They were playing in Hamilton Gardens, a large communal space with trees and shrubs, in which the local children could play. As expensive and luxurious as Mayfair houses were, they had very little outdoor space of their own, but the Princesses were safe within the metal railings of Hamilton Gardens, and took no notice of the public, who would stand and gaze at them as if they were exotic animals in a zoo.

Lilibet returned from her imaginary delivery to the imaginary Mr Buggins and picked up the bell-pull rope she had tied around Crawfie’s waist as reins. ‘Walk on, lazybones.’

Crawfie obeyed. ‘And how was Mr Buggins? Has he heard from his nephew in Ireland yet?’ asked Crawfie, in the horsey voice Lilibet insisted on.

‘No, I am afraid not. Mr Buggins thinks he must have got the flu and died.’

Crawfie stifled a smile. Lilibet’s sense of drama was getting as good as Margaret’s. ‘What a shame. Poor Mr Buggins.’

‘That’s just what I told him. Stand here while I take the milk in for the Earl.’ She dropped the reins again and skipped off to a gnarled old tree trunk – the home of the Earl of Hamilton.

Crawfie wished she had brought her gloves. Less than a year in the South and her blood was thinning. She must ask her mother to knit some mittens.

She thought of her parents every day, and felt a complicated kind of gratitude to be so far away from them. There was no doubt about it: her mother was easier to love from afar. She marvelled at her stepfather’s patience. How did he cope with her day in, day out?

Marion hoped that, eventually, she would find a husband who showed the same kind of love.

But, right now, she was in London, and she could do anything she wanted without her parents’ knowledge or judgement. She was free as a bird and loving it.

Bobo and Marion had grown closer lately. Together, on their days off, they would explore the shops. She and Bobo had gone to Selfridges and seen for themselves all the wonderful things the huge department store had. Neither of them could afford to buy anything, of course, but it kept them in conversation, and Alah’s tutting, for weeks.

Marion had begun to dabble in make-up bought from the old chemist on Kensington High Street. A little rouge and a dark red lipstick. She hadn’t had reason to wear them yet, but the fact they were sitting in her drawer was enough for now.

Her hair, which had grown a lot in the last eighteen months, had recently been trimmed by Alah and now curled softly at her shoulders. It was long enough to pin up for work.

Life in the nursery and the schoolroom was suiting her. It brought her more happiness than she had expected and the girls, the Duke and Duchess, Bobo and Alah were becoming her family.

The quiet evenings sitting with Alah by the nursery fire, chatting, mending or reading while the Princesses slept – these were precious moments of contentment, time that she would be able to look back on and never forget.