I first heard that Prince Harry was coming back on the village WhatsApp group. At 7.36 on Thursday morning, Morag posted: PRINCE HARRY IS COMING HOME.
There were no details.
This was immediately a problem.
Effie replied:
To Scotland?
Morag said:
Britain.
Elspeth:
For good?
Morag:
Apparently.
Agnes:
Has he still got a house?
Nobody knew.
Then Jean, who has an admirable instinct for the practical difficulty hidden inside every international event, wrote:
He’ll need a kettle. American ones are different.
I had not yet had breakfast.
I put my phone face down and made tea.
The reports, when I eventually read them for myself, were slightly less dramatic than Morag’s announcement but only slightly. Prince Harry and Meghan are expected to return to Britain with their children for an extended stay after six years in America. They are not returning as working royals and are expected to live privately.
All perfectly straightforward.
Except for one thing.
Harry made a Grand Exit.
And there is nothing more difficult in adult life than returning after one.
I am not talking about leaving. Leaving is easy.
Leaving has momentum.
There are boxes. Decisions. Forwarding addresses. People asking whether you are sure. You are extremely sure. You have perhaps never been surer of anything.
You close the door.
You depart.
If circumstances permit, you do this while wearing a good coat.
The trouble begins years later when you change your mind.
Most of us learn this on a smaller scale.
We leave jobs we shall never return to.
We storm out of restaurants we shall never patronise again.
We tell hairdressers that after what happened to the fringe they will never see us again.
Three months later we are standing outside the same hairdresser because everyone else is booked until October.
This is why I have always believed that a woman should never make an exit so complete that she cannot return for her cardigan.
A cardigan provides diplomatic cover.
“I was just passing.”
“You live seventy miles away.”
“Yes, well. I remembered the cardigan.”
Nothing more need be said.
Prince Harry unfortunately left on a scale beyond knitwear.
There were oceans involved.
California.
Television.
Books.
Lawyers.
Announcements.
Once an exit has acquired international coverage, one cannot reasonably come back claiming to have forgotten an umbrella.
I mentioned this to Mr Gunn.
“What would you do,” I asked, “if you had left Britain very publicly six years ago and were now coming back?”
He looked up from his newspaper.
“Come back.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Plane, probably.”
“No. Socially.”
He thought about this.
“Don’t make another announcement.”
This is why I married him.
By eight o’clock the WhatsApp group had moved from constitutional affairs to international removals.
Rhona asked:
Are they bringing all their furniture back?
Morag said she had no idea.
Agnes replied:
They’ll need a container.
This was stated with the authority of a woman who once had a sideboard brought from Perth.
Effie wrote:
From California?
That’s generally how containers work, said Agnes.
There followed several minutes during which the Duke and Duchess of Sussex ceased to be members of the Royal Family and became a couple attempting to move house across the Atlantic.
Jean wanted to know whether you paid customs duty on your own sofa.
Margaret asked whether any American electrical appliances would work here.
Agnes advised against bringing the fridge.
Too much bother. Different plugs.
Effie pointed out that plugs could be changed.
Agnes replied:
Not on a fridge the size Americans have. You’d need planning permission.
This received eleven laughing faces and one thumbs-up from Roger, who had not said anything all morning.
Then someone asked whether Harry would have to register with a dentist.
There was a long pause.
This was the first genuinely serious question.
He wants to get his name down now, Jean advised.
My daughter’s been waiting eighteen months.
Effie wrote:
Maybe royals have their own dentist.
Agnes:
He’s not doing that now.
Morag:
Doing what?
Agnes:
Royal-ing.
I made another cup of tea.
There is something very comforting about the Scottish ability to take a development involving monarchy, California and six years of public history and reduce it to whether a man has access to NHS dentistry.
By half past eight, the group had established that Harry would require a kettle, new appliances, a dentist, possibly a GP and somebody to explain which bin went out on Tuesday.
Nobody had been asked.
