The Good Servant, page 9
Marion felt her mother’s eyes on her, willing her to accept.
‘That’s very kind of you but I can’t this Sunday.’
He took the knock. ‘Maybe another time.’
They watched him as he drove away, Maggie waving theatrically.
When the front door closed and they were all inside, Maggie spoke her mind. ‘A lovely man like that and you turn his invitation down?’
Marion smiled tightly. ‘Why don’t you and Dad go up to bed? I’ll clear up down here.’
Alone in the kitchen, she mulled over the evening. George did seem nice. He had manners and was a good conversationalist. Her parents clearly liked him and she felt he had liked her. And that was a new experience for her. No man had ever kissed her hand. And for that matter, no man had ever invited her out for a … for a date? Is that what he had done?
She pulled the plug from the sink and watched the greasy suds drain away.
She wished she could talk openly to her mother about this sort of thing, or that she had a best friend to discuss it with. Even Alah and Bobo would do – not that they’d be much help. Alah was a spinster, and Bobo had her head in cheap romance books. Neither of them had any real experience of men either.
Still, she wouldn’t be seeing them for several weeks and she suddenly found she missed them dearly. The three of them formed an unusual friendship – colleagues who didn’t go home at the end of the day, women who kept their work discreet. Loyalty was everything.
Marion hung the damp tea towel on the stove to dry, then turned the lights out. As she walked up her parents’ stairs, she suddenly realized who she wanted to share her thoughts with. A true matriarch – unflappable, trustworthy and intelligent.
She sighed. If only her own mother could be more like Queen Mary.
Chapter Twelve
Royal Lodge, Windsor, early November 1935
‘Help me, Crawfie, help me!’ Margaret had slipped over on the ice again.
Lilibet was bent double laughing. ‘Get up!’
‘I can’t,’ wailed Margaret.
Crawfie, who had skated since she was a small child up in Scotland, glided over to the prone Princess. ‘Up you get. Oh, your mitten is all wet. Hold my hand and I’ll warm you up.’
‘Look at meee,’ shouted Lilibet, whizzing past. ‘I’m better than you, Margaret.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Margaret yelled, then looked up at Crawfie. ‘She’s not better than me, is she?’
‘I think you are both doing fine. Look at your mummy, skating with a chair to hold onto. That’s clever of her, isn’t it?’ Crawfie was intrigued by another figure on the ice. ‘Who’s that lady?’ she asked.
‘That’s Uncle David’s friend, Mrs Simpson,’ said Margaret.
‘Is it?’ Crawfie was suffering from an attack of proprietorship. The Prince of Wales could not, surely, be involved with this brittle-looking woman? She was too thin, overly made-up and laughing girlishly as the Prince held her waist.
The moment Mrs Simpson had arrived at Royal Lodge, on the arm of the Prince of Wales, backstairs gossip had been rife, but Marion had not met her yet. Word had it she was an American who was on her second husband and who had the Prince wrapped around her finger.
‘She’s not as pretty as Mummy,’ Margaret said. ‘And she doesn’t like me and Lilibet very much.’
‘Of course she does,’ Crawfie said.
‘No, she doesn’t. I can tell. I don’t think she likes children. Mummy loves children.’
‘Well, let’s go and show Mummy how well you can skate.’
That evening, up in the nursery, Bobo was setting the table for the Princesses’ dinner and Alah was warming two sets of pyjamas on the fireguard.
Crawfie was sitting in an armchair. ‘I haven’t skated for a long time. I’ll be bruised and sore in the morning.’ She stretched her long legs in front of her. ‘I don’t how the Duchess will have the energy to entertain the Prince of Wales and Mrs Simpson.’
‘She’s always had stamina. Even as a baby.’ Alah sighed. ‘Just like those girls of hers.’
As if on cue, they heard two sets of little feet pounding up the stairs.
Then the Prince of Wales’s voice, deep and monsterish. ‘I’m coming to get you!’
‘Nooo. Uncle David! Arrgghh.’
‘I’m going to eat you all up.’
‘Stop it. Papa! Uncle David’s going to eat us.’
