Buckingham Palace, January 1937

Tommy, newly promoted to King George VI’s private secretary, waded through the coronation invitation list. He had spent hours and hours over many meetings with the Prime Minister, the cabinet, and many Empire and world ambassadors in order to make certain that all the right people were invited. The last thing he wanted was an international row if any head of state felt they were neglected.

P-T had likened it to the christening of the princess in the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale. ‘We don’t need anyone cursing the King because they feel snubbed, now, do we?’

The palace itself was very quiet. The royal family were still at Sandringham and he thanked God for it. The last thing he needed was interference. They had already sent their list of the private friends and family to be invited. And it was going to be quite a squeeze to get everyone into Westminster Abbey.

Tommy also had dozens of meetings to sit in on with military heads and the security services, all outlining minute by minute, yard by yard, the royal procession. How many horses? Which carriages? Each point of the journey was timed to the second and there had already been night time rehearsals through the empty streets.

Then there was the ancient service itself. The Archbishop of Canterbury had his work cut out for him. One wrong word could make the entire process invalid.

At the Tower of London, the crown jewels were cleaned, and the crown altered to fit the King’s head precisely.

Tommy’s meticulous notes grew day by day.

In the middle of it all, he finally managed to get a weekend clear to go home.

‘Darling, I have missed you. You must be exhausted,’ Joan said when she picked him up at the station. ‘Are you hungry?’

He settled himself into the passenger seat and tried not to wince at Joan’s erratic driving. She was a wonderful woman: tall, with a generous body and hair that was, he noted, beginning to grey – but she was a dreadful driver.

‘A little. What’s for dinner?’

‘I have a beef rib in the oven and apple crumble.’

‘Good. I brought some gin with me.’

‘Oh darling, we still have some left from Christmas.’

‘Well, I shall take it back with me then.’

‘I have some brandy for you.’

‘Excellent. How are the children?’

‘Some good reports from school. You’ll be pleased.’

‘Good reports?’ He sighed. ‘Where have we gone wrong?’

Joan laughed. ‘They are all in for dinner and promise not to chatter.’

‘Good.’

Tommy had met Joan in India back in 1920, just a year after he became aide-de-camp to the governor of Bombay. She was the daughter of the then Viceroy of India, Lord Chelmsford, and their meeting had been at a round-up of elephants in Mysore.

Joan was a sensible girl and well brought up. Tommy had liked her immediately but it was some time before he plucked up the courage to ask her to marry him. At the time he had not been considered much of a catch. He was from an aristocratic family, had powerful intellect and biting wit – but he had no real or permanent work or income. However, he did have the military cross, won for gallantry in France during the Great War, and the wounds to prove it. It was enough for his father-in-law to think him a good fit for Joan.