A royal affair

You don't take a bus to meet a prince, do you? I didn't. I shouted myself a taxi from my friend's flat on Waimari Rd to Antarctica New Zealand, a low, long building parked next to Christchurch Airport.

"Where are you off to then?" asked Dennis as he pulled away from the kerb.

"Meeting Prince Edward."

"Oh he's in town, is he? Wouldn't want to be him."

My family had been quite excited. Dad emailed specially and told me to remember to say please, thank you, and not to call him Ted. Mum texted; she'd give me twenty bucks if I told the prince that Mum says hi, and not to call him Eddie. What kind of horror child do they think they've spawned?

Dennis remembered the Queen's visit in 1953. He was 17 and went down the Square to see her, went home and told his father she was in town. Being Irish, his da wasn't into royalty and didn't want to hear about it.

"He banged his fist on the table, boom, like that."

That Christmas Tangiwai happened - at the time the world's eighth-deadliest rail disaster. They thought it was because the Queen came. Rather, Dennis remembered it happened at the same time the New Zealand cricket team was touring South Africa. His hero, fast bowler Bob Blair, had a fiancé killed in the train wreck and was mourning in the hotel while the New Zealand team faced the South Africans.

"Next minute he came out to bat. Everyone stood up and you could have heard a pin drop. They said Listen Bob, you don't have to do it. He and Bert Sutcliffe went out and got four sixes."

"Tough bloke," I commented, rather unnecessarily.

"They don't make them like that today. He was my idol. Here we are. Just make it sixteen dollars."

I was touched. He'd taken 90c off the fare for me.

"Say gidday to the Prince for me."

Prince Edward was trim, neat, pressed, pleasant, gracious and witty. His tie had penguins on it, there was a tiny golden angel pin over his heart, and a massive ring on his finger. His face was narrow and he had his mother's eyes: dark blue and engaged.

He was very nice. Good at conversation, good with oldies. A daughter led her mother out from the Antarctic Centre to meet him; someone said it was her 75^th birthday and she watched - hunched, blushing and absolutely beaming - as the Prince approached. I pondered the paroxysms of joy I might have been in if it was 50 years earlier. We weren't allowed to eat the cupcakes until he did.

Like war or Dunedin, Antarctica is the sort of experience that binds people. Because I spent last summer at Scott Base I was now deemed 'Antarctic Youth' and thus worthy of an audience with the Prince, though I suspect I won't be eligible for the title of 'Youth' much longer. Prince Edward last visited the ice in 1982, but had either kept his hand in or read his pre-visit briefing notes well. He knew and could talk about ANDRILL, climate change, sea ice, Scott Base and McMurdo Station. He was very interested in the science and life in Antarctica, envied us our recent time spent there, and would love to go back.

His diplomatic protection squad officers were subdued in dress, craggy of face. They answered what must be the usual questions, about what they would do if someone threw a shoe at the prince or dived on him. 

Not much to worry about in here, said the DPO, casting his eyes around. There wasn't likely to be terrorist activity in the small room in the West Wing of Antarctica New Zealand.

"But it's not just terrorism. What most people don't think about is evacuation plans and what would happen in the event of an emergency," he said. In an earthquake, the Prince would be the first to be protected.

Home in Nelson that day, the sweep of sand bordering Rabbit Island was empty and clean as we flew over.

"All that beach and no-one on it,'' pondered the man in the seat behind me.

A wind from the sea blew the smell of salt across the airport. My flatmate picked me up and immediately started in on a cracking yarn about my other flatmate who had collided with a tree and written off his car. Helluva crash.

Where does a prince stay the night in Christchurch? Edward - neat, pleasant, youngest of four, father of two, seventh in line to the throne of 16 countries - was perhaps right now officially relaxing somewhere in a hotel, pressed suit hanging in a wardrobe, shoes tucked underneath. His golden angel pin on a bedside table. His sentries not far away.

- © Fairfax NZ News

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BK   #1   03:48 pm Nov 03 2009

A nice chap overall then? Nice teeth??? We're all human after all eh? As always, a great read....

Old Hack   #2   08:56 pm Nov 03 2009

I think you're wasted in journalism. Write a book.

AJ   #3   10:02 pm Nov 03 2009

Naomi for editor.

BK   #4   01:52 pm Nov 04 2009

Write a book... ? Hear hear - I support the motion! All those in favour say aye... carried !

Matthew   #5   09:29 pm Nov 04 2009

Great piece. Incidentally, that cricket match Dennis told you about is one of the most famous in NZ's history. Bert Sutcliffe was smacked on the head by a bouncer, and while he played a brilliant innings, the general consensus is that he was never quite the same cricketer after that one.

As for HRH Prince Edwardm, I always felt he must live a curious life. Fancy being in line for a throne you're never likely to inhabit.

Nic V   #6   10:07 pm Nov 04 2009

Naomi, you were born for this. keep putting them on Facebook so i remember to look. I met Prince Charles a few years ago. Top bloke. Loves albatrosses (albatri?), grumbled goodnaturedly about the media and gave an impassioned speech about how we were wrecking our marine environment - while all the other VIPs danced around the subject. I was proud, and a royalist for the day at least. Keep it up mate. x

Bryan with a Y   #7   10:07 pm Nov 04 2009

If only genius like that flowed forth from my fingertips...

"Edward - neat, pleasant, youngest of four, father of two, seventh in line to the throne of 16 countries - was perhaps right now officially relaxing somewhere in a hotel, pressed suit hanging in a wardrobe, shoes tucked underneath. His golden angel pin on a bedside table. His sentries not far away."

*Sublime!*

Des   #8   10:47 pm Nov 04 2009

Nice one Nay-OH-mi.

C-dog   #9   09:01 pm Nov 08 2009

"Don't call him Eddie, or Ted". His Serene Highness Prince Albert of Monaco didn't mind being called Bertie, as far as I could tell. Did you get to kiss him? And, if so, did he turn into a frog? Loving your work, Naomi!

Alive   #10   10:51 am Nov 12 2009

After that blog about pronounciation... you've gone and spelt Waimairi wrong. It's 'Wai-mai-ree', not 'Why-Marree'.

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