The nursery door flew open and Margaret and Lilibet charged into the room, with the chasing Prince and their father behind them.
‘Crawfie, save us!’ Dramatically, they both threw themselves at her as she hastily stood up and curtsied.
The Prince was holding a book and panting hard. ‘You too little monkeys are too quick for me.’ Then, throwing the book down, he suddenly pounced on them, almost knocking Crawfie over.
Falling to the floor, he rolled onto his back, looked up at Alah, Bobo and Crawfie and said, ‘I am most awfully sorry. It’s all my nieces’ fault. Dreadful little girls.’
The Princesses fell on top of him and another wrestling match began.
Alah stopped it all.
‘Ladies! Would you kindly get up and wish His Royal Highness and your father goodnight?’
They did so immediately, though Margaret could not suppress a giggle.
The Duke helped the Prince up. ‘My apologies for the disturbance,’ he said. ‘My brother is a rogue.’
The Prince grinned at Crawfie, Bobo and Alah.
‘Goodnight, ladies.’ He turned to follow his brother out but stopped. ‘And er …’
Crawfie’s heart skipped a beat. Had he recognized her as the woman who had nearly fainted in front of him all that time ago?
‘I promised my nieces a story, but perhaps you would do the honour on my behalf?’ He pointed at the book he had thrown on to the carpet.
Crawfie breathed with relief, but was somewhat miffed. So he hadn’t recognized her after all.
‘Of course, Your Royal Highness,’ Alah said. ‘And you are always welcome in the nursery.’
‘I shall take my leave of you.’ He went to the door but again turned back. ‘My friend from America has received a shipment of gramophone records and after dinner we intend to play them and enjoy a little dance. I apologize for any extraneous noise in advance. Good night, Lilibet. Goodnight, Margaret. Goodnight, ladies.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
The Princesses were already collecting up the abandoned book. ‘Come on, Crawfie.’ They pushed it into her hands and pulled her towards their bedroom.
‘And what is this book all about?’
‘Murder and mystery.’ Lilibet’s eyes lit up. ‘Uncle David said we would love it.’
Crawfie read the cover. ‘The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie?’ She doubted that the girls, aged nine and five, would stay awake long enough to be enthralled by it, but she would enjoy it enormously.
The Prince of Wales hadn’t been wrong. Cold though the night was, the party downstairs had spilled out on to the terrace, and through the open doors of the drawing room the sound of Cole Porter’s ‘You’re the Top’ was travelling up on the night air and in through the curtains of the nursery sitting room.
‘Here, this will help us sleep.’ Crawfie was carrying a tray of hot milk. ‘I don’t know how the girls can sleep through this.’
Alah looked at the clock on the nursery mantelpiece. ‘It’s past midnight.’
‘Lovely music though,’ said Bobo.
Hush suddenly fell.
‘Oh. It’s stopped.’
‘Thank goodness.’ Alah pulled her shawl around her.
There came an explosion of helpless laughter and whoops, then the sound of something being smashed.
‘What was that?’ asked Bobo, wide-eyed.
‘I shall go and see.’ Alah tightened the belt of her long dressing gown and tucked her shawl securely around her chest. ‘I hope to God no one is injured.’
Crawfie and Bobo followed her.
Out on the landing, the three of them leant over the bannisters and could see Ainslie, three floors down, with a dustpan and brush in his hands.
‘What’s going on?’ Alah called quietly. ‘Is anyone injured?’
His weary eyes looked up at her. ‘The only injury is to the Japanese table lamp. Beyond saving, I’m afraid.’
‘What are they playing at?’
‘The Prince discovered that a gramophone record, when thrown like a flying saucer, is enormous fun until things get broken.’
A volley of raucous laughter came from the drawing room and the Prince of Wales shouted, ‘Ainslie? We need more cocktails.’
Ainslie raised his eyes to the women above and sighed. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’
145 Piccadilly, December 1935
Dear Mother,
I can never tire of Christmas in London. So different to Dunfermline. You should see the Christmas tree we have here – at least two feet bigger than last year’s and I thought that was enormous! The Duke and Duchess both adore the season and together with the Princesses they have decorated it beautifully. They have baubles dating back to Queen Victoria that have been passed down through the family. It is standing in the hall as usual and I daren’t breathe when I go past it for fear of knocking one on to the floor.
