The man frowned. ‘I can’t let you in here. This is crown property – private. You’d better hop off quick.’

‘But it belongs to my family.’ She smiled, stepping into the hall.

‘This belongs to the King, love. Now, if you don’t mind, I …’ He looked again at the beautiful young woman and recognition dawned in his eyes. He almost fell down the stairs in his hurry to reach her. ‘Oh, my gawd, Your Majesty, I didn’t know … I mean … blinkin’ ’eck!’ He stood before her and whipped his cap off, bowing as best he could. ‘I had no idea, Your Majesty.’

‘That’s quite all right. And only my parents are Their Majesties – I am Her Royal Highness Princess Margaret. This is Mrs Buthlay, my governess, and the lady who will be living here as soon as the work is done, and that’s Jackson, my chauffeur. Do you have a cigarette on you?’

He patted a pocket and pulled out a Senior Service box. ‘Would one of these do?’

‘You smoke the same brand as the King. Therefore one would certainly do. Thank you.’

More footsteps were heard upstairs, and a man’s voice called, ‘Put the kettle on while you’re down there, Pete.’

‘We got visitors, Cyril.’

‘Tell ’em we’re busy.’

‘Cyril?’ Princess Margaret called up. ‘Do come down. We are dying to meet you.’

They heard Cyril grumbling to himself and then his footsteps on the stairs. At the bottom, he noted a youngish man in a driver’s uniform, a tall, skinny woman with a prominent nose, and finally one of the most recognizable faces in the world. He stood speechless his mouth hanging loosely.

‘Hello, Cyril,’ Princess Margaret said laughingly. ‘Are you and Pete going to make the tea, or should I?’

‘Oh Mummy, it was so funny.’ They were having tea back at the palace and Margaret was telling the story. ‘The men were terribly sweet and gave us the least cracked of the cups. Jackson had a good look round and told them they’d better get a move on because Mr and Mrs Buthlay needed their home sooner rather than later.’

‘And are you pleased with how they are doing, Crawfie, dear?’ asked the Queen.

‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you. It’s a beautiful wee place.’

‘But Mummy, Crawfie will need all sorts to put into it: floor coverings, curtains, pictures.’

Crawfie stopped her. ‘We can make do until we can afford those things.’

‘I don’t think you should.’ Margaret smiled. ‘I think I shall have a word with Granny. She has an awful lot of stuff she doesn’t need.’

Buckingham Palace, early December 1947

It was around ten o’clock at night and Crawfie was in her Palace bedroom, getting ready for bed. The King and Queen and Margaret were away for two nights in Somerset for a shooting weekend. She was spending the time making a list of plants she would have in her cottage garden, using one of the King’s gardening books.