Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 2 Olive

Chapter 2

Olive

I t was three weeks before Christmas, and I was determined to retain my enthusiasm for my favorite time of year despite the less-than-festive weather. I’d always felt there was something magical about London in December. Like roast goose and stuffing, or Christmas pudding and brandy butter, it was the perfect combination. There was nowhere I’d rather be when the shop windows gleamed with toys and decorations, and frosty breaths were lit by the low winter sun that painted the Thames golden. London at Christmas was a Dickens novel, a Turner painting, and a Victorian Christmas card all rolled into one, and I adored it.

Except that it was none of those things as I rubbed my glove against the bus window and peered out at the awful fog that hadn’t lifted for days.

I turned to the woman beside me. “Excuse me. Do you know where we are?”

She smiled. “Not sure the driver even knows, love.”

The bus crept along at a snail’s pace, headlamps seeking the right direction on a usually familiar route. It was as if all the London landmarks had simply disappeared—the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben’s clock tower, the dome of St. Paul’s—concealed behind the miserable gray gloom. We’d all seen pea-soupers before, but this was different. According to my mother, who now considered herself an expert on the weather, as well as any number of other topics, something called an anticyclone was causing the fog to hang over the city, suffocating everyone below. “They should declare an emergency and force everyone to stay indoors before we all drop dead,” was her cheerfully optimistic opinion on the matter.

Fog or not, I was eager to get to work. After several years in the typing pool, I’d recently started a new position as a trainee reporter in the BBC home affairs department, and I couldn’t wait to be given some proper assignments of my own. At least the fog gave us some interesting stories to cover. It was all anyone seemed to talk about.

“Oxford Circus, next stop,” the driver called. “Or, at least, I think it is.”

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman beside me as I stood up. “This is my stop.”

She swung her knees to one side so I could get past. “Good luck, love. I hope you find what you’re looking for out there.”

“Oh, I’m just heading to Broadcasting House. Straight up Regent Street. I think I could find my way blindfolded from here!”

“I meant, what you’re really looking for.” She smiled. “Happy Christmas, love.”

I hesitated for a moment, puzzled by her words. I wished her a happy Christmas in return before I jumped off the back of the bus. I stood for a moment as I watched it pull away, the lights quickly swallowed up by the fog.

I was looking for something, all right. I was looking for excitement and new opportunities. And, of course, I was looking for someone, too. Life always ended up messy and complicated when I was with a man, and yet I lived in hope that there was someone out there who was neither messy, nor complicated, and wouldn’t mind too much that I was both. I’d been on my own for so long I could hardly remember what it felt like to fall in love, and Christmas felt like the perfect time to do exactly that.

I pulled my scarf over my mouth and nose and made my way tentatively along Regent Street, past the familiar facade of Maison Jerome, toward BBC Broadcasting House. I could barely see my feet. The intermittent sounds of car horns, police whistles, ambulance bells, and my own coughs broke the muffled silence. It was confusing and disorienting, and absolutely freezing. I hurried on, as quickly as I dared, glad to eventually see the lights of Broadcasting House looming through the murk.

People were easily impressed by my job, especially my mother, who liked to brag about it to her friends at the bingo. “Olive works for the BBC! With Charlie Bullen!” But the reality was far from the glamour they imagined. Even as a trainee reporter, I spent most of my time at my desk, in front of my sage-green Royal typewriter, writing up the reports of more senior staff, and attempting to write something of my own that might, one day, make the bulletins.

As for Charlie Bullen, he was the BBC’s senior royal correspondent, reporting on state banquets and official engagements and royal tours. My mother’s generation adored him. To me he was an ancient relic, part of the old guard from a generation of stuffy old kings; completely out of touch with our new royal family. Our young Queen Elizabeth was an unfamiliar species to people like Charlie. He had no idea how to talk about her in his reports, no idea that women were as interested in what she was wearing as they were in whatever ceremonial event she was attending, and above all, far more interested in what she had to say. What I wouldn’t give to step into his shoes, but, like the fog, Charlie Bullen was going nowhere. He was a permanent fixture, a toxic threat to everyone in his path.

I darted through the office and hurried to my station, bumping my knee painfully against an open filing drawer and hobbling the rest of the way to my desk. I was glad to see that Alice, Bullen’s secretary, wasn’t at her desk, ready to snigger at me with her perfectly painted red lips and haughty ways.

