All he has had is a brief phone call with Elizabeth while he was on duty at Corsham.

‘It feels strange to be back,’ she had said, and it felt strange to Philip too. Her letters have been full of South Africa and what she has seen, and he has been unable to shake the fear that the King and Queen may have succeeded in distracting her. He has done everything he can. He has written regularly and sent telegrams and remembered her birthday, but it has felt like a long three months and he has been scratchy and irritable with everyone. The unfortunate petty officers he’s supposed to be training have quickly learnt to step around him very carefully.

He is so close to his goal, Philip thinks in frustration, but it’s as if he takes one step forward only to be pushed back two.

‘I wish I could have been there to meet you,’ he told Elizabeth when she rang.

‘I do too, but Mummy and Papa thought it would be better if we met in private.’

‘That sounds good to me. I’m on duty, but the first chance I have to get away, I’ll come up to London and ask to speak to your father again.’ He had paused. ‘If, that is, you haven’t changed your mind?’

‘No,’ Elizabeth had said. ‘I haven’t changed my mind about anything.’

‘Good. In that case, I’ll see you soon.’

Perhaps not the most loverlike of farewells, but Philip was too relieved at her reply to think about a more affectionate turn of phrase until it was too late. When he realised he has missed an opportunity, he had shrugged. He’s never been one for soppiness, and besides, Elizabeth doesn’t want that. She made that clear enough.

Now at last he has leave and he has driven straight to Buckingham Palace.

‘Elizabeth is twenty-one now,’ he tells the King, standing very straight, his hands clasped respectfully behind his back. ‘We’re both of the same mind as we were last August and we’ve waited for nine months. We’d like your permission to make our engagement public and set a date for the wedding.’

The King sighs, stubs out his cigarette and pushes back his chair. He hasn’t even stood up before he is reaching for another cigarette, lighting it, and desperately drawing in the nicotine. Philip is a smoker, but he is nothing like Elizabeth’s father. He is shocked by how ill the King looks, in fact. He is gaunt and grey-faced, with deep lines carved into his cheeks and forehead.

The King stands at his study window, smoking pensively, his back to Philip. Clenching his jaw in frustration, Philip reminds himself that he cannot press for an answer. This is the King and he will speak when he is good and ready. But it doesn’t feel encouraging. Why not reach over the desk, shake his hand and tell him that he will tell Tommy Lascelles to make the announcement straight away?