“You couldn’t make it up!” is something writers like to say, usually referring to some kind of extraordinary real-life plot reversal that – if put into a fictional storyline – would be called out as unbelievable. That’s why writers love doing adaptations – especially from life. Fiction has to be plausible. It has to be gently teased out, carefully obeying its own rules. The audience must be coaxed into suspending their disbelief. Real life, on the other hand, does what it likes. Disbelief can go hang.
And so the real-life dramas of Prince Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle have not been found wanting. Her hapless father, Thomas, has scuppered his big day by allegedly staging photos with the paparazzi. He’s now in hospital doing well after repairs to a broken heart. A spiteful half-sibling is writing a book called The Diary of Princess Pushy’s Sister. A half-nephew is using the nuptials to promote a strain of cannabis that he sells. Uninvited relatives have turned up at Heathrow airport in casual clothing. There’s been a minor car crash.
But wait! Doesn’t all this remind you of events in our recent royal past? A liberated young woman who dreams (fatally) of being a princess. A well-meaning family member who is something of an embarrassment (Charles). Ill-fated dealings with the press. Inadvisable confessions. Unwanted distant relatives. A car crash. The exact details might vary, but the theme remains. This is today’s kind of family, whether royal or otherwise. Splintered and dysfunctional, peppered with upset and divorce.
When Peter Morgan rang to ask me to write for The Crown I said yes (actually, I said: Are you kidding me? Yes!) put down the phone and immediately Googled “abdication”. I was alarmed that my royal knowledge was far too hazy. A dim vision of Wallis Simpson, deathly in pearls and clutching a pug, just wasn’t going to make the grade. And what was the name of Elizabeth’s father again? Was he an Edward or a George? And exactly how many Edwards were there? And how many Georges?
I wasn’t taught a word of modern history at school. And, as to recent royal shenanigans – my parents brought me up as a good republican and I was inclined to avert my eyes. I thought showing an interest in a bunch of upper-class jokers who didn’t have two A-levels to rub together deeply uncool. In fact, reading royal gossip used to make me feel queasy – like looking at porn. I even missed out on much of the glory years of Diana. For one thing, I read this newspaper which – if I remember rightly – eschewed royal stories in those days, unless they had some kind of constitutional significance.
Now it’s two years on from that fateful phone call and – thanks to The Crown’s great team of researchers – I find myself an unlikely – patchy – royal expert! Invited to pronounce! What have I learned from my immersion in all things Windsor? What do I think when I hear about these latest events?
Mostly I wonder: what do the royals tell themselves about their past? How does hope spring so eternal? Royal marriages struggle and fail because the crown must always come first. These marriages are made in the service of the crown and in the shadow of the crown. Wallis became pretty bored with David – and exile – by the time she got over the fact of his once being the Prince of Wales. The peripatetic Philip married Elizabeth because protocol demanded a palace – and he was without one.
Margaret had to forsake the man she loved because he was divorced. She cast about desperately for a replacement, but found it difficult to mate among the British aristocracy who knew better than to enter the fray. She had to look elsewhere and was susceptible to being pursued for the wrong reasons. Would Tony Armstrong Jones have married someone like Margaret if she hadn’t been a princess? I don’t think so.
And so the presence of the crown skews every relationship. I came to see Margaret’s story as a pitiful tragedy, in the end. She was understandably unable to extricate herself from her birthright, but also desperate to escape it. If she’d been sensible, she would have holed up in the country with children and dogs. But she wasn’t that kind of person. She wanted to be at shows and parties and hobnobbing with writers and artists. You can’t blame her for that. She was horribly caught between two worlds and never found her raison d’être. She became a counterpoint to her dutiful sister, a laughing stock of a sort, and died a sad death.
The royal family are living in a fascinating and dreadful bind. They are born into slavery of a sort. A gilded cage, yes. But prisoners nonetheless. If born into poverty at least there’s some chance of escape, I don’t think you can ever escape being royal. With this understanding, I’ve come to respect our current Queen enormously. I don’t think any amount of hunting or jewellery can compensate for the sacrifices she has made. The woman is a powerhouse of duty, self-denial and small talk.
As to this latest marriage between Prince Harry and Meghan Markle, if anyone is going to make a success of marrying into the royal family, an actress is a good bet. Royals play a part. The whole fantasy of royalty is a construct. Any biologist will tell you, there’s no such thing as blue blood. It is always, always, without exception – red. A “king” is an invented idea. As invented as unicorns. The royals are simply the descendants of a man that gained land and power many, many years ago. Probably by being a bit unscrupulous. Probably by being a bit like an early version of Roman Abramovich – but British. Or German.
But they have power no more. So, the way I see it, Meghan Markle has landed a role in the biggest soap opera of all time. It’s good that she’s American. She’ll think the whole thing is cute and quaint – and that will carry her through for a while. People worry about the exposure she will face. But I don’t think she’ll have a problem with that. She is set up for scrutiny. She’s got the figure and face to prove it. What I wonder is how she’ll handle the fact that, in the royal family, love does not come first.