Dookie the dog is kept well away.
Dear Lilibet and Margaret are getting so excited, desperate to write their letters to Father Christmas.
You remember that the Duchess always takes them to Harrods to have a look at what they might like to add to their list? (Not that they are spoilt – not at all!) This year, the Duchess invited me to join them because Alah, who usually goes, had a dreadful cold. I have walked past it many times but always been a little intimidated by the sheer size and glamour of it. And now, to be driven up, sitting next to the Duchess, and have one of the green liveried doormen help us out and into the shop, was wonderful.
The shop was closed and we were the only customers. Can you imagine?
It smelt of leather and perfume and it was all lit up and so warm. Our small party was taken up in one of the many lifts to the fourth floor. The Princesses giggled all the way and, when the door opened, we were in the toy department – an Aladdin’s cave filled with the smallest bag of marbles to a mini replica of King George’s Rolls-Royce Phantom. The girls were each allowed to sit in it and pedal around the department. When they had done that, they took little notebooks and pencils out of their small bags and began making a list.
Lilibet fell for a small farm with stables and fences to make two fields. ‘Look, Mummy. And it has two horses and little jumps to go over.’ The Duchess told her to write it in her book, and that if Father Christmas thought she had been good, perhaps she might receive it for Christmas.
‘When I’m grown up,’ Lilibet told me, ‘I am going to get married, live in the country and have lots of horses, dogs and children.’
Of course Margaret found the dressing-up clothes and immediately wanted the most sparkly fairy dress with a wand and a tiara. ‘I have been good, Mummy. I have.’
The Duchess was so good with them, making sure everything was written down and no promises made.
After they had finished their lists, we were taken down to do a bit of shopping ourselves. The Duchess was interested in gloves as gifts for her friends and I bought you and Dad a Harrods souvenir. But that is the only hint I shall give you!
The next day, feeling like Cinderella after the ball, I took the Princesses to Woolworths to buy their presents for the family. This time we shared the shop with many customers but the little girls were very good at not drawing attention to themselves. I think, with the detective in tow, we looked like any other family.
It was so sweet to watch them choosing small trinkets for their grandparents: a scrapbook for the King to put his stamps in, and a small china posy of violets for the Queen. Then they picked out a brooch fashioned like a dog for the Duchess and a hand fork and trowel set for the Duke. (Although I think Dad has a better one!)
It’s very much all go here. Everything required by the family for their Christmas stay at Sandringham is being packed up and sent to Norfolk for their arrival. Alah and Bobo have been very busy as you can imagine. I, on the other hand, have been setting a little homework for the girls to take with them. I don’t want them to lose the habit of reading and learning just because it’s Christmas!
Queen Mary came to tea last week and asked me how their lessons were going. She is very encouraging and understands how the Duchess perhaps doesn’t take the girls’ education as seriously as she might, or that I would like. Her Majesty is keen for them to know their history and has offered to write to the royal librarian, Mr Morshead, to put on one of his historical tours of the Royal Palaces for them. I did say that I got a little discouraged at times because the Duchess does disrupt the teaching timetable with appointments for the dentist or hairdresser. The Queen passed over my indiscretion and told me that Mr Morshead has been concerned that the last eighteen books ordered by the Duchess had all been P.G. Wodehouse. ‘It’s all very well to enjoy some light reading and lots of fresh air, but at some point they must read some Dickens, Austen and Shakespeare,’ she said.
I thanked her with relief and couldn’t agree more. She’s a wonderful woman, warm and intelligent.
I had heard that the King has been unwell and wanted to ask her how he was, but it’s not my place. Sandringham is his favourite home and I hope he will feel a lot better for resting there.
It won’t be long now until I see you. Don’t put the tree up until I get home, will you?
Fondest love to you and Dad.
