Ignoring her feeble protests, he chivvies her into a starting position next to Margaret who is already crouched and ready to go. ‘Look, even Susan is up for it,’ he points out as the corgi heaves herself out of her basket and follows them out into the corridor. ‘I’ll even give you a head start,’ he offers.

‘We don’t need your charity,’ says Margaret, giggling.

‘I’ll count to ten, then I’m coming after you.’

‘Oh, Cyril—’ Elizabeth begins in relief, spotting the footman coming down the corridor to clear the plates.

‘Cyril’s not going to save you,’ Philip interrupts her briskly. ‘Cyril, out of the way, that’s a good man. The princesses have a race to run. Are you ready?’ Encouraged to see that Elizabeth is starting to laugh helplessly, he holds out his fingers as an imaginary starting gun. ‘On your marks … get set … go!’

Shrieking, Margaret sets off, followed by Elizabeth, the puzzled corgi yapping at her heels.

‘Stop it, Susan,’ Elizabeth tries to shush her through her giggles as she runs after her sister.

The corridor is ringing with the sound of Margaret’s laughter, pounding feet, and barking.

‘… Seven, eight, nine, ten!’ Philip finishes quickly. ‘I’m coming to get you!’

Looking over their shoulders, the girls squeal with laughter at his mock growl. He pounds after them down the long palace corridors, past blank-faced footmen who flatten themselves against the walls as they pass, past priceless paintings and fragile porcelain vases, up and down the elaborately gilded staircases, and they are all breathless and laughing by the time they make it back to Elizabeth’s sitting room and flop into the pink and cream chintz armchairs.

‘I declare myself the winner,’ says Philip. ‘And Susan,’ he adds, pointing at the panting corgi, ‘you are the loser.’

‘Not fair!’ says Elizabeth, who has come in third. She is breathing hard and fanning her pink face with her hand, but she is going to stand up for her dog, who has flopped at her feet, stubby paws stretched out back and front, panting cheerfully. ‘Her legs are shorter than ours.’

‘I can’t help that. Susan knew the rules – and I did give you all a handicap.’

It was childish fun, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of nonsense now and then, and increasingly Philip finds himself looking forward to the cosy suppers at the palace.

Chapter 18

As February blows itself into March, it feels to Philip as if he is leading a strange kind of double life … actually, a triple life, when he comes to think about it. There are those innocent evenings at the palace, drinking orangeade and larking around in the corridors, and then there are the evenings he spends in London with David Milford Haven and other friends, drinking in smoky clubs, all of them struggling to adjust to the dull grind of peacetime life.

Then there is another world again, at HMS Arthur in Corsham, where he is training petty officers and sleeps in a chilly and sparsely furnished munitions hut with a tin roof. He spends his evenings in the Methuen Arms, drinking mild and bitter and playing darts or skittles and discussing the possibility of cricket in the summer. It is a long way from Buckingham Palace. The work is frankly dull after the excitement of the war, but he needs his first lieutenant’s salary, especially as his application for naturalisation is still stalled until the situation in Greece resolves itself. His future, it seems, is bound up with the British government’s Balkan diplomacy, with everyone waiting to see what the results of a plebiscite on the restoration of the Greek monarchy will be. Approving Philip’s application might make it seem that the British don’t hold out much hope for his uncle Georgie’s future, and until that is clear, Philip is stuck.

Philip can adapt to all three worlds – he’s good at adapting – but he feels at home in none of them.

‘How are things going with Elizabeth?’ Uncle Dickie asks whenever Philip sees him in Chester Street, and Philip always answers the same way.

‘Fine.’

‘Any sign of being able to move matters forward?’ his uncle asks hopefully at the beginning of March when Philip encounters him at the breakfast table.

Waving away the butler’s attempt to serve him, Philip pours himself a cup of tea and tries to ignore the pounding in his head. Definitely one too many martinis last night.

‘I’m taking it slowly.’

‘Well, don’t take it too slowly, or she’ll think you’re not interested. We don’t want anyone else to swoop in and bowl her over.’

Philip bites down on the impulse to tell his uncle to butt out and let him manage his affair with Elizabeth in his own way.

‘There isn’t anyone else,’ he says.

‘That you know of,’ says Mountbatten darkly. ‘What about Henry Porchester?’

‘He’s just a friend.’

But there had been that one weekend when Philip was invited to Windsor and he saw Elizabeth in the stables. She was a different girl with horses: easy, confident, affectionate. Philip watched her stroking a horse’s nose and laughing as it nuzzled her hair and found himself wishing she was that comfortable about touching him. It had come to something when he was jealous of a horse!

Of course Porchey was there, too, looking good in the saddle and chatting easily to Elizabeth about bloodlines or hocks or something horsey that Philip knew nothing about. Philip watched closely but he couldn’t detect anything other than friendliness in the way Elizabeth treated Porchester.

She prefers him, he is sure of it.

At least, he thinks he is.

In spite of all the cosy evenings at the palace, he has barely got beyond occasionally touching Elizabeth’s back. Sometimes he offers a hand to help her up, or takes her elbow to steer her round a puddle, and very occasionally he is able to manoeuvre his chair so his knee can brush against hers, but she hasn’t given any indication that she wants any more from him.

It doesn’t help that Margaret is usually there. This is deliberate on the Queen’s part, Philip suspects. Her brother, David Bowes-Lyon, has taken against Philip and the feeling is mutual. In Philip’s book, Bowes-Lyon is a slimy, vicious gossip. He is damned if he is going to ingratiate himself with the man, but it has cost him an ally in the Queen.

Still, the estimable Miss Crawford does try and draw Margaret away when Philip is around so he can be alone with Elizabeth sometimes. The best times are when his cousin Marina, Duchess of Kent, invites him and Elizabeth to lunch at Coppins. Philip suspects this may be at Mountbatten’s instigation but he doesn’t protest. Elizabeth is always more relaxed in the country and Philip enjoys driving her down in his sports car. At least Marina is subtler about pushing them together than his uncle.

‘Darlings, would you mind awfully amusing yourself for a bit before lunch?’ she says languidly. ‘I’m having a disaster with the cook. Philip, take Lilibet round the garden and pretend you know the difference between a flower and a weed.’

So Philip and Elizabeth stroll around the Coppins garden; they talk easily and he makes her laugh and blush … so why then is he hesitating?

He tells himself that he doesn’t want to spook her but the truth is that he can’t be sure how Elizabeth feels. There is an untouchable, unreachable quality about her, as if she is isolated behind a glass wall and it both intrigues and frustrates Philip.