What was everything, Harold?
If she means you, why are you spoken of in past tense?
What was everything, Harold?She said: That was everything.
She said: That is a man. My love.
She said: That is not a Spare.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
a piece of string… and not the Crown JewelsIt's now fixed? Like everyone was hanging on his every word, desperate to know that.
Oh, the drama!
It's a bit of string. Not the Crown Jewels.
What a bunch of lickspittles!Oh the cringe...
View attachment 1873860
Bet she couldn't believe her luck bloody awful womanI HELPED MEG INTO THE BOAT. It wobbled, but I quick-stepped to the middle, got it righted in time.
As she found a seat in the stern, I took up the oars. They didn’t work. We’re stuck. The thick mud of the shallows had us in its grip.
Uncle Charles came down to the water’s edge, gave us a little shove. We waved to him, and to my two aunts.
Bye. See you in a bit.
Gliding across the pond, I gazed around at Althorp’s rolling fields and ancient trees, the thousands of green acres where my mother grew up, and where, though things weren’t perfect, she’d known some peace.
Minutes later we reached the island and gingerly stepped onto the shore.
I led Meg up the path, around a hedge, through the labyrinth. There it was, looming: the grayish white oval stone.
No visit to this place was ever easy, but this one… Twenty-fifth anniversary. And Meg’s first time. At long last I was bringing the girl of my dreams home to meet mum.
We hesitated, hugging, and then I went first. I placed flowers on the grave.
Meg gave me a moment, and I spoke to my mother in my head, told her I missed her, asked her for guidance and clarity.
Feeling that Meg might also want a moment, I went around the hedge, scanned the pond.
When I came back, Meg was kneeling, eyes shut, palms against the stone. I asked, as we walked back to the boat, what she’d prayed for. Clarity, she said. And guidance.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Of all the things that didn't happen, this didn't happen the most.WE FOUND A PLACE.
Priced at a steep discount.
Just up the coast, outside Santa Barbara.
Lots of room, large gardens, a climbing frame—even a pond with koi carp.
The koi were stressed, the estate agent warned. So are we. We’ll all get along famously.
No, the agent explained, the koi need very particular care. You’ll have to hire a koi guy.
Uh-huh. And where does one find a koi guy? The agent wasn’t sure.
We laughed. First-world problems.
We took a tour. The place was a dream.
We asked Tyler to look at it too, and he said: Buy it.
So we pulled together a down-payment, took out a mortgage, and in July 2020 we moved in.
The move itself required only a couple of hours.
Everything we owned fitted into thirteen suitcases.
That first night we had a quiet drink in celebration, roasted a chicken, went to bed early.
All was well, we said.
And yet Meg was still under loads of stress. There was a pressing issue with her legal case against the tabloids. The Mail was up to its usual tricks.
Their first crack at offering a defense had been patently ridiculous, so now they were trying a new defense, which was even more ridiculous.
They were arguing that they’d printed Meg’s letter to her father because of a story in People magazine, which quoted a handful of Meg’s friends—anonymously.
The tabloids argued that Meg had orchestrated these quotes, used her friends as de facto spokespeople, and thus the Mail had every right to publish her letter to her father.
More, they now wanted the names of Meg’s previously anonymous friends read into the official court record—to destroy them.
Meg was determined to do everything in her power to prevent that.
She’d been staying up late, night after night, trying to work out how to save these people, and now, on our first morning in the new house, she reported abdominal pains.
And bleeding.
Then she collapsed to the floor.
We raced to the local hospital.
When the doctor walked into the room, I didn’t hear one word she said, I just watched her face, her body language.
I already knew.
We both did.
There had been so much blood.
Still, hearing the words was a blow.
Meg grabbed me, I held her, we both wept.
In my life I’ve felt totally helpless only four times. In the back of the car while Mummy and Willy and I were being chased by paps. In the Apache above Afghanistan, unable to get clearance to do my duty. At Nott Cott when my pregnant wife was planning to take her life. And now.
We left the hospital with our unborn child. A tiny package. We went to a place, a secret place only we knew. Under a spreading banyan tree, while Meg wept, I dug a hole with my hands and set the tiny package softly in the ground.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Apart from anything else, I don’t know what he is saying.Our lives were built on death, our brightest days shadowed by it. Looking back, I didn’t see spots of time, but dances with death. I saw how we steeped ourselves in it. We christened and crowned, graduated and married, passed out and passed over our beloveds’ bones. Windsor Castle itself was a tomb, the walls filled with ancestors. The Tower of London was held together with the blood of animals, used by the original builders a thousand years ago to temper the mortar between the bricks. Outsiders called us a cult, but maybe we were a death cult, and wasn’t that a little bit more depraved? Even after laying Grandpa to rest, had we not had our fill?
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Deprived of love as a boy? Another dig at the QueenFROGMORE GARDENS.
Hours after Grandpa’s funeral.
I’d been walking with Willy and Pa for about half an hour, but it felt like one of those days-long marches the Army put me through when I was a new soldier. I was beat.
We’d reached an impasse. And we’d reached the Gothic ruin. After a circuitous route we’d arrived back where we’d begun.
