‘Yes. Me.’ George tapped his chest.

‘Congratulations, Major Buthlay, and may you be very happy here.’

George grunted and walked up the long drive towards his new home.

Marion was roused by the sound of gravel being thrown at her window.

‘George?’ She tidied her sleep flattened hair and shouted from the window, ‘Is that you?’

‘Who do you think it is? Mahatma Gandhi?’ He sounded cross.

‘I’m coming.’ She was anxious. How long had she been asleep? She hoped George hadn’t been waiting too long.

‘Sorry, George. I must have dropped off. Come in.’ She noticed he had no shopping with him. ‘Oh dear, were the shops shut?’ She closed the door on the setting sun and took his coat. ‘What time is it? You must be hungry.’

George yawned. ‘I had a bite to eat in a pub.’ He leant in to kiss her. ‘How about a nightcap before bed, eh?’

She smelt the whisky on his breath as her stomach rumbled. ‘We don’t have any, dear.’

‘Well, bed it is then.’ He headed for the stairs. ‘Come along, old girl.’

She hesitated. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

In the kitchen she poured herself a glass of water and sat at the little table. She began to a write a shopping list.

In two days she would be back at work, and she wanted George to be as comfortable as possible while she was away from him.

When she had finished, she refreshed her glass of water, turned out the light and climbed the stairs.

George was already asleep.

Chapter Fifty-One

Buckingham Palace, 26^th September 1947

Tommy’s walk to work that morning had been an utter delight. The September sky was newly washed and cloudless. A drift of swifts were chattering on telephone wires, readying themselves for the long flight south, and the trees were turning from summer green to autumn gold. Refreshed and at ease with the world, he strolled to his office with a cheery hello for P-T and the other girls, and installed himself behind his familiar desk.

P-T brought him his morning cuppa and the post.

‘Good weekend, sir?’

‘Splendid, thank you. Anything interesting today?’ He gestured to the letters in her hand.

‘One from Mr Morrah, at The Times.’

‘Morrah, eh? I wonder what he wants. Decent chap. Played chess with him on the South African Tour.’ Tommy leant back into his chair, thinking back. ‘He wrote Princess Elizabeth’s 21st birthday speech.’ He cleared his throat. ‘“I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service”… Brings a tear even now.’

‘So young to make such a promise,’ P-T said. ‘God bless her.’ She went to the door. ‘Tea at eleven, sir?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

He opened the letter and began to read.

My dear Lascelles,

I have something of interest to run past you. The Foreign Office have been approached by the editors of the Ladies’ Home Journal, a very successful American women’s magazine with a huge circulation. They are well-known for attracting influential women columnists to write about their lives, ambitions and thoughts on key issues of the day – the most notable, you may remember, being the First Lady, Mrs Roosevelt.