‘Ready.’

Together, they step out onto the balcony to be greeted by a cheer that rises up like a buffet of wind from the mass of people below. Hundreds of thousands of them are gathered around the Victoria Monument, clambering over the old queen’s statue, pressed up against the forecourt railings and spilling up the Mall.

‘Gosh,’ Philip murmurs inadequately, and Elizabeth knows he is as moved as she is by the joyful crowd.

She follows the news closely. She knows people are still struggling to rebuild their lives after the long war. So many have died, so many lives have been devastated. Everybody has lost someone, a child, a parent, a spouse, a relative, a friend. Food is scarce, bombsites are still being cleared and everyone has suffered through the coldest winter anyone can remember.

And yet, still these brave, stoical people have come to show that they are happy for her and that they wish her well.

Elizabeth smiles and waves, wishing she could show what their good wishes mean to her. Perhaps she would not have chosen to be a princess, but that is what she is, and buoyed up by the cheerful, cheering crowd, Elizabeth renews the vow of duty she made on her twenty-first birthday. It is the price of her happiness, to serve these people who have suffered so much and who are looking to her to bring some joy to the nation’s life.

With Philip beside her, she can do it.

Chapter 41

London, July 1947

‘Why do we always have to shout at each other across the room?’ Philip demands. He has just driven up from Corsham and has flopped into one of the armchairs in Elizabeth’s sitting room. Margaret is sitting sideways in another, her legs slung languidly over the arm, one shoe dangling from the toe of her foot. Elizabeth herself is perched on the sofa, gently pulling Susan’s ears. The dog’s eyes are closed in bliss.

‘We’re not shouting,’ Margaret says. ‘You’re the only one who barks at us as if we’re ratings.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘There you are. You’ve just proved my point.’

Philip scowls at her before turning pointedly to Elizabeth. ‘I’m just saying, it’s not exactly cosy in here.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Puzzled, Elizabeth looks around the room. It looks fine to her: pale pink and cream fabrics, a fitted fawn carpet, but then she’s never been particularly interested in interior design. She’d rather be outside.

‘It’s so formal. Look at these two chairs, facing off across the fireplace. Anyone would think you were expecting an audience with the Pope. Why don’t you move the sofa up in front of the fire, then we could sit cosily together?

‘Well, all right,’ Elizabeth says with a placatory smile. ‘I suppose we could try that.’

She means at some stage but Philip is full of restless energy tonight and leaps to his feet.

‘Let’s do it now. Come on, Margaret, up you get!’

‘What for?’

‘We’re going to move the sofa. You take one end,’ Philip says, pointing. ‘It’s not that heavy.’

Margaret gives him a flat-eyed look. ‘I don’t move furniture.’

‘Why not? You’ve got two arms and two legs, haven’t you?’

‘We also have footmen to do that kind of thing for us.’

‘Why call a servant when we can do it ourselves?’ Frustrated, Philip swings round to Elizabeth. ‘Please tell me you’re not too grand to move a sofa a few yards!’

Elizabeth really doesn’t care where the sofa is but faced with the challenge in those icy blue eyes, she gets to her feet. ‘Where do you want to put it?’

Philip drags his armchair out of the way and takes hold of one end of the sofa while directing Elizabeth to take the other. Contrary to what he said to Margaret, it is too heavy to lift so they end up pushing and shoving the sofa across the room, watched by an incredulous Margaret. Susan keeps getting in the way and is shouted at by Philip when he trips over her, but once the sofa is in place and the armchairs have been rearranged, Elizabeth has to admit the room does look more inviting.

‘There!’ Philip announces, dropping into the sofa and patting the cushion beside him. ‘Come and sit next to me,’ he says, and Elizabeth sits down obediently. ‘Isn’t this better?’

‘It is,’ she agrees. ‘It’ll be lovely in winter, too. We can sit and watch the fire together.’

‘Except we won’t be here in winter, I hope,’ Philip says, crushing her romantic picture of the future. ‘Is there any news about us having Clarence House?’

‘It’s in a terrible state,’ Elizabeth says doubtfully as she settles back against the cushions. It’s a wet night and although it’s not really cold, she is tempted to ask Cyril to lay a fire. But with the country still buckling under the rationing restrictions, it would be selfish to use up fuel for a whim in the middle of summer, however chilly the evening, she realises with an inward sigh.

‘Clarence House was used as a Red Cross centre during the war,’ Margaret points out. ‘It will need a lot of work to make it habitable, let alone comfortable.’

‘We have to live somewhere,’ Philip snaps.

‘I’ll ask Papa about it again,’ Elizabeth says hastily before they start sniping at each other. ‘At least the wedding date has been agreed,’ she tells him. ‘They’ve decided on 20th November.’

‘Who wants to get married in November?’ Margaret asks. ‘The weather’s bound to be awful. Why don’t you wait until spring next year?’

‘Because we’ve been waiting long enough,’ Philip says before Elizabeth can answer. ‘Anyway, it’s not about the wedding. It’s about being married.’

‘You’re not the bride,’ Margaret retorts. ‘Perhaps Lilibet would like a lovely spring wedding with some sunshine?’

‘I don’t mind,’ Elizabeth says, wondering why she always seems to get caught in the middle of their scrapping. ‘Philip’s right. We just want to be married now.’

Margaret sniffs. ‘Don’t blame me if it’s grey and miserable on your wedding day!’

‘I’m hardly likely to blame you for the weather.’

Elizabeth’s tone is tarter than usual. Margaret been very scratchy lately. She doesn’t like Elizabeth being centre of attention. Elizabeth understands that her sister is used to being the pretty sister, the clever sister, the talented sister, while her own role is just to be the elder sister. Of course Margaret’s nose is out of joint with all the fuss about the engagement, but her carping can get tiresome, especially when, as now, Philip is also in a scratchy mood. The two of them usually get on well, but they are both forceful personalities and when they rub each other up the wrong way Elizabeth is stuck in the middle.

She turns to Philip and deliberately changes the subject. ‘What was it like going back to Corsham?’

‘Very strange,’ he tells her. ‘One minute I’m on the balcony at Buckingham Palace waving at hundreds of thousands of people, the next I’m letting myself in to my quarters in a tin-roofed Nissen hut! Do you know, the press had got into my room and taken photographs of fascinating items such as my iron bedstead, or the mess of pipes and family photos on the chest of drawers! Who on earth is interested in this stuff?’