Chapter 30

Portsmouth, 1 February 1947

The sleet drives needles into Elizabeth’s face and she has to screw her eyes up against its sting as HMS Vanguard pulls away from the quayside. The world is monochrome: grey sea, grey sky, grey ship, with a frosting of white over the metal. The only colour comes from the Royal Standard snapping high on the central mast, with its familiar red, gold, and blue. The lions passant and rampant, the gold harp. Elizabeth’s smile is fixed, her teeth aching in the icy wind that drills through her coat but she refuses to shiver. If she is cold, how much colder must the sailors be, standing to attention, or the crowd that has braved the bitter weather to wave them on their way without gloves or fur collars?

‘I’ll miss you,’ Philip said when Papa gave permission for him to come to the palace for a last farewell. But he sounded almost surprised when he said it, as if he hadn’t meant to at all.

‘Will you write to me?’ she asked almost fiercely and he had taken her hands and shaken them to settle her.

‘Of course, Elizabeth. Of course I will.’

So now there was nothing more she could do. But it is hard to share Margaret’s enthusiasm when they are finally able to go below deck to explore the admiral’s quarters which have been made over for them.

‘We’ve got our own cabins,’ Margaret said, delighted. ‘And look at the day cabin!’ It was furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs, satinwood tables and prints of London scenes on the walls. ‘It’s almost like being at home,’ she said, twirling excitedly.

‘Apart from the fact that this cabin would fit into a quarter of Mummy’s sitting room at the palace?’

‘Well, I think it’s cosy.’ Margaret led the way down to their sleeping cabins and pushed into Elizabeth’s, peering through the porthole before throwing herself onto the bed. ‘This is going to be such fun! I can’t wait to get away from this awful winter.’

Restless, Elizabeth wanders around the cabin, touching things. Bobo is travelling with them and has already unpacked for her. She has left Philip’s photo on top of the small chest. Elizabeth picks it up and studies it: the cool angles of his face, the cool eyes, the cool mouth. She can hear the ship’s engines, feel the throbbing through her feet. Combined with the smell of fresh paint, it is making her queasy.

‘I’m not sure we should be going.’

‘Why on earth not?’ Margaret demands.

‘Haven’t you been reading the news?’ Elizabeth lifts her eyes from the photo to stare at her sister. ‘They’re saying this winter is worse than the war. The fuel shortages haven’t affected you, Margaret, but millions of people are going to bed without a hot meal because they can’t cook anything. There’s no fuel so they can’t keep warm. The coal can’t get to the factories either so they’re closing down and their employees are out of work. Everybody is cold and tired and hungry and frustrated at not being able to get around. Meanwhile, we are off to the sun for three months. Doesn’t that make you feel even a little uncomfortable?’