Spare

I spent much of the flight staring at the clouds, replaying the last time I’d spoken with Granny. Four days earlier, long chat on the phone. We’d touched on many topics. Her health, of course. The turmoil at Number 10. The Braemar Games—she was sorry about not being well enough to attend. We talked also about the biblical drought. The lawn at Frogmore, where Meg and I were staying, was in terrible shape. Looks like the top of my head, Granny! Balding and brown in patches.

She laughed.

I told her to take care, I looked forward to seeing her soon.

As the plane began its descent, my phone lit up. A text from Meg. Call me the moment you get this.

I checked the BBC website.

Granny was gone.

Pa was King.

I put on my black tie, walked off the plane into a thick mist, sped in a borrowed car to Balmoral. As I pulled through the front gates it was wetter, and pitch-dark, which made the white flashes from the dozens of cameras that much more blinding.

Hunched against the cold, I hurried into the foyer. Aunt Anne was there to greet me.

I hugged her. Where’s Pa and Willy? And Camilla?

Gone to Birkhall, she said.

She asked if I wanted to see Granny.

Yes…I do.

She led me upstairs, to Granny’s bedroom. I braced myself, went in. The room was dimly lit, unfamiliar—I’d been inside it only once in my life. I moved ahead uncertainly, and there she was. I stood, frozen, staring. I stared and stared. It was difficult, but I kept on, thinking how I’d regretted not seeing my mother at the end. Years of lamenting that lack of proof, postponing my grief for want of proof. Now I thought: Proof. Careful what you wish for.

I whispered to her that I hoped she was happy, that I hoped she was with Grandpa. I said that I was in awe of her carrying out her duties to the last. The Jubilee, the welcoming of a new prime minister. On her ninetieth birthday my father had given a touching tribute, quoting Shakespeare on Elizabeth I:

…no day without a deed to crown it.

Ever true.

I left the room, went back along the corridor, across the tartan carpet, past the statue of Queen Victoria. Your Majesty. I rang Meg, told her I’d made it, that I was OK, then walked into the sitting room and ate dinner with most of my family, though still no Pa, Willy, or Camilla.

Towards the end of the meal, I braced myself for the bagpipes. But out of respect for Granny there was nothing. An eerie silence.

The hour getting late, everyone drifted off to their rooms, except me. I went on a wander, up and down the stairs, the halls, ending up at the nursery. The old-fashioned basins, the tub, everything the same as it had been twenty-five years ago. I passed most of the night time-traveling in my thoughts while trying to make actual travel arrangements on my phone.

The quickest way back would’ve been a lift with Pa or Willy…Barring that, it was British Airways, departing Balmoral at daybreak. I bought a seat and was among the first to board.

Soon after settling into a front row, I sensed a presence on my right. Deepest sympathies, said a fellow passenger before heading down the aisle.

Thank you.

Moments later, another presence.

Condolences, Harry.

Thanks…very much.

Most passengers stopped to offer a kind word, and I felt a deep kinship with them all.

Our country, I thought.

Our Queen.

—

Meg greeted me at the front door of Frogmore with a long embrace, which I desperately needed. We sat down with a glass of water and a calendar. Our quick trip would now be an odyssey. Another ten days, at least. Difficult days at that. More, we’d have to be away from the children for longer than we’d planned, longer than we’d ever been.

When the funeral finally took place, Willy and I, barely exchanging a word, took our familiar places, set off on our familiar journey, behind yet another coffin draped in the Royal Standard, sitting atop another horse-pulled gun carriage. Same route, same sights—though this time, unlike at previous funerals, we were shoulder to shoulder. Also, music was playing.

When we got to St. George’s Chapel, amid the roar of dozens of bagpipes, I thought of all the big occasions I’d experienced under that roof. Grandpa’s farewell, my wedding. Even the ordinary times, simple Easter Sundays, felt especially poignant, the whole family alive and together. Suddenly I was wiping my eyes.

Why now? I wondered. Why?

The following afternoon Meg and I left for America.

—

For days and days we couldn’t stop hugging the children, couldn’t let them out of our sight—though I also couldn’t stop picturing them with Granny. The final visit. Archie making deep, chivalrous bows, his baby sister Lilibet cuddling the monarch’s shins. Sweetest children, Granny said, sounding bemused. She’d expected them to be a bit more…American, I think? Meaning, in her mind, more rambunctious.