Marion
Chapter Thirteen
Buckingham Palace, December 1935
Sir Alan Lascelles, MC, known to all as Tommy, arrived at Buckingham Palace with no small amount of trepidation. The last time he had left the building was more than six years before, when he had resigned as assistant private secretary to Edward, known as David, Prince of Wales.
Now, here he was again, fresh from a four-year stint abroad as private secretary to the Governor-General of Canada, flattered into taking up the post of Assistant Private Secretary to King George V.
Tommy had left the services of the King’s son in 1929, openly admitting that he didn’t like the man and thought him unworthy of his position as Prince of Wales – so he was uncertain as to why the King had thought to give him the job.
However, here he was, with a salary of £1,500 per annum, a grace-and-favour home and the encouragement of his wife, Joan.
The Lord Chamberlain had written the confirmation letter with an instruction to pack a full-dress coat and knee breeches.
A costumed footman welcomed him. ‘Good morning, Sir Alan. I am ordered to take you to your new office and get you settled in.’
Behind his new but antique desk, he ran a finger inside his tight wing collar and surveyed his new office: one large-paned window looking over Constitution Hill and Green Park beyond, two walls of bookcases, and a door leading to a corridor which led to his new and not-so-antique secretary, Miss Pepper-Thynne.
‘Good morning, Sir Alan. May I get you a cup of tea?’ she asked brightly
‘That would be splendid, thank you.’
‘How do you like it?’
‘Strong, splash of milk and two sugars, please.’
On her return, it seemed she had added two biscuits to his order.
‘There you are, sir. If you need anything, just give me a buzz.’ She pointed to a machine on the desk. ‘One buzz for anything. Two buzzes for emergency.’
He smiled. ‘Emergencies, eh? Are we expecting many?’
‘You never know, sir.’
He liked a woman with a sense of humour. ‘Very good. Thank you, Miss Pepper-Thynne.’
‘Please call me P-T. Everybody does. It’s so much easier.’
Tommy nodded.
‘And one more thing, sir – the blue file on your desk is the latest briefing for today. Underneath that is the schedule for the rest of the week.’
‘Very efficient of you, P-T.’
‘You will see that His Majesty has asked you to meet him at 11.30 for thirty minutes.’
‘Right.’
‘And remember, one buzz for anything, two buzzes for emergency.’
She closed his office door quietly behind her.
For a moment or two, Tommy absorbed his situation and bit into one of his biscuits. The traffic outside was busy but thinning as the rush hour slowed. The quiet of his office and the corridor outside was soothing. He took a sip of his tea, which was perfectly made, and checked the time: 9.20. He had two hours in which to focus his thoughts on his meeting with the King and acquaint himself with P-T’s well-typed schedule.
At 11.28, Tommy arrived outside the King’s office. At 11.30 on the dot, a footman, acting on an unseen signal, opened the King’s doors.
Tommy entered and performed a perfect neck bow, then waited for the King, who was signing a document, to acknowledge him.
‘Ah, Tommy.’ The King stood and came round his desk to shake hands.
‘Your Majesty.’
‘How are you? Good to see you again.’
‘Glad to be back, sir.’
The King indicated two brocade sofas, one either side of a glowing fire. ‘Take a seat. This place is always so damned cold. But I expect you remember that.’
‘After four years of Canadian winters, London feels quite warm.’
‘Quite so.’ The King took a cigarette from the table beside him and lit it. ‘So, Tommy.’ King George V inhaled deeply, leaning against a cushion. ‘Why have you agreed to come back to the Old Firm?’
Tommy uncrossed and crossed his legs, hitching his trousers at the knee lightly. He was prepared for this. ‘It is a privilege to be asked to serve one’s monarch, sir.’
The King smiled slowly. ‘Hmm. Even though you resigned as APS to my son? The Prince of Wales? The future King?’
Tommy coughed. ‘Sir, it was a privilege to serve the Prince of Wales.’
‘Ha.’ The King dismissed him. ‘A privilege? I heard it was anything but. My son and heir is a popular and handsome young man, but the Queen and I are neither blind nor deaf to his antics. I know very well that you resigned because you were tired of defending him, covering for him, and clearing up after him.’
