (spear) stepped out as a respectful silence descended over the crowd and in those seconds my shrill little girl voice piped up and echoed over the hills “But Dad, where is the REAL king?”
Regardless of my disrespectful quip my father had always maintained his respect and loyalty to the Zulu king and continued to bow his head to him and address him as ‘Morena’ (lord/master/king). For the king my father was always ‘Mr Grant and so two great men in their own right continued to do business until my father retired.
That incident sparked my interest though and little by little I learned about our own king and the royalty of Great Britain. As a direct escendant of the Grants and McDonald clans of Scotland, my father could be rather critical when it came to talking about the British royals and when he was in a a bad mood he would remind us of poor Mary, Queen of Scots, and her beheading. Having said that, he was still pro-monarchy and when he was in a good mood he would gladly instruct us in the pro’s of a constitutional monarchy. In his later years, after our political spectrum in South Africa changed, he was keen on pointing out how having a monarch/sovereign was the glue that kept the traditions and culture alive and a nation together.
My mother, not having those ties to Britain, enjoyed her weekly women’s magazines and bought the Afrikaans Huisgenoot every week. I learned to read a little before I went to school and although I may not have understood every word or even read every word at the age of five, I could surely appreciate the clothing, the jewels and the tiaras and I knew about Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip and I knew they had three sons and a daughter. Prince Edward was only a year younger than me and therefor those princes were fair game in my little girl, childhood, mind. I dreamed of dropping a handkerchief in front of Prince Andrew or Edward and being swept away on a white horse with the accolades of the crowd ringing out in the background… yes, a five year old did not understand the complexities of life and even less that of royal life, for a five or 6 year old life was all about Cinderella dresses and glass slippers.
Once at school I was more bothered about my little neighbor having a gold crayon in his box than I was about princess and princesses, but when we practised ‘volkspele’ (traditional Afrikaans/ boere dances) and my long dress swirled around my ankles I was taken back into my fantasies for a while and imagined that I was at a glittering ball attended by royalty. However, an elbow in my back or someone stepping on my toes always brought me back to reality and I quickly realized that it is in my best interest not to daydream but rather dodge those sharp elbows. In a way that was a life lesson which stayed with me to this very day.
It was only in my early teenage years that I again took a real interest in the British royals. However, I no longer had fantasies about princes, Prince Charles was 15 years older than me and at 12 he was already an ‘old man’ in my eyes and even as an older man I could not find anything particularly attractive about him. By now I could read both Afrikaans and English equally well and whether I read my grandmother’s Women’s Weekly or my mother’s Huisgenoot, I did not read anything about Prince Charles that I found particularly cute or interesting either – his interests seemed to be as ‘old’ as his appearance. Andrew was a different kettle of fish though and had I been less of a realist I may have had the odd fantasy about him as I got older, but I was not a young lady of the world and took no interest in anything which could potentially take me too far away from home, thus princes were nothing more than a curiosity and I could not wait for them to have girlfriends so I could see what they wore.
I found Princess Anne rather attractive when she was younger, even though my father said she had a bit of a horsey face. But then, I loved horses, so between the ages of 10 and 16 I was of the opinion that there was just no one smarter than somebody dressed in riding breeches.
When Princess Anne married Mark Philips in November 1973 I was a full 10 years old and thought she was the most beautiful angel princess marrying the most dashing soldier. Yes, I was so innocent, so unaware of the intrique and sadness in the background. Completely unaware of the other men she loved, totally unaware that the handsome soldier later went on to have a child as result of an affair while married to my favorite princess. Those things were indeed put on the back burner for adulthood as I continued to cultivate my own teenage crushes and learn about the intricacies of life.