We live in an underworld, even above ground. There are few electric lights and many power cuts. At night it can be difficult to find your way around or see what you are eating.

We had an air raid yesterday. I was helping at the Castle’s Red Cross post, responsible for medicines and dressings, when I heard the alarm. I locked up and ran to the shelter in the dungeons, expecting to find the girls there. But they weren’t.

Against procedure, I ran back up the winding stairs to the nursery in Lancaster Tower, knowing I had to get Alah to safety. In recent months I have noticed her hearing is not as it was, so in my best impersonation of the Queen’s voice, which I sometimes used to entertain Bobo, I shouted, ‘Alah! Are you up here?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty!’ she called back, flustered.

‘Alah, it’s me, Crawfie.’

‘Is the Queen here too?’

‘No, but we are all waiting in the shelter. You must come down now!’

‘We are dressing. We must dress. I am in my nightdress!’

‘For goodness’ sake, put a coat over it. And where are the Princesses?’

I heard Margaret’s voice from her bedroom, and when I ran up I found her on her knees in front of her chest of drawers. ‘What are you doing?’ I said. ‘Come on.’

‘I am looking for the knickers that match my skirt.’

I had to smile.

Windsor Castle, September 1940

Dear Joan,

So, we have had our first air raid. Rather noisy. Young Miss Crawford was very sparky – sent out like a dove to find the Princesses and their nanny, who were deciding on the dress code.

The Queen has had a rather splendid gown made by Norman Hartnell especially for the raids, and Crawfie, as she is fondly known, has had a boiler suit made, just like our new Prime Minister’s, Mr Churchill. He calls his a ‘Siren Suit’ because it’s the perfect thing to be wearing when the warning sirens go off. He has them in many colours and fabrics – I hear he even has one in green velvet to be worn at formal dinners. Crawfie looks very natty in hers. The Princesses are most envious. I am certain it won’t be long before they have their own.

This place is never warm and the wind whistles through the tall windows. I often find the King wrapped in a travelling rug in his room to keep his feet warm.

I heard today that Hitler thinks the Queen is ‘the most dangerous woman in Europe’. It has cheered her no end.

Yours, fondly,

Tommy

Windsor Castle, January 1941

Our nights in the dungeons have become more comfortable, even though my thoughts often turn to those who had been chained there centuries before. The girls are remarkably unafraid. Margaret snoozes on my knee and Lilibet reads her books by the dim light.

We have taken down beds and blankets, toys and books, and even a kettle and cups and saucers for tea. The shelter is becoming almost cosy.