‘That’s very kind of you but I can’t this Sunday.’
He took the knock. ‘Maybe another time.’
They watched him as he drove away, Maggie waving theatrically.
When the front door closed and they were all inside, Maggie spoke her mind. ‘A lovely man like that and you turn his invitation down?’
Marion smiled tightly. ‘Why don’t you and Dad go up to bed? I’ll clear up down here.’
Alone in the kitchen, she mulled over the evening. George did seem nice. He had manners and was a good conversationalist. Her parents clearly liked him and she felt he had liked her. And that was a new experience for her. No man had ever kissed her hand. And for that matter, no man had ever invited her out for a … for a date? Is that what he had done?
She pulled the plug from the sink and watched the greasy suds drain away.
She wished she could talk openly to her mother about this sort of thing, or that she had a best friend to discuss it with. Even Alah and Bobo would do – not that they’d be much help. Alah was a spinster, and Bobo had her head in cheap romance books. Neither of them had any real experience of men either.
Still, she wouldn’t be seeing them for several weeks and she suddenly found she missed them dearly. The three of them formed an unusual friendship – colleagues who didn’t go home at the end of the day, women who kept their work discreet. Loyalty was everything.
Marion hung the damp tea towel on the stove to dry, then turned the lights out. As she walked up her parents’ stairs, she suddenly realized who she wanted to share her thoughts with. A true matriarch – unflappable, trustworthy and intelligent.
She sighed. If only her own mother could be more like Queen Mary.
Chapter Twelve
Royal Lodge, Windsor, early November 1935
‘Help me, Crawfie, help me!’ Margaret had slipped over on the ice again.
Lilibet was bent double laughing. ‘Get up!’
‘I can’t,’ wailed Margaret.
Crawfie, who had skated since she was a small child up in Scotland, glided over to the prone Princess. ‘Up you get. Oh, your mitten is all wet. Hold my hand and I’ll warm you up.’
‘Look at meee,’ shouted Lilibet, whizzing past. ‘I’m better than you, Margaret.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Margaret yelled, then looked up at Crawfie. ‘She’s not better than me, is she?’
‘I think you are both doing fine. Look at your mummy, skating with a chair to hold onto. That’s clever of her, isn’t it?’ Crawfie was intrigued by another figure on the ice. ‘Who’s that lady?’ she asked.
‘That’s Uncle David’s friend, Mrs Simpson,’ said Margaret.
‘Is it?’ Crawfie was suffering from an attack of proprietorship. The Prince of Wales could not, surely, be involved with this brittle-looking woman? She was too thin, overly made-up and laughing girlishly as the Prince held her waist.
The moment Mrs Simpson had arrived at Royal Lodge, on the arm of the Prince of Wales, backstairs gossip had been rife, but Marion had not met her yet. Word had it she was an American who was on her second husband and who had the Prince wrapped around her finger.
‘She’s not as pretty as Mummy,’ Margaret said. ‘And she doesn’t like me and Lilibet very much.’
‘Of course she does,’ Crawfie said.
‘No, she doesn’t. I can tell. I don’t think she likes children. Mummy loves children.’
‘Well, let’s go and show Mummy how well you can skate.’
That evening, up in the nursery, Bobo was setting the table for the Princesses’ dinner and Alah was warming two sets of pyjamas on the fireguard.
Crawfie was sitting in an armchair. ‘I haven’t skated for a long time. I’ll be bruised and sore in the morning.’ She stretched her long legs in front of her. ‘I don’t how the Duchess will have the energy to entertain the Prince of Wales and Mrs Simpson.’
‘She’s always had stamina. Even as a baby.’ Alah sighed. ‘Just like those girls of hers.’
As if on cue, they heard two sets of little feet pounding up the stairs.
Then the Prince of Wales’s voice, deep and monsterish. ‘I’m coming to get you!’
‘Nooo. Uncle David! Arrgghh.’
‘I’m going to eat you all up.’
‘Stop it. Papa! Uncle David’s going to eat us.’
The nursery door flew open and Margaret and Lilibet charged into the room, with the chasing Prince and their father behind them.