This did not diminish our sense of responsibility.
Then Effie raised the question that changed everything.
What do you actually say when he gets back?
The group went quiet.
This was delicate.
Because Britain is quite good at departures.
We have railway platforms for them.
Ports.
Military bands.
Farewell speeches.
Handkerchiefs.
Plaques.
We understand the emotional architecture of leaving.
Returning is more awkward.
If somebody has been away six years, you cannot behave as though they merely popped out for milk.
On the other hand, making too much of it can cause the returning person to reconsider the entire undertaking before the luggage has arrived.
The Highlands has developed a method for this.
Someone leaves.
They may leave for London, Canada, Australia or, in one particularly ambitious case locally, Dundee.
Before leaving, they explain that there is nothing for them here.
The weather is impossible.
The roads are terrible.
The shops close too early.
Everybody knows everybody’s business.
They require culture.
Opportunity.
Restaurants open after eight.
They leave.
Years pass.
Then one afternoon you see them in the Co-op holding a loaf.
There is a procedure.
You do not say:
“I THOUGHT YOU HATED IT HERE.”
You do not say:
“WHAT HAPPENED TO AUSTRALIA?”
You certainly do not say:
“DIDN’T YOU TELL EVERYONE YOU WERE NEVER COMING BACK?”
These are amateur mistakes.
You look at them.
They look at you.
And you say:
“Oh. You’re back.”
That is all.
Three words containing approximately six years of evidence.
The tone is crucial.
Too enthusiastic and you imply concern.
Too flat and you imply judgement.
It must sound as though their return is entirely unsurprising while simultaneously making clear that the village has retained the minutes of their departure.
After that, you ask:
“When did you get in?”
Not why.
Never why.
Why will arrive eventually.
Why comes after tea.
Sometimes after several teas.
The returning person may offer an explanation immediately.
“We just felt it was time.”
You nod.
“Right.”
“We missed the place.”
“Aye.”
“The children love it.”
“That’s good.”
And there it is.
Re-entry complete.
No inquiry.
No tribunal.
No PowerPoint presentation entitled What We Have Learned Since Leaving.
This, I think, is civilised.
People ought to be allowed to come back.
Leaving somewhere does not oblige you to dislike it forever.
Nor does returning mean the leaving was a mistake.
Sometimes you have to go somewhere else to discover what belonged to the place and what belonged to you.
Sometimes life changes.
Parents get older.
Children grow.
Priorities move around while nobody is looking.
The person who left at thirty-five is not necessarily the person who comes back at forty-one.
It would be a peculiar world if every decision had to remain permanently correct merely because we once made it confidently.
By nine o’clock the WhatsApp group had become unexpectedly philosophical.
Then Margaret spoiled it.
Will he have to take another driving test?
Rhona:
Why would he?
Margaret:
Because he’s been driving on the other side.
Effie:
You don’t forget which side of the road.
Agnes:
Tourists do.
Jean:
That’s different.
Margaret:
How?
Nobody answered.
At 9.14, a photograph appeared of a sheep standing in the road near Bettyhill.
The monarchy was immediately abandoned.
Whose is that?
Is that Donald’s?
Donald’s have blue marks.
Zoom in.
I am zooming in.
That’s not a blue mark, that’s shadow.
Can somebody ring Donald?
Prince Harry had been back in Britain, at least conceptually, for one hour and thirty-eight minutes before being displaced from public attention by an unidentified ewe.
I showed the exchange to Mr Gunn.
He read it carefully.
“What happened to Harry?”
“Sheep.”
He nodded.
This appeared perfectly reasonable.
And perhaps that is the safest way to return after a Grand Exit.
Come home quietly.
Bring the children.
Find somewhere to live.
Buy a kettle if necessary.
Do not explain everything on the first day.
Britain will notice.
Scotland will notice.
The village WhatsApp group will certainly notice.
But if you give it long enough, somebody’s sheep will get out.
And then you are no longer the news.
