Elizabeth allows herself to be overshadowed, but there’s a restraint about her that he approves of, a refreshing quietness in contrast to the frantic rush of so many of his contemporaries who have survived the war and now don’t know what to do with themselves.

It’s a feeling he shares. After the first giddy rush of the war being over, he’s been left with a hollow sense of ‘now what?’ The truth is that he is going to miss the buzz of action. Training petty officers or whatever they have in mind for him is not going to offer the same satisfaction, but what else can he do? He has no inheritance to fall back on. He isn’t cut out for university, even if he could afford to go, and to stay in the Navy requires him to be a British citizen, something that is now looking uncertain.

The truth is that everything looks uncertain now that his father is dead. It is just over a year since Philip heard the news and he is still surprised by how much of a shock it has been, by how the painful jab of memory can still catch him unawares.

A heart attack after a party, in bed with his mistress: somehow it seemed a fitting death for Prince Andrea. Philip didn’t get those details until later, though. He was on board Whelp in the middle of the Indian Ocean when the news reached him. Mountbatten sent a naval message, meticulously deciphered by the rating on radio watch.

So shocked and grieved to hear of the death of your father and send you all my heartfelt sympathy. Following has been received from your mother: “Embrace you tenderly in our joint sorrow.”

Philip gets into his car but he doesn’t start the engine immediately. He is back on the bridge, taking the message with a brusque nod of acknowledgement. His mind is on the ominously purple clouds boiling up on the horizon and the way the ship is pitching from side to side. He’s thinking about whether they will be able to outrun the storm or whether they should just batten down and ride it out so when he opens the message, he doesn’t immediately register the words. Then he looks again and the pitching is inside him.

Death of your father.

Death of your father.

Death of your father.

He is looking blindly out at the clouds and remembering his father’s laugh, the warm weight of his father’s arm around his shoulder.

Pushing the memory aside, Philip puts the car into gear. There has been no time to grieve, either during the war or since, and anyway, he is not the type to weep and wail. He hadn’t seen his father for several years, and no one could say he had been an attentive parent.

But still, he was Philip’s father, and it is too late now for Philip to tell him that he understood the choices he had made, that he didn’t blame him for any of it. That he is grateful to have been his son. His father’s death means that one of the pillars holding up his world has now been knocked askew in a way Philip hasn’t expected, tipping everything to one side.

When they were at war, they all knew what they had to do. Now it is not so easy. Between Andrea’s death and the situation in Greece and the question mark over whether he will be able to continue as a naval officer, is it any wonder Philip feels edgy and uncertain about everything?

Mountbatten has explained that his application for British citizenship is on hold while civil war rages in Greece. ‘I have been informed, delicately but in no uncertain terms, that the situation there is so unsettled that the British naturalization of a member of the Greek royal house is likely to be misinterpreted,’ he wrote. ‘I fear we will have to wait until the situation has stabilised.’

So Philip is in limbo.

Marriage to Elizabeth could still be his best bet. He’s had time over the past couple of years to think about what he wants and he’s still none the wiser, so why not marry her?

He remembers how pragmatic she was when they discussed the matter at Windsor that Christmas but she is very young still. If he has changed his mind several times, why shouldn’t she? She invited him to supper, but perhaps she wanted to see how he had changed? Philip has the sense that he needs to tread carefully. It would be a mistake to take Elizabeth for granted. She is not someone who can be rushed into letting down her guard.

Fine, he thinks. That suits him too. Far better to take things slowly. He will play jolly brother for a while if that makes her feel more comfortable and then, well, then they can see. He would rather not commit himself either.

In the meantime … Philip looks at his watch as he drives out of the palace gates. It’s still early. He runs his tongue round his teeth. Orangeade was the only drink on offer and he was longing for a beer. Might as well ring David when he gets back to Chester Street and see if his cousin wants to make a night of it.

***

Some ten days later, Philip receives another invitation to supper at Buckingham Palace with the princesses. This time he is prepared for the nursery atmosphere and dresses down in an open-necked shirt and tweed jacket. They eat sausages and mash served by the avuncular footman, Cyril, and drink orangeade again. It’s awful stuff, but after a heavy night with David the previous evening, Philip is quite glad to give his system a rest.

Margaret’s presence keeps the conversation light. She likes to be teased, although not too much, and is inclined to get huffy if she feels he has gone too far. Not that Philip takes any notice of that. Margaret is tough, as only the truly self-centred can be. She can take it, he reckons.

He is gentler with Elizabeth but he’s not going to treat her like glass. He has a shrewd notion that she is surrounded by deference and that, if nothing else, his breezy attitude will make a refreshing change. So he teases her too and enjoys seeing her face bloom into a smile. It transforms her into a warm and pretty young woman. She will never be a beauty, he thinks, but she is very appealing when she laughs.

Privately, Philip makes it his mission to make Elizabeth laugh more often. She needs more fun in her life, he decides.

‘Let’s have a race,’ he says.

They look at him blankly. ‘A race?’

‘It’s raining and it’s dark,’ Margaret points out, as if to a child. ‘Where are you thinking of holding this race?’

‘We don’t have to go outside. How many miles of corridors have you got here?’

‘We can’t run inside,’ Elizabeth says, shocked.

‘Why not? We used to get the crew running round the deck to keep them amused and fit. There must be more room here.’

‘Well, yes, but—’

Margaret jumps to her feet. ‘I’ll race you, Philip. I bet I can beat you too.’

‘Is that a challenge, brat?’

‘Down to the end of the corridor and back,’ she suggests but he shakes his head with a grin as he gets lazily to his feet.

‘That’s not far enough. I vote down the corridor, along to the staircase, down to the entrance, up the Grand Staircase and back here.’

‘All right,’ says Margaret, brightening at the thought of a challenge.

‘Elizabeth, you’re in this race too.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t think …’

‘No excuses.’ Philip stands over her, holding out a hand, until she takes it and lets him pull her to her feet.

‘I’m not sure we should be doing this,’ Elizabeth says nervously but Philip isn’t having any of it.

‘You’re a princess,’ he reminds her. ‘You can do what you like in your own home. We’re all racing.’