‘Crawfie, save us!’ Dramatically, they both threw themselves at her as she hastily stood up and curtsied.
The Prince was holding a book and panting hard. ‘You too little monkeys are too quick for me.’ Then, throwing the book down, he suddenly pounced on them, almost knocking Crawfie over.
Falling to the floor, he rolled onto his back, looked up at Alah, Bobo and Crawfie and said, ‘I am most awfully sorry. It’s all my nieces’ fault. Dreadful little girls.’
The Princesses fell on top of him and another wrestling match began.
Alah stopped it all.
‘Ladies! Would you kindly get up and wish His Royal Highness and your father goodnight?’
They did so immediately, though Margaret could not suppress a giggle.
The Duke helped the Prince up. ‘My apologies for the disturbance,’ he said. ‘My brother is a rogue.’
The Prince grinned at Crawfie, Bobo and Alah.
‘Goodnight, ladies.’ He turned to follow his brother out but stopped. ‘And er …’
Crawfie’s heart skipped a beat. Had he recognized her as the woman who had nearly fainted in front of him all that time ago?
‘I promised my nieces a story, but perhaps you would do the honour on my behalf?’ He pointed at the book he had thrown on to the carpet.
Crawfie breathed with relief, but was somewhat miffed. So he hadn’t recognized her after all.
‘Of course, Your Royal Highness,’ Alah said. ‘And you are always welcome in the nursery.’
‘I shall take my leave of you.’ He went to the door but again turned back. ‘My friend from America has received a shipment of gramophone records and after dinner we intend to play them and enjoy a little dance. I apologize for any extraneous noise in advance. Good night, Lilibet. Goodnight, Margaret. Goodnight, ladies.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
The Princesses were already collecting up the abandoned book. ‘Come on, Crawfie.’ They pushed it into her hands and pulled her towards their bedroom.
‘And what is this book all about?’
‘Murder and mystery.’ Lilibet’s eyes lit up. ‘Uncle David said we would love it.’
Crawfie read the cover. ‘The Mystery of the Blue Train by Agatha Christie?’ She doubted that the girls, aged nine and five, would stay awake long enough to be enthralled by it, but she would enjoy it enormously.
The Prince of Wales hadn’t been wrong. Cold though the night was, the party downstairs had spilled out on to the terrace, and through the open doors of the drawing room the sound of Cole Porter’s ‘You’re the Top’ was travelling up on the night air and in through the curtains of the nursery sitting room.
‘Here, this will help us sleep.’ Crawfie was carrying a tray of hot milk. ‘I don’t know how the girls can sleep through this.’
Alah looked at the clock on the nursery mantelpiece. ‘It’s past midnight.’
‘Lovely music though,’ said Bobo.
Hush suddenly fell.
‘Oh. It’s stopped.’
‘Thank goodness.’ Alah pulled her shawl around her.
There came an explosion of helpless laughter and whoops, then the sound of something being smashed.
‘What was that?’ asked Bobo, wide-eyed.
‘I shall go and see.’ Alah tightened the belt of her long dressing gown and tucked her shawl securely around her chest. ‘I hope to God no one is injured.’
Crawfie and Bobo followed her.
Out on the landing, the three of them leant over the bannisters and could see Ainslie, three floors down, with a dustpan and brush in his hands.
‘What’s going on?’ Alah called quietly. ‘Is anyone injured?’
His weary eyes looked up at her. ‘The only injury is to the Japanese table lamp. Beyond saving, I’m afraid.’
‘What are they playing at?’
‘The Prince discovered that a gramophone record, when thrown like a flying saucer, is enormous fun until things get broken.’
A volley of raucous laughter came from the drawing room and the Prince of Wales shouted, ‘Ainslie? We need more cocktails.’
Ainslie raised his eyes to the women above and sighed. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’
145 Piccadilly, December 1935
Dear Mother,
I can never tire of Christmas in London. So different to Dunfermline. You should see the Christmas tree we have here – at least two feet bigger than last year’s and I thought that was enormous! The Duke and Duchess both adore the season and together with the Princesses they have decorated it beautifully. They have baubles dating back to Queen Victoria that have been passed down through the family. It is standing in the hall as usual and I daren’t breathe when I go past it for fear of knocking one on to the floor.
