The Good Servant, page 28
The Glorious Twelfth is almost upon us and I am told that the grouse are plentiful and simply begging to be shot. I shall offer my services as beater and picnic helper. The King likes to unpack the luncheon hampers while sitting in the heather and warding off the dogs.
Now it is off to dinner and charades. Last year my impersonation of a St Bernard’s dog strained my vocal cords so severely I could hardly speak the next day, and I recall that the Queen’s newest corgi, Crackers, was abysmally sick on the carpet. Let us hope for better things from this evening.
It feels good to be away from the worries of London. Do try not to read the newspapers too much – they will only make you solemn. We must trust that the situation abroad will improve.
All love to you and the children,
Tommy xx
Chapter Forty-One
Dunfermline, 2nd September 1939
Marion was already packing. At 11.15 that morning she had received a telegram from Buckingham Palace, ordering her back to Balmoral. The Prime Minister was expected to give a radio broadcast the following day, announcing that Great Britain would be at war with Germany. Until then, the news was top secret.
Marion had scanned the telegram, folded it twice and hidden it in her pocket.
Her mother had watched her. ‘Who was it from?’
Marion smiled quickly. ‘I have been called to Balmoral. The King and Queen are returning to London at once. I am needed to go and see to the girls. I shall deliver them back to London in a few days.’
Maggie was white. ‘It’s war, then? I don’t want you going back to live in London. It could be dangerous.’
‘I can only tell you what was in the telegram,’ Marion had said. ‘The Princesses are still at Balmoral and the King and Queen will never put them in danger.’ She snapped her case shut.
‘Marion.’ Her stepfather, panting slightly, was now coming up the stairs. ‘George is downstairs.’ He saw her suitcase. ‘Here, let me take that. Are you leaving now?’
‘The next train I can get to Ballater.’ Marion’s heart was racing but her mind was calm and focused. She hurried down the stairs.
In the hall, George was waiting anxiously.
‘Darling!’ Marion had never been so glad to see him. ‘Would you give me a lift to the station?’
‘Robert just told me you had to go. I understand.’
She reached the bottom stair. ‘You don’t mind? I am so sorry about our lunch. I was so looking forward to it.’
‘Me too.’ He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll do it as soon as we know what’s happening.’
She hugged him quickly. ‘Thank you, George.’
Maggie was wretched. ‘We are going to war, aren’t we?’
George and Robert swapped quick glances. ‘I hope not,’ said Robert, with a laugh
Maggie began to cry. ‘I don’t want you to be in London, Marion. Please stay at Balmoral. Please.’
Marion was brisk. ‘Mother, dear, all is well. Mr Chamberlain is a good prime minister and I am sure he is doing everything he can to keep us safe.’
She hugged her parents, biting her lip to stem her own tears. ‘I will let you know what the plan is as soon as I can. I love you both.’
George put her case in the car and came back to shake Robert’s hand and kiss Maggie’s cheek. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll make sure she gets the right train.’
Maggie and Robert waved their daughter and her fiancé off in a blur of tears and anxiety, watching as Marion waved from the car window, promising to let them know any change in plans.
At the station, George held the suitcase with one hand and Marion with the other as they marched to the ticket office. ‘Single to Ballater, please,’ he commanded of the woman behind the glass.
‘You’ve just missed one,’ the woman said.
‘When is the next one?’
‘Well, it’s Sunday, so there aren’t that many.’
George snapped, ‘Just tell me when the next bloody train is.’
She bridled. ‘No need to speak to me like that. I can refuse to serve you, you know.’
Marion stepped in. ‘George, let me.’ He glared at the woman behind the glass, before giving her a muttered apology and stepping back.
Marion bought the ticket, then joined George on a wooden bench. ‘Next one is in a couple of hours,’ she said calmly.
‘Two hours?’ George’s ire was still bubbling. ‘I could drive you there in that time.’
‘That’s a lovely thought, but I will be fine.’
Sitting as they were, side by side, he took her hand and held it hard. ‘I can’t believe we’re at war again.’
‘I know.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘With luck this will all be over soon.’
‘I want to marry you, Marion.’
‘And I want to marry you, George. It will all be all right.’
He was silent for a time, and then he said, ‘I’m going to join up.’
Marion felt her heart clench. She had known this was coming, of course, but …‘What?’
‘The army will need men like me and there’s no way I am not going to do my bit.’
A bolt of fear shot through her and she gripped his arm. ‘Please don’t. You don’t have to. What about your work?’
‘What about your work? You won’t leave them now, will you.’ It was statement not a question.
‘I … no,’ she said, at last, ‘but …’
‘They mean more to you than I do.’ He said it quietly, not angrily, and it sent a pang through Marion.
‘Please don’t say that. You must see I can’t leave those girls now. They need me.’
‘They need you, and the war effort needs me.’ He stood up. ‘It’s your decision.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Please, George, don’t go.’
‘You have a lot of thinking to do, Marion. And so do I.’ He bent to kiss her. ‘Let me know that you arrived safely. Goodbye, Marion.’
‘George, please don’t leave like this!’
He said nothing more, and she watched solemnly as he walked to his car and drove away.
