‘The pleasure has been all mine. Would you perhaps join me for a walk on Sunday? The forecast is for sun. I could pick you up around ten and we could find a nice spot for lunch?’

Marion felt her mother’s eyes on her, willing her to accept.

‘That’s very kind of you but I can’t this Sunday.’

He took the knock. ‘Maybe another time.’

They watched him as he drove away, Maggie waving theatrically.

When the front door closed and they were all inside, Maggie spoke her mind. ‘A lovely man like that and you turn his invitation down?’

Marion smiled tightly. ‘Why don’t you and Dad go up to bed? I’ll clear up down here.’

Alone in the kitchen, she mulled over the evening. George did seem nice. He had manners and was a good conversationalist. Her parents clearly liked him and she felt he had liked her. And that was a new experience for her. No man had ever kissed her hand. And for that matter, no man had ever invited her out for a … for a date? Is that what he had done?

She pulled the plug from the sink and watched the greasy suds drain away.

She wished she could talk openly to her mother about this sort of thing, or that she had a best friend to discuss it with. Even Alah and Bobo would do – not that they’d be much help. Alah was a spinster, and Bobo had her head in cheap romance books. Neither of them had any real experience of men either.

Still, she wouldn’t be seeing them for several weeks and she suddenly found she missed them dearly. The three of them formed an unusual friendship – colleagues who didn’t go home at the end of the day, women who kept their work discreet. Loyalty was everything.

Marion hung the damp tea towel on the stove to dry, then turned the lights out. As she walked up her parents’ stairs, she suddenly realized who she wanted to share her thoughts with. A true matriarch – unflappable, trustworthy and intelligent.

She sighed. If only her own mother could be more like Queen Mary.

Chapter Twelve

Royal Lodge, Windsor, early November 1935

‘Help me, Crawfie, help me!’ Margaret had slipped over on the ice again.

Lilibet was bent double laughing. ‘Get up!’

‘I can’t,’ wailed Margaret.

Crawfie, who had skated since she was a small child up in Scotland, glided over to the prone Princess. ‘Up you get. Oh, your mitten is all wet. Hold my hand and I’ll warm you up.’

‘Look at meee,’ shouted Lilibet, whizzing past. ‘I’m better than you, Margaret.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Margaret yelled, then looked up at Crawfie. ‘She’s not better than me, is she?’

‘I think you are both doing fine. Look at your mummy, skating with a chair to hold onto. That’s clever of her, isn’t it?’ Crawfie was intrigued by another figure on the ice. ‘Who’s that lady?’ she asked.

‘That’s Uncle David’s friend, Mrs Simpson,’ said Margaret.