‘Let me brush your hair please, Lilibet.’

Lilibet was so easy to look after. She was almost eleven now and stood patiently, barely frowning as the hairbrush pulled a knot.

‘Now, let me look at you!’

Lilibet did a twirl.

‘Very nice indeed,’ Crawfie told her. ‘Now Margaret, please.’

Margaret frowned. ‘I don’t want my hair brushed. It hurts.’

‘You want to look nice for your granny and for your mummy’s friend, don’t you?’

Margaret was six, with a mind of her own. She dragged herself towards Crawfie as if she were on her last legs. ‘But I hate having my hair brushed … Ow!’

‘I haven’t even touched you yet. Stand still.’

Crawfie finally led the girls downstairs to their mother, then quickly ran back up to the nursery. Bobo and Alah had just returned from the Palace and were at the window overlooking the front door.

Bobo’s face was pushed against the glass. ‘Here she comes.’

Alah pushed her to one side. ‘Is it Lady Asquith or the Countess?’

Bobo pushed through to see. ‘Lady Asquith, I think.’

Alah sighed with pleasure. ‘She is wonderful. A woman who understands what it means to be a wife. Unlike Mrs Simpson.’

‘Alah!’ Crawfie was surprised. ‘What do you mean? She couldn’t help falling in love.’

‘Love?’ Alah snorted. ‘The only thing she loves is being the centre of attention. A woman who imagines her needs must come first. I believe the newspapers call it bourgeois feminism. What a load of rot.’

Below them, the ghastly Fleet Street mob immediately began to crowd the pavement, while two policemen tried to hold them back without success. The photographers snapped frantically as the distinguished wife of the former Prime Minister arrived. She posed politely and briefly for the cameras before entering the house.

Bobo was thinking. ‘I think it is important to be feminine,’ she said.

‘Feminism does not mean feminine,’ Crawfie told her, ‘Quite the opposite, some say.’

‘And it is,’ said Alah. ‘We are not the equal of men and never shall be, despite what these female radicals shout about.’

Another black car drew up beneath the window, and again the photographers surged forwards as the Queen’s mother, the Countess of Strathmore, arrived. She did not stop or pause, but told the photographers in a clear and aristocratic voice, ‘I shouldn’t waste a photograph on me,’ before disappearing through the glossed black door of 145.

Alah moved away from the window. ‘Bobo, put the kettle on, would you?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Alah settled in the chair by the fire, and Crawfie joined her.

‘Female radicals?’ Crawfie asked.

‘They are a disgrace!’ Alah sniffed. ‘We have the vote and we can divorce on certain grounds, but the rest of it would be the ruination of society.’

‘Would it? Do you not think that a woman could be as successful as a man if she wanted to?’

‘Why would she want to? A woman’s place is in the home. How would the King be able to do all he has to do, if the Queen decided to run for parliament or go out to work? And how is the Queen able to be the Queen without us caring for the Princesses? It is the balance of nature that we hold the fort.’