The protocol officer scolds me sternly. Clearly stressed, she had dictated the precise conduct to follow: the arrival time of Prince Charles, to the nearest minute; the prohibition to go beyond the cordon which places us slightly behind; the ban on asking impromptu questions – but who would have dared? None of this particularly interests me and I listen with an air obviously too distracted. The object of the wrath of the protocol officer? I couldn’t suppress a smile.
We are in December 2013, freezing cold, in Tempsford, in the countryside, not far from Cambridge. I came to attend the opening of a memorial in honor of the women spies of the Second World War, who had served in the Special Operations Executive, a branch of the secret services created by Winston Churchill. Former members are present as well as some of their male colleagues from the time. Heroines and heroes who parachuted into occupied France or distinguished themselves by extraordinary coolness. It is these fascinating testimonies that I have come to collect.
But, and I had hardly understood it, whoever is then Prince Charles will officially inaugurate the monument. Barely enough for a footnote, I thought. Anyway, the royal family exerts a moderate fascination on me. The queen, possibly, but Charles, frankly? Except that at Tempsford we only talk about that. The whole village put on its thirty-one. The local primary school has obviously been working on the subject for weeks. The children made beautiful drawings to welcome the prince. Everyone is well dressed, the women wear hats as only the British dare to do.
representation professional
The protocol officer seems all the more disconcerted by my presence since I am not part of the royal rota, this group of journalists authorized to follow the movements of the royal family and which includes a television channel, a press agency and a British daily newspaper. I was invited by Mishal Husain, a BBC journalist whose father initiated this memorial and who thought that the French aspect of this story might interest me.
However, I am delighted. Here I am in the front row to discover the mannerism of Charles. His signet ring on his little finger, which he twirls nervously. His hand constantly slipped into one of the pockets of his ample double-breasted suit, to give himself countenance. But how can one live in the center of attention and continue to show this apparent nervousness in human relationships? Brown coat, burgundy shoes, club tie, the future king is nevertheless in his element. Veterans and the military are instinctively monarchist. The representation professional that he is immediately takes over. He points to one detail of the monument, leans over another, giving the photographers the perfect opportunity to take a vaguely animated shot.
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