Dookie the dog is kept well away.
Dear Lilibet and Margaret are getting so excited, desperate to write their letters to Father Christmas.
You remember that the Duchess always takes them to Harrods to have a look at what they might like to add to their list? (Not that they are spoilt – not at all!) This year, the Duchess invited me to join them because Alah, who usually goes, had a dreadful cold. I have walked past it many times but always been a little intimidated by the sheer size and glamour of it. And now, to be driven up, sitting next to the Duchess, and have one of the green liveried doormen help us out and into the shop, was wonderful.
The shop was closed and we were the only customers. Can you imagine?
It smelt of leather and perfume and it was all lit up and so warm. Our small party was taken up in one of the many lifts to the fourth floor. The Princesses giggled all the way and, when the door opened, we were in the toy department – an Aladdin’s cave filled with the smallest bag of marbles to a mini replica of King George’s Rolls-Royce Phantom. The girls were each allowed to sit in it and pedal around the department. When they had done that, they took little notebooks and pencils out of their small bags and began making a list.
Lilibet fell for a small farm with stables and fences to make two fields. ‘Look, Mummy. And it has two horses and little jumps to go over.’ The Duchess told her to write it in her book, and that if Father Christmas thought she had been good, perhaps she might receive it for Christmas.
‘When I’m grown up,’ Lilibet told me, ‘I am going to get married, live in the country and have lots of horses, dogs and children.’
Of course Margaret found the dressing-up clothes and immediately wanted the most sparkly fairy dress with a wand and a tiara. ‘I have been good, Mummy. I have.’
The Duchess was so good with them, making sure everything was written down and no promises made.
After they had finished their lists, we were taken down to do a bit of shopping ourselves. The Duchess was interested in gloves as gifts for her friends and I bought you and Dad a Harrods souvenir. But that is the only hint I shall give you!
The next day, feeling like Cinderella after the ball, I took the Princesses to Woolworths to buy their presents for the family. This time we shared the shop with many customers but the little girls were very good at not drawing attention to themselves. I think, with the detective in tow, we looked like any other family.
It was so sweet to watch them choosing small trinkets for their grandparents: a scrapbook for the King to put his stamps in, and a small china posy of violets for the Queen. Then they picked out a brooch fashioned like a dog for the Duchess and a hand fork and trowel set for the Duke. (Although I think Dad has a better one!)
It’s very much all go here. Everything required by the family for their Christmas stay at Sandringham is being packed up and sent to Norfolk for their arrival. Alah and Bobo have been very busy as you can imagine. I, on the other hand, have been setting a little homework for the girls to take with them. I don’t want them to lose the habit of reading and learning just because it’s Christmas!
Queen Mary came to tea last week and asked me how their lessons were going. She is very encouraging and understands how the Duchess perhaps doesn’t take the girls’ education as seriously as she might, or that I would like. Her Majesty is keen for them to know their history and has offered to write to the royal librarian, Mr Morshead, to put on one of his historical tours of the Royal Palaces for them. I did say that I got a little discouraged at times because the Duchess does disrupt the teaching timetable with appointments for the dentist or hairdresser. The Queen passed over my indiscretion and told me that Mr Morshead has been concerned that the last eighteen books ordered by the Duchess had all been P.G. Wodehouse. ‘It’s all very well to enjoy some light reading and lots of fresh air, but at some point they must read some Dickens, Austen and Shakespeare,’ she said.
I thanked her with relief and couldn’t agree more. She’s a wonderful woman, warm and intelligent.
I had heard that the King has been unwell and wanted to ask her how he was, but it’s not my place. Sandringham is his favourite home and I hope he will feel a lot better for resting there.
It won’t be long now until I see you. Don’t put the tree up until I get home, will you?
Fondest love to you and Dad.
