As soon as George hit the cold air, he swayed and stumbled into Marion.

‘George, shall we call a taxi?’ she asked.

‘Whatever for? The bloody car is right here.’

Marion did not like swearing at the best of times, even though she had heard worse in the royal kitchens and even from the King himself.

She took George’s arm in an attempt to steady him as he wobbled to his car.

Once inside, he seemed to have control of himself again, and they soon sped off along the dark road which took them over the hills and valleys towards Dunfermline.

‘That was a nice evening,’ she said lightly, hoping to keep him awake.

‘Light me a cigarette, would you?’

He lifted his left arm without taking his hand off the steering wheel, and she delved into his coat pocket.

She had never smoked, but had watched the King often enough to know how to light it. ‘Here you are.’

He took it and, turning to look at her, said, ‘You’re a good girl, Marion.’

With both their eyes off the road, neither saw the left-hand bend looming, and the little car ran straight on, across the road and into a hedge.

Marion’s knees hit the small metal glove compartment as she braced herself against the tiny dashboard. For a moment the world spun, and then she managed to get a hold of herself, to turn and look around her.

George lay still, humped over the steering wheel.

‘George! Are you all right?’ She reached over and shook his arm. ‘George?’

He coughed and pulled himself upright. ‘Winded myself.’

‘Thank God you are all right!’ Relief swept through her. ‘I thought you were knocked out.’ Tears constricted her throat. ‘Or worse.’ Her breathing was sharp and shallow with shock. ‘Is anything broken?’

‘Stop fussing, woman. I’m fine. You’ll have to get out and push from the front.’

‘But my knees and wrists are bruised. I don’t think I have the strength.’

‘Well, unless you know how to drive a car, you’ll have to.’ She heard the sharpness in his tone, and it stung.

‘But George—’

‘Well, I can’t push, because I have to drive.’

Marion heard real anger in his voice now. She tried to tell herself that he was probably in shock, probably still drunk – and besides, she didn’t want to start a row.

So she opened the door and stepped out onto long, frosty grass, into mud that, although frozen, broke as her heels cracked it. She felt the cold water seep into her best shoes and her new stockings.

She managed to get round to the front of the car, where the bumper was bent and wedged into the gate.

George wound down the window. ‘When I say push, push.’

The engine had stalled on impact but the headlights were still on, bright in her face and eyes, meaning she couldn’t see George or where she was pushing to. ‘I don’t have enough space to get all the way to the front of the car,’ she shouted.