Spare by Prince Harry EPUB / PDF & Audio File – eBook Details Online
- Author Name: Prince Harry
- Book Genre: History, Autobiography
- ISBN #
- Edition Language: English
- Date of Publication: January 10, 2023
- File Format : PDF / EPUB & Audio File
- PDF / EPUB File Size: 2 MB / Audio File 800 MB
There were always stories.
People would whisper now and then about folks who hadn’t fared well at
Balmoral. The long-ago Queen, for instance. Mad with grief, she’d locked herself
inside Balmoral Castle and vowed never to come out. And the very proper former
prime minister: he’d called the place “surreal” and “utterly freaky.”
Still, I don’t think I heard those stories until much later. Or maybe I heard them
and they didn’t register. To me Balmoral was always simply Paradise. A cross
between Disney World and some sacred Druid grove. I was always too busy
fishing, shooting, running up and down “the hill” to notice anything off about the
feng shui of the old castle.
What I’m trying to say is, I was happy there.
In fact, it’s possible that I was never happier than that one golden summer day
at Balmoral: August 30, 1997.
We’d been at the castle for one week. The plan was to stay for another. Same as
the previous year, same as the year before that. Balmoral was its own microseason, a two-week interlude in the Scottish Highlands to mark the turn from high
summer to early autumn.
Granny was there too. Naturally. She spent most of every summer at Balmoral.
And Grandpa. And Willy. And Pa. The whole family, with the exception of
Mummy, because Mummy was no longer part of the family. She’d either bolted or
been thrown out, depending on whom you asked, though I never asked anyone.
Either way, she was having her own holiday elsewhere. Greece, someone said. No,
Sardinia, someone said. No, no, someone chimed in, your mother’s in Paris!
Maybe it was Mummy herself who said that. When she phoned earlier that day for
a chat? Alas, the memory lies, with a million others, on the other side of a high
mental wall. Such a horrid, tantalizing feeling, to know they’re over there, just on
the other side, mere inches away—but the wall is always too high, too thick.
Unscalable.
Not unlike the turrets of Balmoral.
Wherever Mummy was, I understood that she was with her new friend. That
was the word everyone used. Not boyfriend, not lover. Friend. Nice enough bloke
I thought. Willy and I had just met him. Actually, we’d been with Mummy weeks
earlier when she first met him, in St. Tropez. We were having a grand time, just the
three of us, staying at some old gent’s villa. There was much laughter, horseplay,
the norm whenever Mummy and Willy and I were together, though even more so
on that holiday. Everything about that trip to St. Tropez was heaven. The weather
was sublime, the food was tasty, Mummy was smiling.
Best of all, there were jet skis.
Whose were they? Don’t know. But I vividly remember Willy and me riding
them out to the deepest part of the channel, circling while waiting for the big
ferries to come. We used their massive wakes as ramps to get airborne. I’m not
sure how we weren’t killed.
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