Spare

He brought out his wireless and we began sampling music, wonderful music, all kinds of music. He wholly endorsed our desire to have an orchestra rather than an organist, and he played an assortment of orchestras to get us in the mood.

After a time, we segued into classical, and he talked about his love of Beethoven.

Meg spoke about her own deep feeling for Chopin.

She’d always loved Chopin, she said, but in Canada she grew dependent on him, because Chopin was the only thing that could soothe Guy and Bogart.

She played them Chopin day and night.

Pa smiled sympathetically.

As one piece ended, he’d quickly reload his wireless, begin humming or tapping his foot to the next. He was airy, witty, charming, and I kept shaking my head in amazement. I knew Pa loved music, but I never knew he loved it this much.

Meg evoked so much in him, qualities I’d rarely seen. In her presence Pa became boyish. I saw it, saw the bond between them growing stronger, and I felt strengthened in my own bond with him. So many people were treating her shabbily, it filled my heart to see my father treating her like the princess she was about to—maybe born to—become.

41.

After all the stress of asking Granny for permission to marry Meg, I thought I’d never have the courage to ask her for anything else.

And yet I now dared to make another ask: Granny, please, may I, for my wedding, keep my beard?

Not a small ask either. A beard was thought by some to be a clear violation of protocol and long-standing norms, especially since I was getting married in my Army uniform. Beards were forbidden in the British Army.

But I was no longer in the Army and I desperately wanted to hang on to something that had become an effective check on my anxiety.

Illogical, but true. I’d grown the beard during my voyage to the South Pole, and I’d kept it after returning home, and it helped, along with therapy, and meditation, and a few other things, to quell my nerves. I couldn’t explain it, though I did find articles describing the phenomenon. Maybe it was Freudian—beard as security blanket. Maybe it was Jungian—beard as mask. Whatever, it made me calmer, and I wanted to feel as calm as possible on the day of my wedding.

Also, my wife-to-be had never seen me without it. She loved my beard, she loved to grab it and pull me in for a kiss. I didn’t want her coming down the aisle and seeing a total stranger.

I explained all this to Granny, and she said she understood. Plus, her own husband liked to rock a bit of scruff now and then. Yes, she said, you may keep your beard. But then I explained it to my brother and he…bristled?

Not the done thing, he said. Military, rules, so forth.

I gave him a quick history lesson. I mentioned the many royals who’d been bearded and uniformed. King Edward VII. King George V. Prince Albert. More recently, Prince Michael of Kent.

Helpfully I referred him to Google Images.

Not the same, he said.

When I informed him that his opinion didn’t really matter, since I’d already gone to Granny and got the green light, he became livid. He raised his voice.

You went to ask her!

Yes.

And what did Granny say?

She said keep the beard.

You put her in an uncomfortable position, Harold! She had no choice but to say yes.

No choice? She’s the Queen! If she didn’t want me to have a beard I think she can speak for herself.

But Willy always thought Granny had a soft spot for me, that she indulged me while holding him to an impossibly high standard. Because…Heir, Spare, etc. It irked him.

The argument went on, in person, on the phone, for more than a week. He wouldn’t let it go.

At one point he actually ordered me, as the Heir speaking to the Spare, to shave.

Are you serious?

I’m telling you, shave it off.

For the love of God, Willy, why does this matter so much to you?

Because I wasn’t allowed to keep my beard.

Ah—there it was. After he’d come back from an assignment with Special Forces, Willy was sporting a full beard, and someone told him to be a good boy, run along and shave it. He hated the idea of me enjoying a perk he’d been denied.

It also, I suspected, brought back bad memories of being told he couldn’t marry in the uniform of his choice.

Then he confirmed my suspicion. He said it outright: In one of our beard debates he complained bitterly about my being allowed to marry in my Household Cavalry frock coat, which he’d wanted to wear for his wedding.

He was being ridiculous, and I told him so. But he kept getting angrier and angrier.