A car had been sent to Ballater station to pick her up.
‘Miss Crawford.’ Jackson the chauffeur was waiting for her. ‘Welcome to Ballater.’
‘It’s good to see you, Jackson. How is everyone?’
‘Shocked by it all, I’d say.’ He looked at her. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you look shaken yourself.’
She supposed she did. Another war was a terrible thing. She had still been a young child when the first one ended, but she remembered the scars it left behind. Besides, her conversation with George had confused her. She felt weighed down by guilt, though what she was guilty of she had no idea.
‘I think the news has shaken everyone,’ she answered. ‘How are the Princesses?’
‘They can’t wait to see you. As excited as kittens when they knew you were coming.’
‘I’m excited to see them too.’ As he helped her to the car, Crawfie said, ‘We will get through this, won’t we, Jackson?’
‘No doubt about it, miss. No doubt at all.’
‘Crawfie, Crawfie!’ The Princesses were waiting for her and ran to hug her.
‘Don’t squeeze me so tightly,’ she gasped, thrilled by their affection. ‘Let me look at you both.’
They let go and stood back for her review. It surprised her, sometimes, how grown up they were getting. Lilibet was thirteen now, and Margaret had turned nine last month. She had been with them for so many years now; they had become such a huge part of her life. ‘I see you have grown, Margaret. And Lilibet, your hair is a little longer.’
The girls beamed.
‘We have missed you,’ they said.
‘And I have missed you.’ Marion crouched down and took them both in her arms. These precious girls who she had known for more than seven wonderful years were now in her care.
The faith their mother and father had in her both gave her confidence and made her question whether she could do it. She would lay down her life for the Princesses, she knew that. Their warm bodies were so trusting. She slowly let them go and as they stood before her, she stroked their curls from their foreheads. ‘What fun we shall have.’
The girls giggled before Lilibet added quietly, ‘Why are Mummy and Papa going back to London? Do you think the Germans might come and catch them?’
Crawfie smiled, fighting down a lump in her throat. ‘No chance.’
Balmoral, 3rd September 1939
Darling Joan,
So, the balloon has gone up. I sat with the King and Queen, drinking tea – so very British – to listen to Mr Chamberlain’s wireless announcement. The Queen was in silent tears.
Afterwards she said, ‘My last cup of tea in peace. My last bath at leisure.’
They are going to London tomorrow, and I will go with them.
The King has ordered that Queen Mary must be immediately evacuated to Badminton House for the duration, for fear she may be kidnapped.
Balmoral Castle will be closed down and the Princesses and their necessary staff are to be moved to Birkhall, a smaller, very cosy house on the estate, where they will be less likely to attract attention. The plan is to make things as familiar as possible for them. The stalwart nursery staff, Alah and Bobo, are with them, and Miss Crawford has just arrived this afternoon. They make a formidable trio – exactly what is needed for the girls at this time. You met Miss Crawford in Windsor once. Tall for a woman, rather shapeless and with a generous nose? But she possesses a quick mind and a true heart. Alah is getting on a bit now – in her seventies, at my guess – a strict but loving martinet in the old Victorian way. Bobo is something of a child although in her mid-thirties: kind, caring and utterly loyal.
I want you to come to London just as much as you do, but I can’t yet see the perfect solution. I think it is safer for you to stay in the country than to join me in the city.
You are so good and kind and efficient and it is a comfort to hear your voice on the telephone, and to know that you are seeing this thing in the right perspective. We are far luckier than so many thousands of others: I, in a job that will probably give me better chances of seeing you than if I were on active service, and you and the children, to my mind, in about the best place possible in England.
My immediate movements here are rather vague. I am unable to tell you too much, but I shall be sleeping at BP and I believe the King and Queen are too.
Speak soon, my darling,
Tommy
PART FOUR
Chapter Forty-Two
Windsor Castle, September 1940
I have decided to start a diary. I am not allowed to let George or my parents know my exact whereabouts, and I miss writing, so I thought I might jot down my memories in a small notebook – not to show anyone in particular, but more as something I may look back on in the years I hope are to come.
Bobo, Alah and I left Birkhall on the Balmoral estate back in May. We’d had the whole place virtually to ourselves for an entire eight months. The war seemed a long way away and we were safe to walk the heathered hills, bird watching, picnicking and in the warmer months, even paddling in the chuckling burns. We’ve kept as much of the war news away from the girls as possible, but Lilibet is always very keen to know more. Nonetheless we’ve edited the worst bits.
The King and Queen telephoned almost every evening when we were in Balmoral and the Princesses regaled them with stories of their adventures – the biggest one being the arrival of children from the Glasgow tenements, evacuated to the Balmoral estate farms around us: skinny little things with scuffed knees and worn shoes. I organized a picnic for some of them last weekend, thinking that sandwiches, little sausages and glasses of milk might be thoroughly enjoyed. The Princesses helped in the kitchen to put it all together and we carried it out onto the lawn. There were around twenty little people with very round eyes watching as we set it up on the trestles. But the funny thing was they were too shy to come forward immediately. Dear Margaret went straight to them, introduced herself and her sister and started offering round the plates of food as if she were at a cocktail party. There was barely a crumb left after that! Once they had eaten and drunk their fill, a game of chase was organized, followed by grandmother’s footsteps for the girls and football for the boys.
