Philip sighs. ‘We’re writing more regularly,’ he admits. ‘She’s sent me a photograph and I’ve given her one of me.’

‘Excellent. Exchanging photos is the first step in taking things further.’ Dickie looks pleased. ‘Think what it could mean, Philip,’ he urges when Philip only rolls his eyes. ‘Lilibet will be queen one day and you could be right there next to the throne. You’re too talented to live your life as a nobody. Think of the influence you could have! It’s a match that’s suitable in every way.’

Philip’s eyes go back to the tranquil felucca. ‘I think you’re taking a lot for granted.’

‘Am I? I know how charming you can be when you feel like it. You must know perfectly well that you’re a handsome devil, and more importantly, you’re an intelligent young man – except when you’re with your idiotic cousin David and try to drive around London in the blackout! If Lilibet isn’t already in love with you, it wouldn’t take much of a push for you to make it happen, you mark my words.’

‘If it’s all the same to you, Uncle Dickie, I’d prefer to manage my wooing without your advice!’

Mountbatten’s eyes light up at the resigned acceptance in Philip’s voice and he is quick to press the advantage. ‘So we’re agreed? We’ll take the first steps in getting you naturalised?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘I’ll speak to Georgie and Paul. There’s little sign of the monarchy getting restored in Greece yet, but they’ll both be keen to keep the British connection. I’ve already told Killearn I wanted to talk to you about naturalisation with the idea that you would be in a better position to help the King with royal functions.’

Philip’s brows rise. ‘And he bought that?’

‘It doesn’t matter if he didn’t. The main thing is that we don’t spook the horses by mentioning anything about a possible marriage. These diplomats are a worse lot of gossips than your aunts!’

His uncle claps a hand on Philip’s shoulder. ‘Don’t look so glum! You don’t have to commit to anything yet. Nobody’s going to force you to the altar at gunpoint, Philip. I’m just asking you to think about what it would mean for you and for the family.’ He pauses. ‘The war’s not over. We may have the Germans on the run, but there’s still Japan to deal with, and that won’t be easy. A lot can happen between now and you being in any position to marry at all.’

That’s true, Philip thinks, his natural buoyancy of spirit returning. He watches the felucca drift out of sight. There is still action to be seen, fun to be had. He is still free.

‘In the meantime,’ Mountbatten goes on, as they turn back towards the embassy, ‘it might be an idea if you keep on writing to Lilibet, without, obviously, mentioning our conversation today. Can you do that?’

Philips imagines Elizabeth, safe at Windsor. April: it will be spring there, with its fickle sunshine and gusty showers. He pictures her walking those ridiculous little dogs in the Great Park, sensibly dressed in stout shoes and an old coat, unaware – or is she? – of the plans everyone else is making for her future.

‘Yes,’ he tells his uncle. ‘I can do that.’

Chapter 14

London, 8 May 1945

Outside the palace, a jubilant crowd is roaring and singing and cheering. ‘We want the King! We want the King!’ The chants rise and fall like waves.

Elizabeth smiles as she listens to the sound of a city euphoric that the long, bitter years of war are over.

Straightening her tie, she studies her reflection. ‘What do you think, Susan?’ she asks. ‘Will I do?’

Susan cocks her ears and tips her head, recognising a question even if she is unable to answer. A year old now, Susan was a gift from Elizabeth’s parents for her eighteenth birthday, a tiny bundle of the softest golden fur with bright black eyes and a long, pink tongue. Elizabeth picked her up that birthday morning, felt Susan’s warm, wriggly weight in the palm of her hand, and fell in love. When everything else has been grim, Susan can always make her smile. She scampers ahead of Elizabeth on their walks and collapses, legs splayed, on their return. She rolls over and demands to have her tummy tickled and nips when she doesn’t get enough attention. Susan is Elizabeth’s utterly, her first dog, always alert to Elizabeth’s voice.

Elizabeth adores her.

‘You’re right, it’s not a flattering look,’ she tells the dog now. She is in her ATS uniform: khaki jacket, khaki shirt, khaki skirt, khaki stockings, even khaki knickers, and for a change from khaki, heavy brown shoes. The belt around the jacket makes her look bulky.

Her mother looked appalled when she first saw Elizabeth in it. ‘Oh, darling!’ was all she could say in a faint voice.

But Elizabeth is proud of her uniform, prouder of it than of the crown and ermine robe she wore to her father’s coronation. She polishes every button herself and on this day of victory, she wants to look not like a princess but like someone who, for a short time at least, shared in the war effort.

It took a lot of badgering to get the King to allow her to join the ATS at all. Or perhaps badgering is the wrong word. Elizabeth listens quietly, nods, and then asks again in a reasonable voice. She never gives up. She wore her father down eventually without a single voice being raised.

Joining the ATS was her first venture into the outside world. It hasn’t given her quite as much freedom as she hoped. Every night after the training course she was driven back to Windsor and at lunchtimes she was ushered away from her fellow recruits to eat with the officers. Still, it was exciting to get out and meet some ordinary people after being secluded at Windsor for so long.

It meant she had something different to talk about in her letters to Philip, too.

Everyone is very bored of me talking about piston and cylinder heads. Only Susan never complains! The uniform is horrid but at least it means Margaret isn’t jealous. She can get very sulky if she thinks I’m doing something she wants to do, but she says she has no desire to slide underneath a truck or get her hands filthy changing a tyre. I don’t know why I enjoy it so much. I think it’s because it’s about doing something and not just talking about it.

It is over a year since she has seen Philip. Elizabeth knows her parents are quietly hoping she has forgotten him. They have organised little parties and dances to which they invite suitable young men. The men are all very nice and many have become friends but none of them have fierce blue eyes that drill into hers and demand she gives a proper account of herself. They are charming, but they treat her as a princess.

Philip treats her as an individual, as Elizabeth. He always calls her Elizabeth, too. Family members almost always refer to her as Lilibet but Philip is different. Lilibet is sweet, but it’s a little girl’s name, he said when she asked him why he never called her that. I prefer to think of you as a young woman so Elizabeth seems more appropriate. You don’t mind that, do you?

Of course she doesn’t mind.

Elizabeth wishes often that she had been warmer the last time she and Philip met. Marina invited the royal family to lunch soon after that Christmas, and Philip had been there. The trouble was that Elizabeth had found out by then that he had not been spending New Year with friends, as he had said. He had spent it with one friend, Hélène Foufounis.