The next few days were given over to a whirlwind work trip.
Manchester, Dusseldorf, then back to London for the WellChild Awards.
But that day—September 8, 2022—a call came in around lunchtime.
Unknown number. Hello?
It was Pa. Granny’s health had taken a turn.
She was up at Balmoral, of course. Those beautiful, melancholy late-summer days.
He hung up—he had many other calls to make—and I immediately texted Willy to ask whether he and Kate were flying up. If so, when? And how?
No response.
Meg and I looked at flight options.
The press started phoning; we couldn’t delay a decision any longer.
We told our team to confirm: We’d be missing the WellChild Awards and hurrying up to Scotland.
Then came another call from Pa. He said I was welcome at Balmoral, but he didn’t want…her.
He started to lay out his reason, which was nonsensical, and disrespectful, and I wasn’t having it.
Don’t ever speak about my wife that way.
He stammered, apologetic, saying he simply didn’t want a lot of people around. No other wives were coming, Kate wasn’t coming, he said, therefore Meg shouldn’t.
Then that’s all you needed to say.
By now it was midafternoon; no more commercial flights that day to Aberdeen.
And I still had no response from Willy.
My only option, therefore, was a charter out of Luton. I was on board two hours later.
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.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.