Suppressing a sigh, Philip turns back to his uncle. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘we’d better go back inside.’

Chapter 13

Standing next to Lord Killearn, the British Ambassador, Philip squints into the glaring sky until he sees a dot materialise. It grows bigger and bigger until it is a plane, lowering itself onto the runway. Philip watches it land with interest. He wishes he could learn how to fly. The idea of being up, up in the sky, the freedom and the light of it, tugs at him. He would have liked to join the RAF, but with Mountbattens in the family, it would have been seen as heresy to go outside the Senior Service.

He’s feeling more than a little jaded after the night before. After his discussion with Uncle Georgie, he’d been in a rebellious mood, and he’d gone dancing and drinking into the small hours. It’s safe to say that he is regretting it now, though.

Philip adjusts his collar. He’s shaved and changed into his tropical uniform today; Uncle Dickie will expect him to look immaculate even if he doesn’t feel it.

The heat wavers up from the tarmac as the plane taxies to a halt, its propellers a blur. And then there he is, Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia, at the top of the steps, his uniform blindingly white and awash with gold braid. Urbane and smiling as always, he comes over, enveloping Philip and the ambassador in the charm he deploys like a weapon at times.

Philip salutes smartly.

‘Very good of you to let us use the embassy, Killearn,’ Mountbatten says as he shakes the ambassador’s hand.

‘Not at all, sir. We’ve laid on a light lunch for you.’

‘Excellent.’ He turns to his nephew. ‘Philip, how good to see you.’

If Uncle Dickie is downcast by the way the King has knocked back Philip’s request, he is hiding it well. He seems to be in high good humour. They exchange chit chat in the car and over lunch, and then he suggests that he and Philip have a stroll around the embassy garden. A sprinkler is hissing on the lawns and the date palms throw fractured shade over their white uniforms as they make their way along the gravel paths.

‘All going well on Whelp?’

‘Yes. What’s all this about?’

‘Philip, always so forthright,’ Mountbatten sighs. ‘You must learn a little more … finesse.’

It was a common complaint from his uncle so Philip only grins. ‘Well, what is it all about?’

‘I’ve been giving some thought to the matter of your marriage.’

‘What marriage? There isn’t going to be a marriage. Uncle Georgie tells me the King says it’s a no.’

‘For now,’ Mountbatten points out mildly. ‘One needs to play a long game in these matters. Christmas at Windsor was obviously a success and writing to the King of Greece was the correct thing to do.’

‘Much good it’s done me,’ says Philip, still miffed at George VI’s flat rejection of him.