Pa and Willy were still claiming not to know why I’d fled Britain, still claiming not to know anything, and I was getting ready to walk away. Then one of them brought up the press.
They asked about my hacking lawsuit.
They still hadn’t asked about Meg, but they were keen to know how my lawsuit was going, because that directly affected them.
Still ongoing.
Suicide mission, Pa mumbled.
Maybe. But it’s worth it. I’d soon prove that the press were more than liars, I said. That they were lawbreakers. I was going to see some of them thrown into jail. That was why they were attacking me so viciously: they knew I had hard evidence. It wasn’t about me, it was a matter of public interest.
Shaking his head, Pa allowed that journalists were the scum of the earth. His phrase.
But…
I snorted.
There was always a but with him when it came to the press, because he hated their hate, but oh how he loved their love.
One could make the argument that therein lay the seeds of the whole problem, indeed all problems, going back decades.
Deprived of love as a boy, bullied by schoolmates, he was dangerously, compulsively drawn to the elixir they offered him.
He cited Grandpa as a sterling example of why the press wasn’t anything to get too vexed about.
Poor Grandpa had been abused by the papers for most of his life, but now look.
He was a national treasure!
The papers couldn’t say enough good things about the man.
So that’s it, then? Just wait till we’re dead and all will be sorted?
If you could just endure it, darling boy, for a little while, in a funny way they’d respect you for it.
I laughed.
All I’m saying is, don’t take it personally.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Pulled together a deposit..hes joking rightOf all the things that didn't happen, this didn't happen the most.
I HATE IT.What a bunch of lickspittles!
Tell me, am I alone in being extremely irritated by the so-called writing style this rubbish has been released in?
Its just a collection of bullet points, ie
* I said to Megan.............................
* Granny told me................
* I cried...................
* Blah-de-blah-blah..................
You'd think with his education he could manage somewhat better than this childish nonsense
He forgot the Indian burial ground Windsor Castle was built on --- they're heeeere......Our lives were built on death, our brightest days shadowed by it. Looking back, I didn’t see spots of time, but dances with death. I saw how we steeped ourselves in it. We christened and crowned, graduated and married, passed out and passed over our beloveds’ bones. Windsor Castle itself was a tomb, the walls filled with ancestors. The Tower of London was held together with the blood of animals, used by the original builders a thousand years ago to temper the mortar between the bricks. Outsiders called us a cult, but maybe we were a death cult, and wasn’t that a little bit more depraved? Even after laying Grandpa to rest, had we not had our fill?
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Poor William. He genuinely seemed to care for the spoilt brat.I looked at the Gothic ruin.
What’s the point? I thought. Pa and Willy weren’t hearing me and I wasn’t hearing them.
They’d never had a satisfactory explanation for their actions and inactions, and never would, because there was no explanation.
I started to say goodbye, good luck, take care, but Willy was really steaming, shouting that if things were as bad as I made out, then it was my fault for never asking for help.
You never came to us! You never came to me! Since boyhood that had been Willy’s position on everything. I must come to him.
Pointedly, directly, formally—bend the knee.
Otherwise, no aid from the Heir.
I wondered why I should have to ask my brother to help when my wife and I were in peril.
If we were being mauled by a bear, and he saw, would he wait for us to ask for help?
I mentioned the Sandringham Agreement.
I’d asked for his help about that, when the agreement was violated, shredded, when we were stripped of everything, and he hadn’t lifted a finger.
That was Granny! Take it up with Granny!
I waved a hand, disgusted, but he lunged, grabbed my shirt.
Listen to me, Harold.
I pulled away, refused to meet his gaze.
He forced me to look into his eyes.
Listen to me, Harold, listen! I love you, Harold! I want you to be happy.
The words flew out of my mouth: I love you too…but your stubbornness…is extraordinary!
And yours isn’t?
I pulled away again.
He grabbed me again, twisting me to maintain eye contact.
Harold, you must listen to me! I just want you to be happy, Harold. I swear….I swear on Mummy’s life.
He stopped.
I stopped.
Pa stopped.
He’d gone there. He’d used the secret code, the universal password. Ever since we were boys those three words were to be used only in times of extreme crisis. On Mummy’s life.
For nearly twenty-five years we’d reserved that soul-crushing vow for times when one of us needed to be heard, to be believed, quickly.
For times when nothing else would do.
It stopped me cold, as it was meant to.
Not because he’d used it, but because it didn’t work. I simply didn’t believe him, didn’t fully trust him.
And vice versa. He saw it too.
He saw that we were in a place of such hurt and doubt that even those sacred words couldn’t set us free.
How lost we are, I thought.
How far we’ve strayed.
How much damage has been done to our love, our bond, and why?
All because a dreadful mob of dweebs and crones and cut-rate criminals and clinically diagnosable sadists along Fleet Street feel the need to get their jollies and plump their profits—and work out their personal issues—by tormenting one very large, very ancient, very dysfunctional family.
Willy wasn’t quite ready to accept defeat. I’ve felt properly sick and ill after everything that’s happened and—and…
I swear to you now on Mummy’s life that I just want you to be happy.
My voice broke as I told him softly: I really don’t think you do.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Shame he hadn't seen fit to go and see TQ while she was still alive despite numerous invitesShe 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.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
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