by Wendy Holden
Marion was sitting on a bench by the lake, her employers on either side of her, trying to absorb her own close encounter with mortality, and the news that the queen was taking shooting lessons. “Just in case I meet Mr. Hitler or one of his friends,” she said, turning her pearl-handled revolver in her hands.
“I w-wouldn’t w-w-want to b-be him if you d-did,” said the king. “You’re a c-crack shot, Elizabeth.”
The queen looked pleased.
“I’m so sorry about the palace,” Marion offered.
The queen looked at her with cool blue eyes. “Well, I’m glad. It means we can look the East End in the face.”
Her insouciance was reminiscent of Lascelles’, and the bravery of the chef. It impressed on Marion that the home front was just as important as the fighting one, and just as brave. They were one and the same. You faced bullets and bombs in both places. Perhaps she didn’t need to join the Wrens after all. She felt glad, now, that she had not mentioned it to anyone. Perhaps she had said something to Toni, but that was hardly likely to go any further. Toni seemed largely uninterested in her.
The powerfully sweet song of a blackbird started up somewhere in the bush. “Listen to that,” said the queen, smiling. “We’ll win this war. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. Blackbirds are never wrong.”
Marion swallowed. She felt the powerful urge to cry. The afternoon had been such a shock; a series of shocks.
The queen was looking at her, bright-eyed. “Oh, Crawfie. We little guessed what was coming our way, did we?”
Her throat too full to speak, Marion twisted her head.
The queen patted her hand. “The king and I are so fortunate in those who work for us. You especially. The king and I could not carry on if you weren’t here.” Tears were now openly coursing down Marion’s cheeks. How could she ever have thought of leaving? They also served who took charge of the children. And not just any children; the children of the country’s leaders. Who couldn’t carry on without her. They needed her after all. She felt a fierce, hot pride.
“Anyway, Crawfie.” The queen’s blue gaze was roguish. “Even if you did join the Wrens, you’d only be cooking some old admiral’s breakfast.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Lessons in constitutional history?” Lilibet echoed in horror. “But I wanted to learn how a gun works.”
It had been the king’s idea. Marion was far from happy about it too, especially after the Toni business. Her French might be shaky, but was not history her best and favorite subject? Yet, again, the decision had been taken over her head and without any consultation. It was as if the interview with the queen in the garden had never been and she was back to square one.
Sir Henry Marten, vice provost of Eton College, was to be Lilibet’s instructor in the mysteries of government and the monarchy. The school was close to the castle. They walked down the street toward the gates, Marion battling to overcome her resentment in order to reassure her apprehensive pupil.
They stood outside the porter’s lodge. Groups of boys passed wearing top hats with dark coattails. They looked, Marion thought, like a convention of teenage undertakers.
Lilibet stared. “Some of their hats are dusty,” she whispered. “And some are polished and shiny.”
A long-faced man in a bowler hat appeared. “This is Her Royal Highness the Princess Elizabeth,” Marion told him.
The porter seemed unimpressed. He stopped a passing boy. “Douglas- ’Ome. Visitors fer Sir ’Enry.”
“Visitors!” sniggered Lilibet, amused. Marion looked at her in surprise. She was considerably less afraid than expected.
Douglas-Home’s topper was one of the shiny ones. He removed it politely, exposing a sleek side-parted head that sent Marion’s thoughts flying back to her own Eton crop. How long ago that seemed now!
Douglas-Home set off rapidly on his long pin-striped legs. They hurried after him over a large cobbled courtyard. Surrounding it on all sides were low, mellow buildings with mullioned windows and castellated rooflines. A clock tower with turrets formed the centerpiece and to the right rose the side of the famous college chapel. Marion took in the height of its windows, its delicate spires and carvings, its grace and ambition, its astonishing age.
“What a pretty chapel,” she remarked to the unforthcoming boy.
Douglas-Home shrugged his frock-coated shoulders. “You don’t really notice it after a while.”
