THE QUEEN WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD

EXTRACT …

There was a time in Joan McGraw’s life – between the end of the war and about four years ago – when a ride up the west coast on the royal train would have been an event, a highlight. Something to look forward to.

But today, as she waited at Euston station, the Queen’s assistant private secretary reflected that plane journey from Kathmandu to Tehran was an event. An elephant ride through Bombay was a highlight. A few days’ sailing in the Mediterranean on the Royal Yacht Britannia was something to look forward to. The royal train was now merely a convenient means of transport. And what had Joan become? Spoiled, certainly. Busy. Happier than she had any right to expect.

The tall, exceptionally good-looking man standing on the platform beside her leaned down to mutter in her ear.

‘What are you doing next Tuesday, because I—?’

‘Shh.’

The Queen had just appeared in the Great Hall entrance, followed by her husband, her sister Margaret with a pair of white terriers on leads and, bringing up the rear, the intriguing figure of Margaret’s new husband, Anthony Armstrong-Jones.

It was teatime on the Sunday afternoon before Easter, near the spring equinox. Afternoon light flooded through the hall’s high windows, illuminating the Greek columns that gave it the air of a temple to Victorian railway gods. Soon the building was to be ruined – swept away to make place for something more practical and modern. The man beside Joan had the look of a Greek god about him, she thought ruefully. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine a statue to him.

The Queen flashed them a smile as she strode past. Prince Philip looked as if his mind was elsewhere. Behind him, Margaret kept frowning and glancing behind her as if looking for someone, while Tony Armstrong-Jones walked head down, hands behind his back, uncomfortable with the attention. They continued towards the platform where the royal train was waiting.

As they shook hands and chatted with the station manager, Joan cast her eye briefly along the train itself. Between the engine and the brake, there were eight carriages today – saloons, as they were known – including the couchette near the front where she would be sleeping. They were travelling to Lancashire, where the Queen was due to address a coal mining convention tomorrow. Meanwhile, Princess Margaret and her husband would take a couple of the carriages on to Glasgow for a quick official visit, and then Balmoral for a slightly longer break.

‘I say, it’s a bit of a mishmash, isn’t it?’ said the Greek god, otherwise known as Dominic Stonor, the Queen’s press secretary.

‘What is?’

‘The train. I mean, bits of it look terribly smart in their dark red livery and all that, but you’d think they’d borrowed some of the carriages from Noah.’

‘Didn’t he specialise in arks?’

‘That era, though. Pre-war, anyway. First World War, by the look of it. Is the ride horribly uncomfortable? It’s my first time.’

 ‘It’s surprisingly smooth, actually,’ Joan reassured him.

‘What’s smooth?’ another, gruffer, voice asked.

This one belonged to Miles Urquhart, the Queen’s longstanding deputy private secretary. He bore himself with the stiff importance of a man whose job was to be in the presence of greatness.

‘The ride, apparently’ Dominic said with a cheerful absence of stiff importance. ‘I say, look at that smoke from the engine. Very romantic, don’t you think?’

‘Romantic?’ Miles Urquhart peered at the sooty steam.

‘I mean . . . “the royal train” and all that. Sleeping cars.’ Dominic grinned. ‘It reminds me of that Auden poem, you know. “This is the night train, crossing the border, diddly-pom diddly-pom, postal order”. Not that we will be. Crossing the border, I mean. By the way, who’s the corker?’

Urquhart frowned. ‘To whom do you refer?’ he asked, archly.

Joan suppressed a smile. Staff never referred to women in the royal party as “corkers”.

‘The woman in the mink,’ Dominic explained, looking back towards the hall. ‘Heading our way. Ash blonde hair, body of a mannequin, soft, peachy lips . . .’

They all stared at the new arrival, who walked with a sway to her hips reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. A porter trailed behind her with a trolley stacked with bags.

Urquhart stared hard at her, and Joan could see he wasn’t pleased.

‘That’s Sandra Pole. But surely . . . ?’

‘Oh, gosh! She has quite the reputation.’ Dominic grinned happily. ‘Is she coming aboard with us? Glorious!’

‘She’s batty as a fruitcake,’ Urquhart muttered. ‘Totally unreliable. Go and find out what she’s doing here will you, Joan?’

Joan hurried over.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, stopping her mid-stride, ‘are you Sandra Pole?’

The woman in mink looked Joan up and down. Her eyes glittered. ‘Guilty. Who on earth are you?’

‘Her Majesty’s assistant private secretary,’ Joan explained.

A perfectly plucked eyebrow rose by half an inch. ‘Ah, the secretary. I can see that.’

Joan hid her irritation. A few years ago, she was regularly mistaken for the typist she had once been. Nowadays, more people understood that she, too, held a senior position in the private office. In fact, she was one of the Queen’s closest confidantes.

 ‘I hate to be rude, but . . . Why are you here?’

‘Well, for someone who hates to be rude you’re doing a marvellous job,’ Sandra drawled. ‘I’m Princess Margaret’s lady-in-waiting.’

‘I don’t think so.’

A second eyebrow rose to join the first. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The princess has two ladies-in-waiting,’ Joan explained. ‘I know them both.’

 ‘Lucky you,’ Sandra responded coolly. ‘But for the purposes of this trip I’m it, and I’d appreciate a bit of respect.’

However, she glanced over Joan’s shoulder at the small, select number of people on the platform, and realised that Joan was quite possibly closer to the Queen than she’d realised.

‘If you must know,’ she relented, ‘Lady Muriel forgot about the clocks going forward last night, and when she saw she was running late this afternoon she must have dashed around her house like a headless chicken, because she fell down the stairs and broke her silly collarbone. Lady Jane was stuck in the country and the princess needed someone who could pack like the wind and step in at the last minute for when she gets to Glasgow. She asked me and . . . voilà. So, you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. And Major Urquhart can stop glowering at me like I’m something the cat dragged in. Here.’

She’d been carrying what Joan had assumed to be a pale fur muff with the animal head still attached, but it turned out to be a small dog, very much alive, who was now plonked in Joan’s arms, wriggling furiously.

‘You’re good with dogs, I assume.’

‘I prefer cats,’ Joan said, unsuccessfully trying to hand it back.

‘Oh dear!’ Sandra folded her arms. ‘My mother says you can only trust a dog person. What’s your name?’

‘Joan McGraw.’

‘Well, you don’t look trustworthy at all, Joan. You look like someone I wouldn’t want to give evidence against me in a court of law. Look, I’m late already. The princess is calling me. Her name’s Conchita.’

‘Princess Margaret?’

‘No, you fool. My chihuahua. She’s a darling, but she’s quite upset and she needs the little girls’ room.’

At which point, the driver let off a long hoot of steam, and Joan felt a warm stain slowly penetrate her jacket and her new silk blouse. The dog glared at her, unrepentant. Joan watched as Sandra sashayed on down the platform with the porter in her wake.