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Gloucester. The King was his keenest patient; he even named one of his racehorses,
Hypericum, after a homeopathic remedy. Elizabeth and, later, Prince Charles were also
firm believers in the benefits of homeopathy.
In July the Edinburghs returned from Malta for good. It was by now obvious that the
King would need their support in carrying out public duties, including a state visit: to
Canada and the United States planned for that autumn. They were due to leave on 25
September on the liner Empress of Britain, but the plan was abruptly cancelled when,
after tests on the King in London on 7 September, a tumour showed up on the
tomography and an immediate bronchoscopy was arranged for the 15th. The
bronchoscopy confirmed the doctors’ worst fears: the tumour was malignant. No one
mentioned the word cancer except Churchill’s doctor, Lord Moran, who, reading
between the lines of the doctors’ bulletin, warned Churchill. The King was told only that
he had a blockage in one of his bronchial tubes which would necessitate the removal of
his left lung, but his family knew the truth. They spent an agonizing three hours waiting
at Buckingham Palace while the surgeon, Mr Clement Price Thomas, operated. At one
moment it was thought that he might have to cut the nerves of the larynx, which would
mean the King could never speak above a whisper. The operation was apparently
successful. The King recovered consciousness and at 5 p.m. the doctors issued a cautious
bulletin to the crowd of 5,000 who had been waiting silently outside. Privately in
medical circles the long-term prognosis for the King’s survival was gloomy. Lord
Moran’s opinion was ‘even if the King recovers he can scarcely live more than a year’.
As Elizabeth left Malta, Edwina Mountbatten had remarked, ‘They’re putting the bird
back in its cage.’ She had just been learning to enjoy life outside the cage, but now her
father’s illness hung like a cloud over her and Philip. At any moment she could be
precipitated on to the throne and all chance of a relatively normal life for either of them
would be ended. She flew to Canada with Philip on 8 October to begin the postponed
state visit, the first time a member of the royal family had flown the Atlantic. Martin
Charteris travelled with, beneath his bunk, the necessary accession documents, the
sword of Damocles hanging over his employer. Elizabeth was already being shown state
papers, and at home she read the daily parliamentary reports. In Canada she read the
airmail Times each day, concerned to keep herself abreast of current affairs. For thirtyfive
days they traversed the American continent, crossing it twice, a distance of some
10,000 miles in Canada alone. Again Elizabeth was following in her parents’ footsteps
on their gruelling but triumphant tour in 1939. That was part of the problem. For the
first time after all her ecstatically received tours in the United Kingdom, the Princess
encountered newspaper criticism first hand. With memories of the radiantly smiling
Queen still fresh – her visit had been only twelve years before – the Canadian press was
less enchanted by her often straight-faced daughter. ‘Why doesn’t she smile more?’ they
asked. When Martin Charteris pleaded with Elizabeth to oblige them, she replied, ‘Look
Martin, my jaws are aching.’ ‘We had rather a rough time,’ he recalled. Philip caused
offence in some quarters by referring to Canada as ‘a good investment’, an unfortunate
choice of phrase which to some people had a distinctly exploitative colonialist ring. He