“Is Sir Henry a nice teacher?” Marion persevered.
She received a scornful look. “At Eton we call them beaks.”
“Beaks?” Lilibet giggled. “How funny.”
In the medieval enclave, among the top hats and accreted jargon, it was easy to forget there was a war on. And yet now came a roaring in the skies. The crowd of boys looked up. “Junkers 87,” shouted one, boisterously.
“Junkers 88,” Lilibet corrected in her clear tones. “It’s got two engines, look.”
Sir Henry’s study was empty—of Sir Henry, that was. Otherwise it was crammed, especially with books. They were everywhere, spilling from shelves, rising from tables, stacked on the floor like stalagmites.
“Do you think he’s read them all?” Lilibet was staring at the jumble of volumes next to her. They had titles like The Law and Custom of the Constitution by William Anson, English Social History by G. M. Trevelyan and Imperial Commonwealth by Lord Elton.
Marion tapped the fat spine of The Groundwork of British History by Sir Henry Marten. “I expect he’s read this one.”
Douglas-Home bowed deeply to Lilibet and gave a cursory nod to Marion. He knew exactly who they were after all. He clattered off down the stone steps.
Another door opened and in came a short, round-faced man with something dark and glossy hunched on his shoulder. It took a couple of beats for Marion to realize what it was. Lilibet got there first. “A raven!” she exclaimed. “Is that why you’re called beaks?”
Sir Henry looked surprised. “Perhaps,” he said. “As a matter of fact, no one’s ever asked me that before.”
“Princess Elizabeth”—Marion smiled—“has a very original turn of mind. She is a delightful pupil to teach.”
Sir Henry didn’t seem to hear her. Perhaps he was a little deaf. She rummaged in her handbag for the notes she had prepared about Lilibet’s progress so far. She approached Sir Henry, holding them out.
The raven, which had hopped on top of a lampshade on the chaotic desk, cocked its head to stare at her.
“Shall we begin, gentlemen?” Sir Henry asked Lilibet. He had even looked at Marion, standing there with her papers in her hand.
“Gentlemen!” giggled Lilibet. “I’m a girl, Sir Henry.”
“But a very special girl,” Marion put in swiftly, before she could stop herself. The words seemed to hang in the room. She reddened. She sounded, she realized, just like Alah, when she had first arrived at Royal Lodge.
Sir Henry did not seem to hear her anyway. “Do you know what a palimpsest is?” he went on, addressing Lilibet.
“Is it like a pimple?”
“It’s a parchment that’s been written and overwritten on many times. That, in a nutshell, is the British constitution.”
The lesson had started, Marion realized in surprise, and without involving or consulting her in any way. It was as if she didn’t exist. Dismayed, disbelieving, she cleared her throat in what she hoped was an assertive fashion.
A pair of pleasant, mild eyes turned toward her, and seemed to see her for the first time. “Oh. Miss . . . er?”
“Crawford. Marion Crawford. I’m the princess’s governess. I’ve been teaching her for several years and—”
“Like something to read?” Sir Henry interrupted. He rose to his feet, revealing the fact he still had bicycle clips on. He went to his desk, picked something up and passed it to her. “His latest, I believe.”
Marion star
ed at the cover of Uncle Fred in the Springtime. With careful fury, she put the book down. Unobserved by Sir Henry or his pupil, she headed for the door. As she left, the raven made a cawing sound, as if it was mocking her.
Outside, in the courtyard, next to the magnificent medieval chapel you ceased to notice after a while, Marion walked angrily to and fro, glaring at the cobbles. She felt insulted and patronized.
“Marion? Is it really you?”
“Peter!”
Under a tasseled mortarboard, within the folds of a black gown, there he was. He was older now—still slight, but more impressive, somehow. He seemed to have gained an air of authority.
So this was the school in the south he had gone to. The one his sights had been set on, right from the start. “You got here at last!” she crowed.
