Dangerous rot, I daresay

But now Mrs Gould has successfully wormed her way into the Foreign Office and the Ministry of Information, seducing them with the idea that the Queen should write something similar for them. ‘It would ease tensions between us and America,’ she bleated, or so I was told.

I told the FO that a queen can no more write an article for a magazine, than serve a pint in a pub. I drafted a letter turning Mrs Gould down firmly. I hoped to God she takes the hint and disappears.

No such luck.

Alas, she has come back with a letter via the Foreign Office which includes a highly fictitious account of a conversation she supposedly had with the Queen, wishing permission to publish!

As you well know, any request to me from anyone – and I include our own offspring here – I put to the test by asking: ‘Will it do more harm than good?’ In this instance the answer is blindingly clear: Yes!

The Queen summoned me to go round to the Ritz hotel, where Mr and Mrs Gould nest while in London.

‘Tommy, dear,’ HM said, ‘would you go to the Ritz and tell Mrs Gould that the Queen has warm feelings for the Americans, but cannot agree to her request.’

My mission went well, I thought, and Mrs Gould appeared to accept that any business with the Queen would not be entertained.

Next thing I know, it is President Roosevelt himself who becomes a bother. This time to the King. He has been asked by the Duke of Windsor to ask Winston Churchill to ask me to pave the way for the Duchess of Windsor to be made HRH.

This is clearly another attempt to make the Americans like us more. It is rather doing the opposite for me.

Thank you for the handsome new pipe. It smokes very well and is wearing in nicely. You are a duck.

Fondly,

Tommy xxx

Windsor Castle, January 1943

I find myself in a bit of a low trough. I am trying very hard to pull myself together but last night I could not stop the tears. The truth is that I miss my parents and Scotland and George. I have never been besieged by so much emotion. It is almost a tangible entity – a black mist that sits over me and drains any energy or joy in life. I long to sleep, to have this war over. I cannot think of a future.

I hide this from the Princesses, who remain so gay and stalwart, but this evening, Alah took my hand and asked me how I was. Her words of kindness and understanding as I tried to put words to my misery opened a floodgate of embarrassing sobbing.

When the storm finally subsided, she made me a cup of Ovaltine and helped me to bed. I felt like a small child being protected, made to feel secure as she kissed my forehead and said good night. She told me that she will get me through this.