Glad of the excuse to borrow a natty little sports car and have some time to himself after the confines of the ship, Philip has enjoyed the drive through the Nile delta. There are advantages to being related to Mountbatten at times, he reflects, grinning at the thought that he has an afternoon off while his fellow officers are still sweltering on board Whelp overseeing repairs and restocking.

Enjoying the responsive feel of the steering wheel beneath his hands, Philip zipped past fields of maize and cotton, past biblical scenes of men working in jilbiyahs, of water buffalo and thin donkeys trudging around wells. Several times he was tempted to stop and see how the irrigation systems worked, but with Uncle Dickie’s telegram tucked in his shirt pocket he kept going. He tore through dusty villages, scattering chickens and followed by the barking of dogs and good-natured demands for baksheesh from the children who ran alongside the car as long as they could.

But now the car is nosing its way through the crowded streets of Cairo. The streets are jammed with bullock carts, cars, army jeeps, donkeys, camels, and pedestrians stepping on and off what passes for a pavement. After the tranquillity of the delta, the clamour of blaring horns and revved engines, of raised voices and braying donkeys and street hawkers’ cries, assaults Philip’s ears.

He makes it to Shepheard’s Hotel just as the sun is setting and an amplified click and stutter announces that the muezzin is about to start the call to prayer. The light is unearthly, the sky flushed behind the date palms, and the sound creates a strange moment of stillness and silence in the raucous city before the muezzin’s voice wavers out from the amplifier. ‘Allahu Akbar!’

Philip pauses to listen before tossing the car keys to a bellboy and taking the entrance steps two at a time. The lobby is vast and cool with tiled walls, massive pillars, and Moorish arches. Ceiling fans slap lazily at the air and guests cluster in wicker chairs between the potted palms. There are a fair number of men in uniform around but otherwise the scene can have changed little since the previous century.

The first person he sees is his cousin Alexandra. Sandra is the daughter of his cousin Alexander, one-time King of Greece. They are much the same age and shared many family holidays in Romania or at Panker so Philip is fond of her. She has her back to him and is leaning forward, apparently in the throes of an intense conversation with Frederika, Crown Princess of Greece, married to Paul, yet another of his innumerable cousins in the Greek royal family who have been forced into exile.

All except Philip’s mother, Alice, who is still in Athens. ‘God will protect me,’ she said when the Germans invaded Greece in 1941. No one could persuade her to leave when the Greeks were enduring such hardship. ‘People here need me,’ she said simply. ‘I must do what I can.’

It has felt at times as if his mother cares more for people in general than for her own family, but Philip is still proud of her.

Frederika catches sight of Philip over Sandra’s shoulder and her eyes widen, but he puts a finger to his lips so he can creep up on Sandra and clap his hands over her eyes, making her shriek.

‘Philip!’ Squealing with delight, Sandra throws her arms around him when she jumps up to see who has startled her. ‘What a lovely surprise! What are you doing here?’

‘Whelp’s on her way to Ceylon to join the Eastern Fleet. We’ve put in to Alexandria to resupply and I thought I’d take the opportunity to run up and see you all.’ Philip moves round to kiss Frederika. ‘Hello Freddie, how are you?’

She lifts her cheek to be kissed. ‘All the better for seeing you. Paul will be pleased – and the King, of course.’

‘Is Uncle Georgie well?’

‘Well enough. It’s not much fun being a royal family in exile, and Georgie feels it particularly.’

‘He must do,’ says Philip. He is fond of George II, who is, in fact, his cousin rather than his uncle. The King is a short, dapper man with an extravagant charm when he chooses to use it and cosmopolitan tastes that Philip suspects would shock the domestic Windsors if they knew all of it.

‘Sit down,’ Freddie urges him. ‘We’ve just had tea. Would you like some, or something stronger?’

‘I’ve been thinking about a beer since I left Alexandria,’ he confesses as he pulls up a chair.

‘Let’s all have a drink.’

‘It was so clever of you to find us,’ says Sandra when the waiter who materialises in response to the Crown Princess’ lifted finger has gone.

‘I was expecting to see you in Alexandria,’ he agrees.

‘We had to move south.’ Freddie shudders. ‘Those awful air raids!’

‘But anyway, it’s super to see you,’ Sandra puts in quickly before Freddie gets upset. ‘How long can you stay?’

‘Not long, I’m afraid. I’ve had a summons to meet Uncle Dickie tomorrow.’

Freddie sat up. ‘Dickie’s here too? We heard he was in Karachi. Isn’t he Commander in South East Asia now?’

‘I believe he’s on his way,’ Philip says carefully. ‘He’s just flying in to Cairo for a few hours.’

‘And he wants to talk to you?’ Sandra quizzed him. ‘What about?’

Philip would quite like to know that too. He flicks Sandra’s nose. ‘None of your business, brat.’

He waits until the drinks have been served. ‘Anyway, it means I get to see you all so I intend to make the most of it.’ Nodding thanks to the waiter, he picks up his glass gratefully and lets the cold beer slip down his parched throat. ‘That’s better,’ he says at last, setting the glass back on the table with a sigh.

‘There’s so much to catch up.’ Freddie leans forward eagerly. ‘We hear you had Christmas at Windsor?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Well …?’ Sandra prompts.

‘Well what?’ says Philip, deliberately obtuse.

‘How was it?’

‘Very pleasant.’

Sandra and Freddie exchange a frustrated glance. Philip has a fair idea that Uncle Georgie will have dropped hints about the letter he wrote but he has no intention of indulging their curiosity. He is fond of his Greek relations but they are all the most appalling gossips. Mind you, Uncle Dickie isn’t much better.

‘And the little princess?’

‘Margaret? She’s a bright kid. Very spoilt and sulks if she’s not the centre of attention, but when she drops all that, she can be charming.’

‘I meant Elizabeth,’ Freddie says. ‘As you well know!’

‘Elizabeth is not so little any more,’ says Philip.

Elizabeth has been writing to him, as she promised she would. He likes to lie on his bunk and read her letters. Her image creates a pool of quiet that momentarily isolates him from the vibrating engines, the clanking of metal, the groaning of the propeller shafts and the sound of two-hundred-odd men barking orders, grumbling, joking, and farting. Elizabeth’s quietness is obscurely restful. It is as if some quality in her absorbs some of his restlessness and smooths down his rough edges.

He writes back, better letters than before. He’s aware that he has taken a misstep somewhere along the line. He’s seen her only once since Christmas, at Coppins, when Marina invited him and the royal family to lunch in early January. Then, the tentative understanding he thought he had reached with Elizabeth seemed to have stalled. She was polite but her guard was up once more. Philip wishes he knew why.