It is humiliating. The unfairness of it chafes at Philip all through that long, grindingly cold winter.

The King relents enough to allow Philip to spend Christmas at Sandringham with Elizabeth and the rest of the royal family. It is a concession, but at times it feels as if he has been invited to underscore how much of an outsider he is. Oh, he gets on well enough with Margaret, although she is inclined to play silly games of precedence that make him roll his eyes. The King is wary of him and though the Queen is charming on the face of it, in private she refers to him as the Hun. Philip learns this courtesy of her brother, David Bowes-Lyon, who makes it his business to ensure Philip feels unwelcome. If Philip had been wavering before, the royal family’s evident lack of enthusiasm for the marriage only makes him dig in his heels.

But at least there is Elizabeth.

Philip sets his jaw and refuses to care. Elizabeth wants to marry him. He will have the last laugh. They can keep their court with its arcane rituals and oppressive deference. Sometimes it feels as if nothing has changed since George V’s time: at least Edward VII had some jolliness about him. None of the courtiers bowing and scraping around the King appear aware that not only are they no longer in the nineteenth century, they are almost halfway through the twentieth and things are changing. The King may want to return to the pre-war years, but the rest of the country is looking forward. Labour’s victory in the general election the previous year was surely a sign of that, but no one at court seems to want to realise it. They are all harking back to the past, Philip thinks impatiently, when they should be looking to the future.

The King is adamant that Elizabeth is to go to South Africa. Clearly, her parents have calculated that they can indulge her by inviting Philip for Christmas, but only if she agrees to the visit. Philip thinks sourly that he wouldn’t be surprised if the entire tour has been arranged with the sole purpose of separating them for as long as possible.

The date of departure is set for 1st February. On 23rd January, snow begins to fall out of an iron-grey sky. It is pretty at first, but as the temperature drops and the snow keeps falling, swirling relentlessly down and blown into great drifts by bitter winds, the novelty of a landscape blanketed in white soon wears off. Trains burrow into snow tunnels, cars skid over icy roads. Electricity cuts plunge cities into darkness; fuel shortages shut down factories and workers are laid off. In his Nissen hut in Corsham, Philip wears his greatcoat and a balaclava to bed. The pipes are frozen so no one can have a bath and when everyone is huddled together the smell is soon ripe enough to make his eyes water.

As the big freeze tightens its grip, the King himself begins to have doubts about whether the tour should take place. Elizabeth writes to Philip that she is secretly hoping it will be cancelled. It can’t look good for the royal family to be heading off to the sunshine when the country is enduring the worst winter anyone can remember.

But the tour is intended as a celebration of the Commonwealth and to thank the South Africans for their service during the war. It cannot be cancelled, the King is reluctantly persuaded, while Elizabeth even more reluctantly allows herself to be measured for summer dresses.

The final blow is the King’s refusal to allow Philip on board HMS Vanguard to say goodbye to the royal party. ‘It’ll only give the gossips more to chatter about,’ he says brusquely, hardening his heart to Elizabeth’s protests. ‘You’ll have to say your goodbyes before then.’

Philip can hardly force his way onto the ship, but his pride, already bruised by the King’s attitude, takes another kicking. He may be down, but he is not out, he vows, not by a long chalk. He is not giving up on Elizabeth now.

Chapter 30

Portsmouth, 1 February 1947

The sleet drives needles into Elizabeth’s face and she has to screw her eyes up against its sting as HMS Vanguard pulls away from the quayside. The world is monochrome: grey sea, grey sky, grey ship, with a frosting of white over the metal. The only colour comes from the Royal Standard snapping high on the central mast, with its familiar red, gold, and blue. The lions passant and rampant, the gold harp. Elizabeth’s smile is fixed, her teeth aching in the icy wind that drills through her coat but she refuses to shiver. If she is cold, how much colder must the sailors be, standing to attention, or the crowd that has braved the bitter weather to wave them on their way without gloves or fur collars?

‘I’ll miss you,’ Philip said when Papa gave permission for him to come to the palace for a last farewell. But he sounded almost surprised when he said it, as if he hadn’t meant to at all.

‘Will you write to me?’ she asked almost fiercely and he had taken her hands and shaken them to settle her.

‘Of course, Elizabeth. Of course I will.’

So now there was nothing more she could do. But it is hard to share Margaret’s enthusiasm when they are finally able to go below deck to explore the admiral’s quarters which have been made over for them.

‘We’ve got our own cabins,’ Margaret said, delighted. ‘And look at the day cabin!’ It was furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs, satinwood tables and prints of London scenes on the walls. ‘It’s almost like being at home,’ she said, twirling excitedly.

‘Apart from the fact that this cabin would fit into a quarter of Mummy’s sitting room at the palace?’

‘Well, I think it’s cosy.’ Margaret led the way down to their sleeping cabins and pushed into Elizabeth’s, peering through the porthole before throwing herself onto the bed. ‘This is going to be such fun! I can’t wait to get away from this awful winter.’

Restless, Elizabeth wanders around the cabin, touching things. Bobo is travelling with them and has already unpacked for her. She has left Philip’s photo on top of the small chest. Elizabeth picks it up and studies it: the cool angles of his face, the cool eyes, the cool mouth. She can hear the ship’s engines, feel the throbbing through her feet. Combined with the smell of fresh paint, it is making her queasy.

‘I’m not sure we should be going.’

‘Why on earth not?’ Margaret demands.

‘Haven’t you been reading the news?’ Elizabeth lifts her eyes from the photo to stare at her sister. ‘They’re saying this winter is worse than the war. The fuel shortages haven’t affected you, Margaret, but millions of people are going to bed without a hot meal because they can’t cook anything. There’s no fuel so they can’t keep warm. The coal can’t get to the factories either so they’re closing down and their employees are out of work. Everybody is cold and tired and hungry and frustrated at not being able to get around. Meanwhile, we are off to the sun for three months. Doesn’t that make you feel even a little uncomfortable?’

Margaret pouts a little. ‘Don’t you ever get tired of being dutiful, Lil? I’m sure it’s very terrible, but how would it change anything if we stayed in Buckingham Palace shivering along with everyone else? Besides, Papa says the government wants us to go to South Africa and bolster the Empire or whatever, so we’re just doing what we’re asked to do. And if we have to go, we might as well enjoy ourselves.’

She settles herself more comfortably against Elizabeth’s pillows. ‘You’re just sulking because you won’t see Philip for a while.’