Wartime Princess (9 page)

 

 

Lilibet gets letters from Philip regularly now, but she usually keeps them to herself. Today, though, she told us he's been made first lieutenant on his ship. That means he's the second-in-command, and he's one of the youngest second-in-commands in the navy.

‘That's good, isn't it, Papa?' she asked.

‘Very good,' he said, smiling. ‘But not surprising. Philip has lots of energy, and he's bright. He'll go far, mark my words.'

Lilibet's happy because Philip's doing convoy work, going up and down the east coast of Britain. We're not supposed to know what ships are doing, but she seems to find out.

 

 

I'm absolutely worn out. Mummy and Papa gave a Thanksgiving party yesterday in Buckingham Palace. There were a couple of hundred American army and navy officers, and a few nurses. We had some American food: pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes. I liked the sweet potatoes, but I'm not sure about pumpkin pie.

The palace is rather chilly. There doesn't seem to be much heating – that's Papa's effort to economize. In the past, we weren't allowed to wander about the palace on our own, but now Lilibet is older, no one stops us, so we had a prowl round this morning. We were shocked to see parts of it looking so shabby. It must have been pretty badly damaged in the bombing, as I'm sure everyone's worked hard to patch it up and hide the worst of it. Mummy's bedroom windows are still boarded up.

 

 

Rehearsals are well under way for our pantomime. This year it's
Sleeping Beauty
, and I am Beauty! Lilibet is my handsome prince, of course, and there's a lot of giggling when she has to ‘kiss me up', as one of the evacuees calls it. That's the bit where she kisses me to wake me from my hundred-year sleep.

I can't help thinking what a horrid Christmas it will be for Aunt Marina and our cousins.

 

 

Lilibet's on again about doing her bit.

‘Papa doesn't want me to be a nurse,' she said when I went into her bedroom to borrow a book about Guides, ‘so I must think of something else to do, that he can't say no to.'

‘Lilibet, he can say no to anything,' I told her. ‘He's our father.'

‘But surely he can understand,' she said. ‘He and Mummy do their bit, in their way. Oh, I know,' she said, holding up a hand to stop me interrupting, ‘we do our knitting and salvaging, but it's not the same and you know it.'

Snappy.

I settled myself at her dressing table and fiddled with her pots and jars. ‘Let's see, you could always be a bus conductress. It can't be hard riding around all day selling tickets.' I pretended to think. ‘Or you could be a Land Girl, and dig turnips, or get the harvest in while you milk the cows. Or–'

She flounced out of the room, saying, ‘Don't be so childish!'

I think somebody hasn't had a letter from Philip lately! He's due to go to the Mediterranean, and he's said that on his next leave, he's staying with the Mountbattens. She'll like that, because she's bound to see him then. Uncle Dickie always brings him over if he can.

I've received a large sum of money – £20,000 – from one of Granny's friends. She left lots of jewels to Mummy. I'm to buy savings certificates with some of the money, and will put the rest in the bank. It would have been nice to spend some of it, but everyone says, ‘Be sensible,' and that Mrs Greville wouldn't want it wasted. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I bought myself a little treat. What would I buy? Sweets? Rationed. Clothes? Rationed. Oh, I know! I'd take the whole family on a train to the seaside, and we'd build sandcastles and paddle and swim and eat ice creams and that pink stuff – candy floss! Imagine, a whole day of nothing but fun, and no one taking our photographs and no hand-shaking or waving! We'd just be ourselves, like an ordinary family.

 

 

Such a terrible thing happened yesterday. A single German bomber swooped out of the sky and bombed a school south of London. I hope no one was hurt. When I hear about things like that, I feel as if someone's squeezing my heart.

It set Lilibet off again. ‘It means children in that area have no school any more. Oh, there's so much work to do,' she said. ‘I could help. Other girls my age are doing their bit. Why can't I?'

I could tell her why. She's too important. I wonder if they'd let me do war work, if I was sixteen. The way this war's going, I'll find out in three years. It seems as if it will never end.

 

 

Lilibet left Guides yesterday. She's a Sea Ranger now. I want to be one, but Mummy says I've only been in Guides for five minutes.

 

 

We looked through some of our photograph albums after lunch. Sometimes it's hard to remember how things looked before the war, when there were no sandbags or air-raid shelters or bombed buildings. Lilibet said, ‘London used to look glorious on spring days like today,' and gave a great sigh.

Then we did a little complaining – nowhere near Mummy, of course! – and Lilibet promised everything will be lovely again one day.

We really shouldn't ever grumble. We haven't been bombed out of our home. We don't have to sleep in horrid underground tunnels. We have good food to eat and we don't have to queue for bread.

 

 

Lilibet was seventeen yesterday, and I'll soon be thirteen. Mummy says it's sad that, because of the war, Lilibet can't do half the things she'd normally be doing at her age. We have lots of guests to lunch and to dances and parties, but it's not the same as when the war wasn't on.

But she's going to Coppins while Philip stays there, Aunt Marina said. That made Lilibet's eyes sparkle.

 

 

Lilibet was made President of the Royal College of Music a couple of days ago. I actually think I'm a better musician than her. She needs the music in front of her all the time. I don't. If I hear a tune once, I can play it. Or, at least, a pretty good version of it. Still, I suppose they'd rather have the heir to the throne as president than the number two princess.

 

 

Women of eighteen must do war work now, by law, even if it's just part-time. Lilibet looked very satisfied when she heard that!

‘Papa will have to let me do war work when I'm eighteen,' she said and she walked off singing. But later, I found her writing letters, looking very fed up.

‘What's wrong?' I asked. ‘You looked so happy this morning, and you've had a letter from Philip.' (There was one on her desk and she was obviously writing back.)

