‘George! Don’t speak about the Queen like that. She has been so wonderful to us.’

‘Ha!’ He jerked his hand to punctuate a point, slopping his drink down his shirt. ‘What has she ever done for me? Eh? Kept me away from you for over eleven years, that’s what. And left me to spend my last years with you in a house that should be condemned. What’s so bloody wonderful about that?’

‘George, you don’t mean that.’ She tried to appease him. ‘We have so much to be thankful for. A roof over our heads, an income and my CVO.’

George carefully stood up and swayed over to the mantelpiece, where her medal was shining in its box. ‘This,’ he slurred, holding it up in front of her face, ‘this is a piece of shit. Fairground tat. You are worth so much more than this and I am going to make sure you get it.’

Nottingham Cottage, July 1949

Marion had mistakenly thought retirement would mean a slower pace of life. How wrong she was.

At least three days a week, she received a telegram from the Goulds in New York:

MORE DETAIL ON MRS WALLIS SIMPSON STOP

HAS HIS MAJESTY MET UP WITH HIS BRO DUKE OF WINDSOR? STOP

WHAT WAS REACTION IN UK WHEN US TROOPS JOINED WAR? STOP

She was scared stiff each time the knocker went.

And on top of that, George was unwell.

‘Major Buthlay, how much do you drink every day?’ the doctor asked.

Marion glanced anxiously at George.

‘Just a wee dram before bed. Helps me to sleep.’

Marion held her tongue but couldn’t help her worried expression. The doctor saw it.

‘Would you agree with that, Mrs Buthlay?’

Marion sidestepped the question. ‘He has trouble sleeping sometimes.’

The doctor pursed his lips in doubt and continued to examine George. ‘Look at the colour of your eyes. They should be white, not yellow. Have you noticed that?’

‘I had malaria serving overseas in the last war. It flares up.’

‘Hmmm.’ The doctor reached for his stethoscope. ‘Take your shirt off please, and lie down on the couch.’

Marion stood by George and took his hand, which he immediately snatched away. ‘I am not a child! There is nothing wrong with me.’

Marion made room for the doctor, who pressed George’s abdomen.

‘Ow!’

‘Does that hurt?’

‘No.’

‘How about this?’ He pressed again.

George gasped.

‘You have lost some weight since I last saw you and yet your abdomen is rather swollen.’

Marion spoke. ‘He has lost his appetite recently.’

‘Hmm.’ The doctor inspected George’s feet, ankles and calves. ‘Oedema in lower leg. Do you take much exercise?’

‘Oh yes. Marion and I walk every day.’

The doctor glanced at Marion for confirmation.

‘We haven’t walked so much for a couple of weeks. He gets tired very quickly.’

‘Aye,’ George said, ‘because I don’t sleep well at night. I have told you that.’

‘Indeed.’ The doctor returned to his desk. ‘You can get dressed now, but I am sending you for a blood test. Come back next week for the results and in the meantime, no alcohol.’