“I wouldn’t take it too seriously,” Peter counseled, after hearing her account. “Sir Henry’s not a bad chap really.”
They were in his rooms, which were small but meticulously clean. Books lined the walls and two battered leather chairs stood on either side of a small fireplace. There was a rich smell of wax polish in the air, and the diamond-pane windows sparkled. The view they offered was of the wide cobbled courtyard and of knots of boys, hands in pockets, slouching across it. “They’re a good lot,” Peter said, noticing her cross expression. “And a joy to teach, some of them.”
“Sir Henry treated me like a servant,” she complained. “A rather dim one, at that.”
Peter smiled. “He comes from a generation when women were either servants or wives. He’s probably never met a female teacher before, let alone a young one.”
“Or a female pupil. He called Lilibet ‘gentlemen.’”
Peter shook his head indulgently. “Strictly speaking, he’s not really part of the twentieth century.”
“Is anything, in this place?” Marion took another bite of bun. All the sugar was having a calming effect.
“Possibly not,” Peter admitted. “But given how the twentieth century’s turning out, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”
He had already explained that he had been deemed unfit for active service. “It’s dreadful, though, seeing the older boys joining up. Who knows if they’ll ever come back.”
They talked on. He was sad to hear about her mother. “Such a good woman. And so proud of you.”
Marion nodded. She tried not to dwell on what her mother would have thought of the humiliating scene with Sir Henry.
“Will you stay with them?” Peter asked. “If you don’t mind me saying, it sounds a little frustrating.”
She looked at him indignantly. “It’s an important job, Peter. She’s the daughter of the head of state and this is war.”
He toyed with a teaspoon. She sensed he was trying to decide whether to say something. Eventually, he raised his head. His tone was gentle, puzzled. “It’s just not what I imagined you doing. You were always so passionate about the slums, about the education of the poor.”
I still am leaped onto her tongue. It did not leap off, though. She urged it to, but it would not.
Peter stirred his tea, smiling a little. “You used to make me feel so terrible, wanting to work at a public school. All those speeches you used to make about equal educational opportunities.”
Those speeches felt far away to Marion. They seemed to press down on her now, rather than lift her up.
“Still not married?” Peter inquired next. She felt exasperated. He seemed to be going out of his way to ask the most uncomfortable questions.
“No. I’m married to my job now,” she assured him, brightly. “Like you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been having second thoughts about that, actually. Time’s moving on, and I’d quite like some children of my own.”
As his pale eyes lingered on her, she looked away. “Surely there are some smart rich widows at your school?” It was a joke, but admittedly not a very good one. There was irritation on Peter’s good-tempered face.
“It’s not Decline and Fall, Marion.” He was referring to the Waugh novel, which she had recently read, about a hapless master at a hopeless public school.
She blushed. “Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
He cut in. “I don’t want to marry Lady Tangent, or whatever her name was. As you suggest, I see quite a lot of them. My idea of a wife is someone completely normal, with her feet firmly on the ground.”
She left soon after that. The farewells were awkward. “It was wonderful to see you, Marion,” Peter said, not entirely convincingly. “Come whenever you like.”
To her relief, the lesson was still going on. She could hear the vice provost’s distinctive tones as she hurried up the stairs. “The sovereign has to sign all laws passed by Parliament.”
“But what if they don’t want to?” Lilibet’s voice was clear and high.
“The concept of a veto is unthinkable, but the possibility remains.”
“Sir Henry, it seems to me that being a monarch is more about what one doesn’t do, than what one actually does.”
“I think, ma’am, if I may use the phrase, that you have hit the nail on the head.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
For fifty-seven consecutive nights now, the Heinkel bombers had pounded London. Thousands were dead. The East End of the city lay in ruins. Now the Luftwaffe were extending their campaign to other cities and ports. There were great crashes in the sky and explosions even shook the chalk hill on which the castle stood. One night, stepping shiveringly outside to her bathroom, Marion caught sight of two unmistakable figures on an adjacent roof. They stood together, the man with his arm around the woman, both their faces turned toward the red glow in the east where the capital burned. The woman raised a hand to her face, as if brushing away tears. It was a rare view of the indomitable queen in despair.
