Getting to know the King

One of the great things about Alice Springs was that it punched above its weight as a ‘romantic’ tourist destination, and because it was only a tiny town of 14,000 people, we often got to meet the famous visitors who rolled on through, writes Victor Kline.

BACK IN THE mid to late 70s, I was working as a lawyer in Alice Springs. I was only 24 years old when I first arrived to join the firm of Paul Everingham and Co. Paul was the senior partner and also the Attorney-General for the Northern Territory at the grand old age of 32.

The idea was that I would be his house counsel and do all the court appearances for the various branches of the firm in Darwin, Katherine, Tennant Creek, and, of course, Alice.

We were all very young back then and, like most Territorians, running on high-octane hooch most of the time. Paul would go on to become Chief Minister at 34 and eventually, at the Methusalian age of 41, the federal Member for the Northern Territory. He was our leader in law, politics and larrikinism. But more of him another time.

One of the great things about Alice Springs was that it punched above its weight as a ‘romantic’ tourist destination, perhaps because of Uluru (Ayer’s Rock) and maybe even more so thanks to Nevil Shute’s best seller A Town Like Alice, and later the film based on it. So everyone wanted an excuse to visit.

And because it was only a tiny town of 14,000 people, we often got to meet the famous visitors who rolled on through.

I got to shake hands with John Denver and most of the Skyhooks. I also met and exchanged philosophies with the then Prime Minister Gough Whitlam, accompanied by a very young Paul Keating. And I talked music one-on-one with world-famous virtuoso violinist Jack Glatzer. But more of them another time, too.

Right now, I want to tell you about the craziest visit of all. It was from the then heir to the British throne, HRH the Prince of Wales – better known these days as Charles III, by the grace of God, monarch of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, etc., etc., Defender of the Faith.

Well, I can tell you, it wasn’t going to be easy to defend his faith in the residents of Alice Springs, after we were done with him.

Charles was a bachelor then, and all the 'joys' of his marriage to Lady Diana Spencer lay ahead. So he was still young and relatively carefree, and he made a very funny speech to the whole town in the main street, standing with the mayor on a hastily erected, very wobbly platform. I remember thinking much later what a perfect metaphor that platform was. The town of Alice Springs itself, back then, was a very wobbly platform for some very unsteady lawyers and politicians.

When Charles finished his speech, the Mayor announced it was the Prince's birthday, and he thought it would be a fine idea if we all sang 'Happy Birthday' to him. The Mayor’s impromptu and unilateral decision to spring that surprise on the Prince and the townsfolk highlighted the value of thinking things through and perhaps even consulting in advance.

For a start, it was definitely a cringe moment for royalty and commoner alike, especially as the tone deaf Mayor led off, solo and unaccompanied. However, we all joined in and things went as well as any off-key birthday song goes, right through:

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear...”.

And then everyone stopped. There was total silence because nobody knew what to call him. I don't think the Palace etiquette book could have helped, even if we had had a copy to hand. Which honorific do you use for the Prince of Wales, in the middle of 'Happy Birthday' sung by the populace of an outback town, and conducted by a red-faced mayor on a wobbly platform?

The options that flashed through our collective minds included 'Charles', 'Charlie', and 'Prince', but none seemed quite right, and so we all just stood there. Finally, after what seemed like minutes of agonising silence, broken only by the distant howl of a dingo, the Mayor, in his high-pitched tone-deaf quavering voice, blurted out all by himself:

“Your Royal Hiiiighness”.

Later that month, the Mayor lost the mayoral election to local lawyer Brian Martin (later to become Chief Justice of the Northern Territory), but the jury is probably still out on whether this, and subsequent events of that day, were wholly responsible for the defeat.

In the afternoon of the same day, I had a call from the Mayor, inviting my then-wife, Agatha, and I to a reception he had planned that night for the Prince. He tactfully explained how he was rounding up all the lawyers and other professionals because he couldn't trust anyone else in the town not to make fools of themselves. Flattered though I was, being a 'socialist' and therefore almost by definition an anti-monarchist, I politely declined.