She put the lid on her fountain pen, laid it down, and fondled Dookie's ears. Four dogs were curled up by her feet.

‘Mummy and I talked about this war work thing,' she said. ‘She explained what I suppose I already knew – that when I'm eighteen I'll be taking on a lot more official duties. I won't be able to do regular work.'

I laughed. ‘Just imagine a factory manager, if one of his workers asked for a day off to open a new hospital!' I launched into my impression of what I imagined he'd do, hands behind my back, striding up and down crossly.

‘What, Miss Windsor?' I said in a gruff voice. ‘What's that you say? Time off to open an 'orspital? Blimey, I'd like time off to open a book, I would, and no mistake!'

Lilibet burst out laughing. ‘Make fun of me all you like, but I won't give up nagging Papa!'

 

 

We're in London tonight. We went to a service at St Paul's Cathedral today, to thank God for our victory over a German general called Rommel, in North Africa.

As we drew up at the cathedral, Lilibet gasped. (None of the people watching knew she gasped – she managed to keep her smile and went on waving.)

‘What?' I asked.

‘Look at the state of the cathedral,' she said.

Great chunks of stone were missing and it looked as if someone had dug bits out of the walls.

‘Bomb damage,' she said. ‘But at least it's still standing.'

Papa wore his admiral's uniform, and Mummy looked beautiful. As we went in, the people watching made lots of ooh and aah noises. We've hardly ever been in the papers, and I think they're surprised at how much we've grown. My sister looks like a young woman. That makes me feel a bit left behind.

 

 

Last night we went to the Strand Theatre, and saw a comedy play called
Arsenic and Old Lace
. It was our very first evening visit to a West End theatre. Mummy said, ‘You should have seen the West End before the war. So full of life, and lights and excitement everywhere.'

Well, I thought last night was pretty exciting. Two sweet little girls presented us with posies of flowers, Lilibet first, of course, then me. They curtsied so beautifully, I bet they have ballet lessons.

When we entered our box, the audience, who'd been waiting, stood and cheered! That was a surprise! Afterwards, we went backstage to meet the cast and the backstage workers. There are more people behind the scenes than there are in the play. And it's not nearly as glamorous backstage as it is onstage. I told everyone how much I liked the play, and they seemed pleased.

How wonderful it must be to walk on to the stage of a theatre like the Strand, and see an audience before you. It makes our productions in the Waterloo Chamber seem a little tame. But they're fun.

 

 

Papa's going abroad. I don't know where (I bet Lilibet knows) but I overheard him telling Mummy he won't enjoy the heat, so it must be somewhere hot like Africa.

 

 

Mummy's so looking forward to a break at Balmoral. She travels all over the country visiting hospitals and factories and so on. She believes it's important that the people who work quietly in the background are made to realize how much the country values their contribution to the war effort.

I saw some factory workers in a film once. I don't know about working quietly in the background. They kept shrieking to each other, and were obviously having fun, though how they do that and concentrate on what they're making, I don't know!

 

 

There, I was right, it was Africa. After our victory, Papa went on a tour of the whole war front in North Africa. Not only that, but he nearly gave everyone, especially Mummy, heart attacks by disappearing for a while. Not disappearing exactly, but he did go missing. He's safely home now, though, and we'll soon be off to Scotland. I hope cousin Margaret's joining us again. She'll be company when Lilibet's on official duties, and even though she's older than me, she treats me just like she treats my sister.

I'm already nagging Crawfie about this year's pantomime. I want us to do
Aladdin
. I've made loads of plans already. She says the schoolmaster, Mr Tanner, needs to have a say in what we do, because he'll be producing it.

‘Tell him Princess Margaret would like to do
Aladdin
,' I said. ‘Please, Crawfie.'

‘Time enough after the summer,' she said. ‘Lilibet, would you like to be in the pantomime again this year?'

‘Of course!' was the reply. ‘But I'd like a different part this year. I always seem to be the prince, and I'm not sure that suits me any more.'

Hmm, she doesn't want to be a prince, but I bet she'd like to be with a prince! I didn't say that, of course. She gets touchy if I tease her about Philip. Personally I think that's because she's a lot more keen on him than he is on her. I talked to Mummy about it the other day, and she said I'm being silly.

‘Lilibet and Philip are cousins and just good friends,' she said. ‘What's more natural in wartime than that they should write to each other?'

I don't think it's natural that Lilibet should get moody when she doesn't get a letter for ages, or all bright and chipper when she does, or that she should go pink when I tease her.

 

 

In a week I'll be in my teen years. I hope everyone will start thinking of me as a young lady instead of a child. I know some people think I look for attention all the time. I don't, not really. Lilibet sticks up for me. She says I'm naturally amusing, so people are happy to listen to me. That makes it sound as if I never stop talking!

 

 

It's lovely to be back in Scotland. Lots of people have been to stay and it's turned out to be a summer of hiking, picnics, riding, games in the evenings, dances, a visit to the Highland Games – just so much fun. We've hardly had a moment to call our own. I know Lilibet would have loved Philip to have been one of the visitors. She's brought his photograph with her.

 

 

Lilibet was very upset to hear that the husband of one of Philip's sisters has been shot down and killed. I'd normally be sad, too, but the man was a Luftwaffe pilot, and he was in the Nazi SS. I wonder how many of our people he's shot down. Still, I'm sure Philip will be sorry for his sister.

 

 

We've had a lo-o-ong session with Mr Cecil Beaton, the photographer, and his assistants. Oh, they do get on my nerves. I try to keep smiling, but they will fiddle-faddle about so. I have a camera and I take good photographs, but I don't need special lights and little helpers scurrying about. Mummy keeps smiling whatever happens, even if she's ever so slightly seething inside. The pictures will be lovely, though. They always are.