They had never been to the countryside and they found almost everything strange, but the thing that frightened them most was the noise of the trees in the wind!
How different my life would have been if I had become the child psychologist I had planned to be all those years ago. What would I have been doing now? How many of those young lives could I have changed?
There is little point in regret. God had another path for me and what a path it is.
In February I received a telephone call from the Queen in London. ‘Crawfie, I think you should bring the girls at once to Royal Lodge.’ She and the King were clearly missing them.
It took a lot of packing up, but a few days later we were back in Windsor.
The Queen looked radiant when we all arrived. She never made a show of any of her concerns and in that way it kept up the spirits of those around her. After a couple of days of reacquainting themselves with their long lost toys, books and of course the dogs and horses, the girls settled down happily.
One evening after they had gone to bed, the Queen called me in to the sitting room.
‘Crawfie,’ she began, ‘do you think me selfish in bringing our daughters back to Windsor, rather than keeping them safe in Scotland?’
I didn’t know how to answer this question. It was not for me to decide, so I asked her, ‘What is your heart telling you?’
She cast her eyes down and thought for a moment. Then she said, ‘Some government ministers wish me to send them away, and I have noticed some of the newspapers have been asking the same thing. Of course they don’t know where the Princesses have been these last months and they never will know. But I am sure that here in Windsor they shall be safe.’
‘At Royal Lodge?’ I asked.
‘Windsor Castle,’ she replied. ‘It’s a fortress that has survived almost a thousand years. I don’t think even Mr Hitler could knock it down.’ She smiled at me. ‘And anyway, the children would not go anywhere without me, and I cannot possibly leave the King, and the King will never leave.’
‘And what is selfish about that?’ I concluded.
We stayed at Royal Lodge until just a few days ago, when we moved into Windsor Castle, and I fear we may be here for some time. London has been deemed too dangerous for the girls, but Balmoral too far away. The King and Queen want to be with their daughters, but they cannot be too far from the capital. So here we are.
Alah believes we will all be back in Buckingham Palace soon, and has brought only a few clothes for herself and the Princesses. I packed everything. I feel that we may be here for a long time.
This ancient castle is not a home. There are few comforts here, and all the treasures, pictures, furniture and chandeliers have had to be taken down. At night I can hear air raid wardens and others flitting about, their shoes ringing on the stone floors of the passageways.
My bedroom and sitting room are in the Victoria Tower, and I have to climb a stone circular staircase to reach it. My bathroom is up in the roof – chilly, and a terrific target for the German bombers.
We live in an underworld, even above ground. There are few electric lights and many power cuts. At night it can be difficult to find your way around or see what you are eating.
We had an air raid yesterday. I was helping at the Castle’s Red Cross post, responsible for medicines and dressings, when I heard the alarm. I locked up and ran to the shelter in the dungeons, expecting to find the girls there. But they weren’t.
Against procedure, I ran back up the winding stairs to the nursery in Lancaster Tower, knowing I had to get Alah to safety. In recent months I have noticed her hearing is not as it was, so in my best impersonation of the Queen’s voice, which I sometimes used to entertain Bobo, I shouted, ‘Alah! Are you up here?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty!’ she called back, flustered.
‘Alah, it’s me, Crawfie.’
‘Is the Queen here too?’
‘No, but we are all waiting in the shelter. You must come down now!’
‘We are dressing. We must dress. I am in my nightdress!’
‘For goodness’ sake, put a coat over it. And where are the Princesses?’
I heard Margaret’s voice from her bedroom, and when I ran up I found her on her knees in front of her chest of drawers. ‘What are you doing?’ I said. ‘Come on.’
‘I am looking for the knickers that match my skirt.’
I had to smile.
Windsor Castle, September 1940
Dear Joan,
So, we have had our first air raid. Rather noisy. Young Miss Crawford was very sparky – sent out like a dove to find the Princesses and their nanny, who were deciding on the dress code.
The Queen has had a rather splendid gown made by Norman Hartnell especially for the raids, and Crawfie, as she is fondly known, has had a boiler suit made, just like our new Prime Minister’s, Mr Churchill. He calls his a ‘Siren Suit’ because it’s the perfect thing to be wearing when the warning sirens go off. He has them in many colours and fabrics – I hear he even has one in green velvet to be worn at formal dinners. Crawfie looks very natty in hers. The Princesses are most envious. I am certain it won’t be long before they have their own.
This place is never warm and the wind whistles through the tall windows. I often find the King wrapped in a travelling rug in his room to keep his feet warm.
I heard today that Hitler thinks the Queen is ‘the most dangerous woman in Europe’. It has cheered her no end.
Yours, fondly,
Tommy
Windsor Castle, January 1941
Our nights in the dungeons have become more comfortable, even though my thoughts often turn to those who had been chained there centuries before. The girls are remarkably unafraid. Margaret snoozes on my knee and Lilibet reads her books by the dim light.
