I HELD WEEPING PRINCESS

AT THE Arlberg hotel, in Lech, Austria, during a ski-ing holiday in 1992, I arranged a treat for the Princess: Cliff Richard was also staying there and had agreed to put on a private concert in her suite. But the performance never happened: a few hours before Cliff was due to sing, Diana’s father Johnny, the eighth Earl Spencer, died in a London hospital after a long illness. I learned of his death in a distraught phone call from his eldest daughter, Lady Sarah. I assumed that, once he had been told, Prince Charles would want to break the sad news to his wife himself. But it was decided by his entourage, to my surprise, that the blow would be better coming from me. Charles’s aides were extremely anxious about Diana’s reaction: she would be inconsolable, and Charles would bear the brunt of her grief and frustration. I thought that my presence would only complicate the situation, but this was a moment of crisis for the Princess and it was my duty as her policeman to take control. I couldn’t help contrasting the situation with the touching moment 40 years earlier, when Prince Philip — a man so often accused of insensitivity — broke the news of George VI’s death and comforted the young Queen Elizabeth on a morning in Kenya. As gently as possible, I told the Princess that her father had died. She was calm at first, but before long tears were streaming down her face. ‘Oh my God,’ she sobbed over and over, ‘what am I to do?’ My heart went out to her. I sat beside her on the end of the bed, feeling helpless. Then I put my arms around her, trying in vain to comfort her in her terrible distress. At that moment, with all her defences down, she looked like a lost little girl who has suddenly been made to realise she is all alone in the world.