Marion
Chapter Thirteen
Buckingham Palace, December 1935
Sir Alan Lascelles, MC, known to all as Tommy, arrived at Buckingham Palace with no small amount of trepidation. The last time he had left the building was more than six years before, when he had resigned as assistant private secretary to Edward, known as David, Prince of Wales.
Now, here he was again, fresh from a four-year stint abroad as private secretary to the Governor-General of Canada, flattered into taking up the post of Assistant Private Secretary to King George V.
Tommy had left the services of the King’s son in 1929, openly admitting that he didn’t like the man and thought him unworthy of his position as Prince of Wales – so he was uncertain as to why the King had thought to give him the job.
However, here he was, with a salary of £1,500 per annum, a grace-and-favour home and the encouragement of his wife, Joan.
The Lord Chamberlain had written the confirmation letter with an instruction to pack a full-dress coat and knee breeches.
A costumed footman welcomed him. ‘Good morning, Sir Alan. I am ordered to take you to your new office and get you settled in.’
Behind his new but antique desk, he ran a finger inside his tight wing collar and surveyed his new office: one large-paned window looking over Constitution Hill and Green Park beyond, two walls of bookcases, and a door leading to a corridor which led to his new and not-so-antique secretary, Miss Pepper-Thynne.
‘Good morning, Sir Alan. May I get you a cup of tea?’ she asked brightly
‘That would be splendid, thank you.’
‘How do you like it?’
‘Strong, splash of milk and two sugars, please.’
On her return, it seemed she had added two biscuits to his order.
‘There you are, sir. If you need anything, just give me a buzz.’ She pointed to a machine on the desk. ‘One buzz for anything. Two buzzes for emergency.’
He smiled. ‘Emergencies, eh? Are we expecting many?’
‘You never know, sir.’
He liked a woman with a sense of humour. ‘Very good. Thank you, Miss Pepper-Thynne.’
‘Please call me P-T. Everybody does. It’s so much easier.’
Tommy nodded.
‘And one more thing, sir – the blue file on your desk is the latest briefing for today. Underneath that is the schedule for the rest of the week.’
‘Very efficient of you, P-T.’
‘You will see that His Majesty has asked you to meet him at 11.30 for thirty minutes.’
‘Right.’
‘And remember, one buzz for anything, two buzzes for emergency.’
She closed his office door quietly behind her.
For a moment or two, Tommy absorbed his situation and bit into one of his biscuits. The traffic outside was busy but thinning as the rush hour slowed. The quiet of his office and the corridor outside was soothing. He took a sip of his tea, which was perfectly made, and checked the time: 9.20. He had two hours in which to focus his thoughts on his meeting with the King and acquaint himself with P-T’s well-typed schedule.
At 11.28, Tommy arrived outside the King’s office. At 11.30 on the dot, a footman, acting on an unseen signal, opened the King’s doors.
Tommy entered and performed a perfect neck bow, then waited for the King, who was signing a document, to acknowledge him.
‘Ah, Tommy.’ The King stood and came round his desk to shake hands.
‘Your Majesty.’
‘How are you? Good to see you again.’
‘Glad to be back, sir.’
The King indicated two brocade sofas, one either side of a glowing fire. ‘Take a seat. This place is always so damned cold. But I expect you remember that.’
‘After four years of Canadian winters, London feels quite warm.’
‘Quite so.’ The King took a cigarette from the table beside him and lit it. ‘So, Tommy.’ King George V inhaled deeply, leaning against a cushion. ‘Why have you agreed to come back to the Old Firm?’
Tommy uncrossed and crossed his legs, hitching his trousers at the knee lightly. He was prepared for this. ‘It is a privilege to be asked to serve one’s monarch, sir.’
The King smiled slowly. ‘Hmm. Even though you resigned as APS to my son? The Prince of Wales? The future King?’
Tommy coughed. ‘Sir, it was a privilege to serve the Prince of Wales.’
‘Ha.’ The King dismissed him. ‘A privilege? I heard it was anything but. My son and heir is a popular and handsome young man, but the Queen and I are neither blind nor deaf to his antics. I know very well that you resigned because you were tired of defending him, covering for him, and clearing up after him.’
