specifically what we talked about. I wish I’d asked more questions, and jotted down her answers. She’d been the War Queen. She’d lived at Buckingham Palace while Hitler’s bombs rained from the skies. (Nine direct hits on the Palace.) She’d dined with Churchill, wartime Churchill. She’d once possessed a Churchillian eloquence of her own. She was famous for saying that, no matter how bad things got, she’d never, ever leave England, and people loved her for it. I loved her for it. I loved my country, and the idea of declaring you’d never leave struck me as wonderful.
She was, of course, infamous for saying other things. She came from a different era, enjoyed being Queen in a way that looked unseemly to some. I saw none of that. She was my Gan-Gan. She was born three years before the aeroplane was invented yet still played the bongo drums on her hundredth birthday. Now she took my hand as if I were a knight home from the wars, and spoke to me with love and humor and, that night, that magic night, respect.
I wish I’d asked about her husband, King George VI, who died young. Or her brother-in-law, King Edward VIII, whom she’d apparently loathed. He gave up his crown for love. Gan-Gan believed in love, but nothing transcended the Crown. She also reportedly despised the woman he’d chosen.
I wish I’d asked about her distant ancestors in Glamis, home to Macbeth.
She’d seen so much, knew so much, there was so much to be learned from her, but I just wasn’t mature enough, despite the growth spurt, or brave enough, despite the gin.
I did, however, make her laugh. Normally that was Pa’s job; he had a knack for finding Gan-Gan’s funny bone. He loved her as much as he loved anybody in the world, perhaps more. I recall him glancing over several times and looking pleased that I was getting such good giggles out of his favorite person.
At one point I told Gan-Gan about Ali G, the character played by Sacha Baron Cohen. I taught her to say Booyakasha , showing her how to flick her fingers the way Sacha did. She couldn’t grasp it, she had no idea what I wastalking about, but she had such fun trying to flick and say the word. With every repetition of that word, Booyakasha , she’d shriek, which would make everyone else smile. It tickled me, thrilled me. It made me feel…a part of things.
This was my family, in which I, for one night at least, had a distinctive role.
And that role, for once, wasn’t the Naughty One.
30.
Weeks later, back at Eton, I was walking past two blue doors, almost exactly the same blue as one of Gan-Gan’s kilts. She’d have liked these doors, I thought.
They were the doors to the TV room, one of my sanctuaries.
Almost every day, straight after lunch, my mates and I would head to the TV room and watch a bit of Neighbours , or maybe Home and Away , before going off to sports. But this day in September 2001 the room was packed and Neighbours wasn’t on.
The news was on.
And the news was a nightmare.
Some buildings on fire?
Oh, wow, where’s that?
New York.
I tried to see the screen through all the boys massed in the room. I asked the boy to my right what was going on.
He said America was under attack.
Terrorists had flown planes into the Twin Towers in New York City.
People were…jumping. From the tops of buildings half a kilometer high.
More and more boys gathered, stood around, biting their lips, their nails, tugging their ears. In stunned silence, in boyish confusion, we watched the only world we’d ever known disappear in clouds of toxic smoke.
World War Three , someone muttered.
Someone propped open the blue doors. Boys kept streaming in.
None made a sound.
So much chaos, so much pain.
What can be done? What can we do?
What will we be called to do?
Days later I turned seventeen.
31.
I’d often say it to myself first thing in the morning: Maybe this is the day .
I’d say it after breakfast: Maybe she’s going to reappear this morning.
I’d say it
She was, of course, infamous for saying other things. She came from a different era, enjoyed being Queen in a way that looked unseemly to some. I saw none of that. She was my Gan-Gan. She was born three years before the aeroplane was invented yet still played the bongo drums on her hundredth birthday. Now she took my hand as if I were a knight home from the wars, and spoke to me with love and humor and, that night, that magic night, respect.
I wish I’d asked about her husband, King George VI, who died young. Or her brother-in-law, King Edward VIII, whom she’d apparently loathed. He gave up his crown for love. Gan-Gan believed in love, but nothing transcended the Crown. She also reportedly despised the woman he’d chosen.
I wish I’d asked about her distant ancestors in Glamis, home to Macbeth.
She’d seen so much, knew so much, there was so much to be learned from her, but I just wasn’t mature enough, despite the growth spurt, or brave enough, despite the gin.
I did, however, make her laugh. Normally that was Pa’s job; he had a knack for finding Gan-Gan’s funny bone. He loved her as much as he loved anybody in the world, perhaps more. I recall him glancing over several times and looking pleased that I was getting such good giggles out of his favorite person.
At one point I told Gan-Gan about Ali G, the character played by Sacha Baron Cohen. I taught her to say Booyakasha , showing her how to flick her fingers the way Sacha did. She couldn’t grasp it, she had no idea what I wastalking about, but she had such fun trying to flick and say the word. With every repetition of that word, Booyakasha , she’d shriek, which would make everyone else smile. It tickled me, thrilled me. It made me feel…a part of things.
This was my family, in which I, for one night at least, had a distinctive role.
And that role, for once, wasn’t the Naughty One.
30.
Weeks later, back at Eton, I was walking past two blue doors, almost exactly the same blue as one of Gan-Gan’s kilts. She’d have liked these doors, I thought.
They were the doors to the TV room, one of my sanctuaries.
Almost every day, straight after lunch, my mates and I would head to the TV room and watch a bit of Neighbours , or maybe Home and Away , before going off to sports. But this day in September 2001 the room was packed and Neighbours wasn’t on.
The news was on.
And the news was a nightmare.
Some buildings on fire?
Oh, wow, where’s that?
New York.
I tried to see the screen through all the boys massed in the room. I asked the boy to my right what was going on.
He said America was under attack.
Terrorists had flown planes into the Twin Towers in New York City.
People were…jumping. From the tops of buildings half a kilometer high.
More and more boys gathered, stood around, biting their lips, their nails, tugging their ears. In stunned silence, in boyish confusion, we watched the only world we’d ever known disappear in clouds of toxic smoke.
World War Three , someone muttered.
Someone propped open the blue doors. Boys kept streaming in.
None made a sound.
So much chaos, so much pain.
What can be done? What can we do?
What will we be called to do?
Days later I turned seventeen.
31.
I’d often say it to myself first thing in the morning: Maybe this is the day .
I’d say it after breakfast: Maybe she’s going to reappear this morning.
I’d say it
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