Margaret’s initial enthusiasm for the war had turned into boredom. “You know,” she said glumly one breakfast time, “I can hardly remember when there wasn’t a war.”
Marion knew what she meant. It was hard to recall a time when food wasn’t scarce, when night didn’t drop like a thick black blanket and when one wasn’t constantly awaiting the dreaded drone of the bombers. But plenty of people had it much worse than they did at Windsor Castle.
Not Margaret, though, in her own estimation at least. She was ten now, and restless. Being confined in one place was taking its toll, as was the unchanging social scene.
“Lilibet gets to go out to a boys’ school,” she complained. “Why can’t I?”
“Because I’m older than you,” her sister explained. “I’m fourteen.”
Margaret pushed out her lower lip. “It’s not fair. What about me? What fun do I have?”
“It’s not fun,” Lilibet rather piously pointed out. “I’m learning about constitutional history.”
“Because you’ll be queen one day, I suppose,” fumed Margaret. “But what about me? What will I do?”
In the short term, she set about making a nuisance of herself. Fir cones were put into Wellington boots and sticky sweets into coat pockets. The gardener, briefly turning his back, would find his broom had been stolen. Things came to a head when someone—it was never quite established who—pressed the castle alarm bell, obliging all the inhabitants to evacuate. Fortunately the king and queen were in London, but that something had to be done about Margaret was obvious.
Marion pondered on the problem as she walked into Windsor town. Her way led her past St. George’s Chapel, whose stained glass windows had been taped and boarded and much of whose statuary had been removed for safekeeping. But there was still no disguising the exuberance of the springing buttresses, the beauty of the carving and the soaring confidence of the gold-topped pinnacles. A blackbird sang from the top of one of them and Marion remembered what the queen had said. It will be all right. Blackbirds are never wrong.
; She walked on, out of the Henry VIII Gate and down the cobbled drive, past the statue of Queen Victoria, who had known wars, but never one like this. Marion paused to examine her, plump and proud with her orb and scepter. She, too, seemed to radiate an indefatigable confidence.
On the town’s meandering main street, the ancient walls of the castle showed between rustling, richly colored trees. The low autumn sun picked out decorative details in the quirky old buildings. Low-beamed pubs smelling of leather, beer and tobacco jostled for space alongside shops with bow fronts and bull’s-eye glass. The clip-clop of hooves could be heard, as they had been for centuries. Only the tape across some windows and the occasional sandbag hinted that a world war was raging.
She paused outside the toy shop. Margaret claimed to be too old for toys now, and these had a decidedly military tone anyway. The toy howitzer that fired lead shells at three ranges might interest Lilibet, but not her sister. But Margaret was still a Spitfire fan and might appreciate the scale model Hawker Hurricane. Even Snakes and Ladders had had a wartime makeover, Marion saw. It was now being marketed as ARP, a Blitz-themed take on the old favorite. There was also an Evacuee card game, where children were matched with appropriate families.
Marion looked at the card game. Something about it resonated with her. There were many evacuees in the Windsor area, children whom the Luftwaffe had driven to the relative safety of the countryside. Many were from the London slums; relatives, in terms of situation, of the Grassmarket children she had once known and whom she had once been determined to help. A faint echo of her old zeal came back to her. She remembered Peter’s words, in his Eton study. You were always so passionate about the slums, about the education of the poor.
But that was then, she told herself. As she had told Peter, these days she had another crucial job. She was safeguarding the children of the king and queen as they rallied the nation in its darkest hour. What could be more important?
As she stared into the shop window she had noticed, in its reflection, a woman walking to and fro behind her, glancing at her curiously. Now she stopped and spoke. Her tone was Cockney, and disbelieving. “Maz? It is you, ain’t it?”