I immediately rang Agatha to say how funny it was that we, of all people, should be invited to a reception for the heir to the British throne. Agatha was, by her own assertion, at least as dedicated a left-winger as I.

“Did you accept?” she asked.

“Of course not,” I said, laughing.

"What?!” she yelled back down the phone “What?!”

There was silence. I was confused.

“Ring them back!” she demanded. “How dare you deprive me of a chance to meet the Prince!”

Agatha later became a dedicated Antipodean supporter of Donald Trump. So, of course, her reaction looks much more explicable in retrospect. Clearly, her "dedication" to socialism back then was a mere youthful flirtation.

Anyway, I rang the Mayor back and explained that my wife was very angry with me and asked if we could come anyway. He was delighted as he was still having problems finding enough responsible people to fill the room.

That night, we arrived a little late at the 'reception venue', which, until two days before, had been an animal breeding laboratory.  The mayor’s creative use of it for a royal reception was, like many things the Mayor didn’t think through, to have its consequences.

The Prince was already there and mingling. I have to say, for all my anti-monarchist beliefs, I found myself, against my will, being quite impressed by the man. He seemed to have the common touch and was quite comfortable with everyone he spoke to.

I have no memory of what I actually said to him, or what he said to me. But I do remember he genuinely seemed to care about who I was and what I was doing in the Australian outback. Of course, I knew that couldn’t be true. How many thousands of people did he meet each week? How could he possibly be interested in a passing nobody like me?

Nonetheless, I am ashamed to admit I fell victim to his patrician charm – just a little bit. And so I have watched the ups and downs of his ‘career’ over the years with great interest. And because of that meeting, I could never be quite as rabid a republican as I, and others, might have liked. Personal contact is still the most important part of politics. I guess the bottom line was that Charles had a job to do, that job included charming the people of the realm, and he was good at his job. 

He even kept his composure when Miss Alice Springs Runner-Up literally pinned him to the wall with her outstretched arm on his shoulder and said:

“G'day, Prince! How's it goin'?”

"I'm very well indeed!' he replied in that crisp, well-known accent. “And yourself?”

“Bit of a shit day," she said. “But can't complain.”

She then proceeded to tell him most of her life story, culminating in the tragic injustice of only getting second place in the Miss Alice Springs Contest.

Later that evening, no doubt due to the fact that the Mayor had failed to ensure the proper scouring of the animal breeding laboratory before turning it into a royal catering venue, the entire party, the Prince included, was struck down with Shigella flexneri dysentery.

This particular strain was severe, and several townspeople were hospitalised. One or two were even on the critical list. Agatha and I were leaking badly and got to a point of nausea and weakness so debilitating that we literally couldn't get out of bed. We really just had to lie amidst our leakings for almost 24 hours.

I remember the following night, when we were still very weak, turning on the television and seeing Prince Charles addressing a reception in Perth. We could barely move, but there he was, not just standing upright, but talking and smiling to boot. I remember thinking that either he had a medical team far superior to anything we could find at the Alice Springs Hospital, or he just drew on that well-known regal British sang froid.

Many years later, when I was in London promoting my first novel, I sent him a copy, accompanied by a note reminding him of our meeting. I’m not sure why I did that. Of course, I knew he couldn’t possibly remember me.

But I was pretty sure he would remember the Mayor, the wobbly platform, Miss Alice Springs Runner-Up and Shigella flexneri dysentery.

I received back a polite handwritten note from his Equerry saying:

'His Royal Highness is very grateful for your gift. However, his acceptance of it may not be used for promotional purposes.'

Victor Kline is a writer and a barrister whose practice focuses on pro bono work for refugees and asylum seekers. You can follow Victor on Twitter/X @victorklineTNL.

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