‘The Thursday Club?’

‘I’m a founder member,’ he tells her. ‘It’s a stag club. Just fifty or so chaps, and a place we can let off steam.’

Philip remembers how Baron Nahum had sold it to him. ‘You’re going to have to have some kind of private life that isn’t controlled by the palace,’ he’d said. ‘Let’s set up a club with just a few trusted friends. Somewhere we can meet, tell bawdy jokes without anyone calling for the smelling salts, play games, dine, drink … do everything you’d like to do in your own home if you weren’t afraid of what your wife would say.’

‘So no women?’

‘Waitresses only,’ Baron promised. ‘All sworn to secrecy, naturally. And best of all from your point of view, no protocol.’

‘What does “letting off steam” mean exactly?’ Elizabeth asks dubiously.

‘It’s just lunch,’ Philip backtracks a little. ‘We meet each week in the top room of Wheeler’s restaurant in Soho. There’s a set price for lunch, wines, and vintage port. Very civilised. But we’re all equals once we’re there. I’m just Philip at the Thursday Club. I can’t tell you how refreshing it is.’

He’s not sure Elizabeth is entirely convinced but the Thursday Club is one part of his life he’s not prepared to give up. He’s juggling his work at Corsham with an increasing number of private engagements and instead of making himself comfortable at Chester Street he has to make his London home at Kensington Palace with his grandmother. There are constant rows about the wedding arrangements and who is going to pay for what, endless starchy discussions about how he should or shouldn’t behave in any given circumstance.

The only place Philip can really relax now is with his friends at the Thursday Club and he looks forward to it with disproportionate pleasure. Walking in, meeting smiles instead of pursed lips, discarding his cloak of ‘prospective husband of the heir to the throne’ at the door … Who can put a price on that? Philip wonders. There is an unwritten code that nothing that goes on in the Thursday Club is ever discussed elsewhere. He is not the only member with a public profile who is glad of a reprieve from constantly having to watch his words. He defers to nobody, and nobody defers to him. The food is unpretentious and the décor even more so, although there is a cuckoo clock above the mantelpiece that provides endless amusement.

Perhaps some of the humour is a little schoolboyish but God, it’s a relief just to have some fun for a change. Nor does he have to watch how much he smokes or drinks, although at times, he admits, this can lead to revealing more than he cares to normally.

One day, the other men are ribbing him about his upcoming wedding. It’s par for the course, and Philip is used to it by now. They’re all drunk anyway.

‘I don’t know why you’re not marrying Margaret,’ one of members offers, gesticulating lewdly with his glass. ‘She’s much better looking than your girl.’ He snorts. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving her one.’

Philip is seized by a cold fury. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew them,’ he snarls back, sickened at the idea that this drunken oaf should dare pass judgement on Elizabeth. ‘Margaret may be pretty but Elizabeth is sweet and she’s kind.’

Spats like that are rare, though. Usually they just laugh in a way Philip can’t remember laughing since he was a boy. They derive a lot of amusement from bets, just stupid things that distract them all from the grim reality of life outside the club.

‘Baron, we’ve got a bet for you,’ Philip and his cousin David call across the table one day.

Baron Nahum eyes them suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, you’re the great photographer. We bet you that you won’t be able to photograph the cuckoo coming out of that clock there at precisely three o’clock.’

Baron looks from them to the clock as if trying to work out the catch. ‘How much?’

‘Five quid.’

‘Done.’

With two minutes to go, Baron is poised with his camera focused on the cuckoo clock. Philip and David reach surreptitiously into their pockets and move towards the mantelpiece.

‘Five … four … three … two …’ The other members are counting down and waiting for the telltale whirring and clicking that presages the cuckoo’s appearance.

‘One!’ they shout, and Philip and David throw the smoke bombs they have brought with them into the fireplace. They explode with a terrific bang just as the cuckoo bursts out of the clock and into a cloud of soot from the chimney which covers the entire company head to toe in soot.

‘You arses, you’ve ruined my camera!’ Baron Nahum bellows but he can hardly be heard above the raucous laughter of the other members, the shrieks from panicked customers downstairs and the pounding of feet up the stairway. The next thing they know, two policemen have burst into the room and are staring at the circle of well-dressed men with sooty faces.

‘What’s going on here then?’

‘Ahh, officers …’ Philip moves forward, belatedly aware of how ridiculous he must look. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘You can explain what caused that ruddy great explosion for a start … sir,’ the policeman adds after a nudge from his companion.

Evidently realising how quickly the story could get out of control, Baron Nahum pushes Philip out of the way and sets about sweet-talking the policeman. Just a friendly joke that got out of control. No harm done. Of course they’ll make good any damages. Much appreciated if the officers didn’t take matters any further. Sure they wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment. And so on.

When the policeman eventually go there are a few moments of silence to make sure they have left the building before the whole company collapses into whoops of merriment.

Grinning, Philip slaps Baron on the shoulder. ‘Good work, old chap. But you still owe us five pounds!’

Chapter 45

Buckingham Palace, November 1947

The King is permanently irritable these days, the touching outburst of joy at the announcement of the engagement has descended into scratchiness all round. Prime Minister Attlee is determined to tighten the country’s belt yet another notch with new austerity measures that make it harder and harder to justify an extravagant wedding, and several members of the government are grumbling loudly about the cost as it is.

Every little detail is queried: has the silk for the wedding dress come from abroad? Tommy has had to write personally to Attlee to reassure him that the silkworms were Chinese – our allies – but that the silk itself has been woven in Scotland and Kent. The whole thing is ridiculous, the King complains, ‘having to grovel to the Government for permission about your wedding dress. You’re the heir to the throne! Bloody politicians. None of their bloody business.’

Between her father’s short temper and Philip’s frustration, Elizabeth feels as if she is walking on egg-shells and constantly soothing either one or both of them. Sometimes it feels as if she herself is only tangentially involved in the wedding. The Queen was delighted to approve Mr Hartnell’s design for the dress when he showed them his first ideas.