Spare

I tried a new argument. I reminded Pa that these were the same shoddy bastards who’d been portraying him as a clown all his life, ridiculing him for sounding the alarm about climate change. These were his tormentors, his bullies, and now they were tormenting and bullying his son and his son’s girlfriend—did that not inspire his outrage? Why have I got to beg you, Pa? Why is this not already a priority for you? Why is this not causing you anguish, keeping you up at night, that the press are treating Meg like this? You adore her, you told me so yourself. You bonded over your shared love of music, you think she’s funny and witty, and impeccably mannered, you told me—so why, Pa? Why?

I couldn’t get a straight answer. The conversation went in circles and when we hung up I felt—abandoned.

Meg, meanwhile, reached out to Camilla, who tried to counsel her by saying this was just what the press always did to newcomers, that it would all pass in due time, that Camilla had been the bad guy once.

The implication being what? Now it was Meg’s turn? As if it were apples to apples.

Camilla also suggested to Meg that I become Governor General of Bermuda, which would solve all our problems by removing us from the red-hot center of the maelstrom. Right, right, I thought, and one added bonus of that plan would be to get us out of the picture.

In desperation I went to Willy. I took advantage of the first quiet moment I’d had with him in years: The end of August 2017, at Althorp. Twentieth anniversary of Mummy’s death.

We rowed the little boat out to the island. (The bridge had been removed, to give my mother privacy, to keep intruders away.) We each had a bouquet of flowers, which we set on the grave. We stood there awhile, having our own thoughts, and then we talked about life. I gave him a quick summary of what Meg and I had been dealing with.

Don’t worry, Harold. No one believes that shit.

Not true. They do. It’s drip-fed to them, day by day, and they come to believe it without even being aware.

He didn’t have a satisfying answer for that, so we were silent.

Then he said something extraordinary. He said he thought Mummy was here. Meaning…among us.

Yes, me too, Willy.

I think she’s been in my life, Harold. Guiding me. Setting things up for me. I think she’s helped me start a family. And I feel as though she’s helping you now too.

I nodded. Totally agree. I feel as though she helped me find Meg.

Willy took a step back. He looked concerned. That seemed to be taking things a bit far.

Well, now, Harold, I’m not sure about that. I wouldn’t say THAT!

30.

Meg came to London. September 2017. We were in Nott Cott. In the kitchen. Preparing dinner.

The whole cottage was filled with…love. Filled to overflowing. It even seemed to spill out the open door, into the garden outside, a scrubby little patch of ground that no one had wanted, for a very long time, but which Meg and I had slowly reclaimed. We’d raked and mown, planted and watered, and many evenings we sat out there on a blanket, listening to classical music concerts wafting over from the park. I told Meg about the garden just on the other side of our wall: Mummy’s garden. Where Willy and I played as kids. It was now sealed off from us forever.

As my memories had once been.

Whose garden is it now? she asked.

It belongs to Princess Michael of Kent. And her Siamese cats. Mummy despised those cats.

As I smelt the garden, and considered this new life, cherished this new life, Meg was sitting on the other side of the kitchen, scooping Wagamama from cartons into bowls. Without thinking I blurted out: I don’t know, I just…

I had my back to her. I froze, mid-sentence, hesitant to go on, hesitant to turn around.

You don’t know what, Haz?

I just…

Yes?

I love you.

I listened for a response. There was none.

Now I could hear her, or feel her, walking towards me.

I turned and there she was, right before me.

I love you too, Haz.