Outside the Palace, her parents and George were waiting for her.

Her mother hugged her tight. ‘Oh Marion, to think I was in the same room as the King! I could see you were nervous though – your first curtsey was not as good as the second one.’

Marion laughed. ‘Thank you, Mother.’

Her stepfather was waving his Brownie camera. ‘Maggie, Marion, let’s have a picture.’ He clicked away before pushing George in. ‘Now, one of the three of you. Smile!’

‘I want one of all of us,’ Maggie said and she grabbed a man going by. ‘Would you mind taking a picture of us all, please?’

Marion cringed. ‘Mother!’

‘I don’t mind,’ said the stranger.

The celebration lunch was in a little Italian restaurant on Buckingham Gate. The table was small but welcoming. Maggie sat down with a sigh. ‘I’m exhausted.’

Marion exchanged an amused glance with her dad, while the waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Buthlay. Your husband thought you might like this.’

Marion was moved. ‘Did you?’ she asked George.

‘Aye. Nothing is too good for my wife today.’

She kissed him. ‘Thank you.’

‘I can’t drink champagne,’ Maggie told the waiter. ‘It gives me a headache.’

‘More for us!’ Marion laughed.

Maggie rallied. ‘I might have a drop. Just to keep you company.’

After four days, Maggie and Robert were put on the train back to Dunfermline, and as Marion waved the chugging train off, George tugged her sleeve. ‘Thank God they’re gone.’

‘I’m sorry. Mother can be very tiring.’

‘It makes me glad my parents are dead.’

‘Oh George, don’t say that!’

‘You wouldn’t disagree with me if you’d met them.’ He sighed. ‘Let’s go home.’

Chapter Sixty-One

Nottingham Cottage, May 1949

‘Look at your medal. It is adorable!’ Beatrice Gould was standing in the drawing room of Nott Cott, staring at Marion’s CVO on the mantelpiece. ‘I love the red leather case it comes in. May I touch it?’

‘Yes, do.’ Marion liked it to be admired. ‘The enamelling is exquisite, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Can I try it on? Hey, Bruce, come and look at this.’

‘That’s swell, honey. Congratulations,’ Bruce said, coming in with a glass of whisky. ‘George here has been telling me all about the ceremony. He is very proud of you, Marion.’

‘I am!’ George raised his glass of whisky. ‘To you, Marion.’

Marion was dismayed to see George drinking. It was only four thirty in the afternoon. The doctor had advised that George didn’t drink at all for six months because his liver was showing signs of inflammation. He had been very good since the last time, but now here he was, glass in hand and already slightly glassy-eyed. She would have to tread very carefully tonight.

‘I must say your house is wonderful,’ Bruce was saying. ‘So old and quaint.’

‘Darling, it was designed by Sir Christopher Wren!’ Beatrice told him.

George went to his armchair and settled in. Marion saw an opened bottle of Scotch at his side. ‘Well, he was a bloody awful plumber. You never know if the water is going to be freezing or bloody boiling.’ He glanced at Marion. ‘Have you shown Bruce the letter you had?’