Spare

It occurred to me then that identity is a hierarchy. We are primarily one thing, and then we’re primarily another, and then another, and so on, until death—in succession. Each new identity assumes the throne of Self, but takes us further from our original self, perhaps our core self—the child. Yes, evolution, maturation, the path towards wisdom, it’s all natural and healthy, but there’s a purity to childhood, which is diluted with each iteration. As with that hunk of gold, it gets whittled away.

At least, that was the thought I had that day. My big brother Willy had moved on, moved up the line, and thereafter he’d be first a husband, then a father, then grandfather, and so on. He’d be a new person, many new persons, and none of them would be Willy. He’d be The Duke of Cambridge, the title chosen for him by Granny. Good for him, I thought. Great for him. But a loss for me all the same.

I think my reaction was also somewhat reminiscent of what I’d felt the first time I climbed inside an Apache. After being accustomed to having someone at my side, someone to model, I found myself terrifyingly alone.

And a eunuch to boot.

What was the universe out to prove by taking my penis at the same moment it took my brother?

Hours later, at the reception, I made a few quick remarks. Not a speech, just a brief two-minute intro to the real best men. Willy told me several times that I was to act as “compère.”

I had to look the word up.

The press reported extensively on my preparations for this intro, how I phoned Chels and tested some of the lines on her, bristling but ultimately caving when she urged me not to reference “Kate’s killer legs,” all of which was horseshit. I never phoned Chels about my remarks; she and I weren’t in regular touch, which was why Willy checked with me before inviting her to the wedding. He didn’t want either of us to feel uncomfortable.

The truth is, I road-tested a few lines on JLP, but mostly I winged it. I told a few jokes about our childhood, a silly story about Willy’s days playing water polo, and then I read a few hilarious snippets culled from letters of support sent in by the general public. One American bloke wrote to say that he’d wanted to make something special for the new Duchess of Cambridge, so he’d set out to capture a ton of ermine, traditional fur of royalty. This overenthusiastic Yank explained that he’d intended to catch one thousand ermines for the item of clothing he had in mind (God, was it a tent?) but unfortunately he’d only managed to scare up…two.

Rough year for ermine, I said.

Still, I added, the Yank improvised, made the best of things, as Yanks do, and cobbled together what he had, which I now held aloft.

The room let out a collective gasp.

It was a thong.

Soft, furry, a few silken strings attached to a V-shaped ermine pouch no larger than the ring pouch inside my tunic.

After the collective gasp came a warm, gratifying wave of laughter.

When it died away I closed on a serious note. Mummy: How she’d have loved to have been here. How she’d have loved Kate, and how she’d have loved seeing this love you’ve found together.

As I spoke these words I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to risk making eye contact with Pa or Camilla—and above all with Willy. I hadn’t cried since Mummy’s funeral, and I wasn’t going to break that streak now.

I also didn’t want to see anyone’s face but Mummy’s. I had the clearest vision in my mind of her beaming on Willy’s Big Day, and having a proper laugh about that dead ermine.

43.

Upon reaching the top of the world, the four wounded soldiers uncorked a bottle of champagne and drank to Granny. They were kind enough to phone me and let me listen to their joy.

They’d set a world record, raised a truckload of cash for wounded veterans, and reached the bloody North Pole. What a coup. I congratulated them, told them I missed them, wished I could’ve been there.

A white lie. My penis was oscillating between extremely sensitive and borderline traumatized. The last place I wanted to be was Frostnipistan.

I’d been trying some home remedies, including one recommended by a friend. She’d urged me to apply Elizabeth Arden cream.

My mum used that on her lips. You want me to put that on my todger?

It works, Harry. Trust me.

I found a tube, and the minute I opened it the smell transported me through time. I felt as if my mother was right there in the room.

Then I took a smidge and applied it…down there.

“Weird” doesn’t really do the feeling justice.