Whelp put in at Alexandria four days earlier and Philip has been summoned to meet his uncle in Cairo. When the Supreme Allied Commander of the South East Asia Command himself requested Philip’s presence, his commanding officer could hardly refuse to let him go.

Glad of the excuse to borrow a natty little sports car and have some time to himself after the confines of the ship, Philip has enjoyed the drive through the Nile delta. There are advantages to being related to Mountbatten at times, he reflects, grinning at the thought that he has an afternoon off while his fellow officers are still sweltering on board Whelp overseeing repairs and restocking.

Enjoying the responsive feel of the steering wheel beneath his hands, Philip zipped past fields of maize and cotton, past biblical scenes of men working in jilbiyahs, of water buffalo and thin donkeys trudging around wells. Several times he was tempted to stop and see how the irrigation systems worked, but with Uncle Dickie’s telegram tucked in his shirt pocket he kept going. He tore through dusty villages, scattering chickens and followed by the barking of dogs and good-natured demands for baksheesh from the children who ran alongside the car as long as they could.

But now the car is nosing its way through the crowded streets of Cairo. The streets are jammed with bullock carts, cars, army jeeps, donkeys, camels, and pedestrians stepping on and off what passes for a pavement. After the tranquillity of the delta, the clamour of blaring horns and revved engines, of raised voices and braying donkeys and street hawkers’ cries, assaults Philip’s ears.

He makes it to Shepheard’s Hotel just as the sun is setting and an amplified click and stutter announces that the muezzin is about to start the call to prayer. The light is unearthly, the sky flushed behind the date palms, and the sound creates a strange moment of stillness and silence in the raucous city before the muezzin’s voice wavers out from the amplifier. ‘Allahu Akbar!’

Philip pauses to listen before tossing the car keys to a bellboy and taking the entrance steps two at a time. The lobby is vast and cool with tiled walls, massive pillars, and Moorish arches. Ceiling fans slap lazily at the air and guests cluster in wicker chairs between the potted palms. There are a fair number of men in uniform around but otherwise the scene can have changed little since the previous century.

The first person he sees is his cousin Alexandra. Sandra is the daughter of his cousin Alexander, one-time King of Greece. They are much the same age and shared many family holidays in Romania or at Panker so Philip is fond of her. She has her back to him and is leaning forward, apparently in the throes of an intense conversation with Frederika, Crown Princess of Greece, married to Paul, yet another of his innumerable cousins in the Greek royal family who have been forced into exile.

All except Philip’s mother, Alice, who is still in Athens. ‘God will protect me,’ she said when the Germans invaded Greece in 1941. No one could persuade her to leave when the Greeks were enduring such hardship. ‘People here need me,’ she said simply. ‘I must do what I can.’