In 1983, Princess Margaret was invited by her lady-in-waiting, Lady Anne Tennant, to contribute to The Picnic Papers, a collection of reminiscences about memorable picnics. She called her contribution ‘Picnic at Hampton Court’. Barely five hundred words long, it was the only piece of sustained prose she ever wrote for publication.
She began confidently, with a stab at contemporary sociology. ‘Nearly all picnics in Britain,’ she writes, ‘end up in a layby by the road because, in desperation, no-one can decide where to stop.’ When it came to choosing a location for her own picnic, she was determined to avoid this common trap. ‘I felt that another sort of treat, slightly different and rather more comfortable, was indicated.’
‘Indicated’ is a curious word to have chosen, suggesting that someone else was in charge, hovering overhead, pointing her in this or that direction. Of course, when it comes to completing any sentence, it is easy to get boxed in by words that have gone before and to feel corralled into choosing a final word that is somehow not quite right. My guess is that the Princess had been nearing the end of her second sentence – ‘I felt that another sort of treat, slightly different and rather more comfortable, was –’ when she hesitated, not knowing which word to choose next.
Something rather more comfortable was … Was what? ‘Needed’? ‘Wanted’? ‘Required’? Perhaps she finally chose ‘indicated’ through some subconscious link with the road and the layby in the previous sentence. But she soon got back into her stride. ‘In my opinion,’ she wrote, ‘picnics should always be eaten at table and sitting on a chair.’
When is a picnic not a picnic? Many would consider the absence of a chair and table key to the definition of a picnic. A picnic is eaten sitting on the ground; the moment a chair or table appears, it turns into something else, something rather grander.
‘Accordingly,’ she continued, ‘my picnic, in May 1981, took the form of an outing to Hampton Court.’ There followed a potted history of Hampton Court Palace, after which she revealed that ‘The Queen kindly let me take some friends. The best plan, it seemed to me, was to do some sightseeing and have lunch in the middle. So I got in touch with Sir Oliver Millar, Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures, who delighted in taking us round the recently restored Mantegnas which are housed in their own Orangery.’
But where would be the perfect spot for a picnic in Hampton Court? Again, she called in an expert. ‘I asked Professor Jack Plumb, Master of Christ’s College, Cambridge … where we should have our cold collation. He suggested the little Banqueting House overlooking the Thames. This seemed an excellent place for a number of reasons. It wasn’t open to the public then, it was a shelter in case of rain, and, as far as anyone knew, there hadn’t been a jolly there since the time of Frederick, Prince of Wales.’ With both the Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures and the Master of Christ’s College, Cambridge, now on board, the Princess was determined to leave nothing to fate. And, just in case, ‘I took my butler to ensure that everything would be all right.’
It was all a far cry from a cheese-and-pickle sandwich in the pouring rain. Margaret failed to specify exactly how many guests she entertained, but a series of fuzzy black-and-white photographs in the book shows the large hall equipped with two long tables, one groaning with dishes, the other laid for twenty people or so. One photograph shows the Princess gazing out of a window, her back towards the camera. Five besuited men are gathered around, clasping their hands behind their backs, as men do when they wish to appear worldly.
‘We started with smoked salmon mousse, followed by that standby of the English, various cold meats and beautiful and delicious salads. Those with room then had cheeses.’ At the end of their meal, the royal party drank a toast to Frederick, Prince of Wales, before continuing their tour of the palace, taking in the chapel and the royal tennis court, where they watched a game in progress.
‘It was altogether a glorious day. The sun was shining on one of its brief appearances that summer, and everyone was happy.’
The Princess concluded her piece with a recipe for avocado soup. It involved throwing three or four avocado pears into a blender with some chicken consommé and ‘a little dry sherry’, then adding ‘a little dab of double cream’ before serving.
Her fellow contributors to The Picnic Papers all sprang from the well-to-do end of the world of letters. Harold Acton wrote of a picnic accompanied by Pouilly Fumé at the Ming tombs in Peking; Penelope Chetwode of eating suprème de volaille in Cappadocia; Patrick Leigh Fermor of sitting in the dales of Moldavia eating chicken croquettes, ‘fragrant mititei’ and, ‘by the ladleful, wonderful Black Sea caviar from Valcov’; and the McGillycuddy of the Reeks supped on smoked salmon, lamb in puff pastry and ‘a large supply of Guinness’ in Kerry. Picnics in laybys were nowhere to be seen.
Shortly after the book’s publication in the spring of 1983, Princess Margaret was the guest of honour at Sir Guy and Lady Holland’s annual concert in their Gloucestershire barn. By chance, also present was one of her catty chroniclers, James Lees-Milne, who had broken ranks with the other contributors, refusing to participate in their spirit of bonhomie. His essay, called ‘I Loathe Picnics’, started with the words ‘I loathe picnics,’ and ended with the words ‘I loathe picnics.’ Lees-Milne was unabashed in his disapproval of the institution: ‘It may be hereditary. My parents also loathed them as much as they disliked each other, and certainly as much as they disliked us.’
‘Nearly dying of cold’ in the Gloucestershire barn, Lees-Milne and his wife Alvilde found themselves swept up by their hostess and escorted to a tent. There they were presented to Princess Margaret, who was drinking whisky out of a large tumbler. Lees-Milne had never found her easy company; this occasion was to prove no exception.
‘She, possibly distracted by meeting so many people within a small enclosed space, was not gracious and a little brash. Said to me, “Had I known you were a contributor to the Picnic Book, I would not have written my piece.”’
Lees-Milne was nonplussed. ‘How does one take this sort of remark? I smiled wryly and said, “Oh Ma’am, but I so enjoyed yours.” “Do you like the book?” she asked. “I liked the jacket,” I said untruthfully.
‘“I hate picnics,” she said, “but did you like the book?” – this time to A. as much to me. That was as far as our contact went. How I hate meeting royalty. One gets absolutely nowhere.’