“Late again, Carter?” My manager was onto me like a hawk stalking a mouse.

“Detour, Mr. Maguire. The fog’s as thick as bunions this morning.”

“Thick as what ?”

“Bunions. You know, those horrible hard lumps old people get on their feet. My nana had them. It can be very painf—”

“Yes, yes. I know what bunions are.” He waved me on, his dislike for bodily descriptions outweighing his fondness for reprimanding me.

Rosie laughed as I took my seat beside her. “Calamity Carter strikes again! You’d get away with actual murder, you would!”

I glanced back at Mr. Maguire, with his thin lips and sharp elbows. “Don’t tempt me.”

I took the cover off my typewriter, pulled my notepad from the desk drawer, rolled a piece of paper onto the drum, and clicked the ribbon back into place with a sigh.

“Oh, dear. The siiiiiigh is back. What’s wrong?” Rosie asked.

“Nothing.”

“Liar!” Rosie May was one of my oldest friends and could read me like a book. We’d started at the BBC within a few weeks of each other several years ago and had both recently escaped from the typing pool, our sights set on bigger things. “Everything all right at home?” she asked. “Is it Lucy?”

“Lucy’s fine. Everything’s fine, apart from Mum and Dad.”

“Still not getting on?”

I shook my head. “Bickering like a pair of old fishwives. I’m not sure they even like each other anymore.”

“That’s what thirty years of marriage will do to you. It all turns sour in the end.”

I glanced at the wedding band on my finger and lowered my voice. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”

She offered a sympathetic smile. “No. I suppose not.”

Apart from my parents, Rosie was the only person who knew my true story: the unplanned pregnancy, the shame of being an unmarried mother, the imaginary deceased husband to cover my sins. Rosie had never judged me about any of it. It wasn’t unheard of for a married woman to work under her maiden name, so I went by Miss Carter at the office, and, with a fake wedding ring on my finger, most people didn’t ask questions if I mentioned my daughter, which I was mostly careful not to. But it was always there—the trail of lies and pretense, waiting to trip me up.

Rosie offered me a mint imperial. “Chin up! It’s payday. I’ll take you to the pub later. We could do with a bit of Christmas cheer in this bloody fog.”

I was glad of Rosie’s understanding. She saw life in simple straight lines, never questioning or complaining. I wished I could be more like her, but that wasn’t my way.

“Daydreaming again, Carter?”

I stirred from my thoughts as Mr. Maguire passed me a note.

“This is a priority,” he said. “Have it on my desk in ten minutes.”

I picked up the handwritten note. “But this is from Mr. Bullen. Won’t Alice type it for him?”

“Alice is off sick. Along with everyone else, it seems. Ten minutes.”

I began to type, hardly taking any notice of the words.

May it please Your Majesty,

I regret to inform you, with my humble duty, that I will not be able to travel to Sandringham to report on the Christmas preparations, as has been the tradition for many years now. This dreadful fog has left me feeling rather unwell, and my doctor has advised me to spend some time with my sister on the Sussex coast.

I was very much looking forward to seeing you and the Duke of Edinburgh (and the corgis), and I wish you all the very best as you prepare for your first Christmas as our sovereign. I will be listening keenly to your inaugural Christmas message. You will do marvelously well. I know your father would be very proud.

I have the honor to remain, Your Majesty’s most humble and obedient servant,

Charles Bullen

I read the typed page to check for mistakes, and then read it again, and once more, as an idea lodged in my mind. A ridiculous idea. An exhilarating idea. It stayed with me all morning, long after I’d dropped the letter onto Mr. Maguire’s desk, until I couldn’t bear it any longer.

I found an excuse to take some paperwork to the boss’s office and, heart in my mouth, took my chance.

“Where are you going now, Carter? Doesn’t anybody do any actual work around here?”

“Lavatories, Mr. Maguire. Got my monthlies early.”

He waved me on, a mortified flush blooming in his cheeks. “There’s no need to announce it to the entire office.”

I hurried up the three flights of stairs and knocked on the boss’s office door. Mr. Harding waved me in without even looking up.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Harding. Olive Carter. Trainee reporter.”

“How can I help you, Carter? I’m afraid I’m rather busy. Is there something for me to sign?”

Tom Harding was an old softie, a veteran of two world wars who everyone loved. He’d appointed his son to run his newspaper, the London Daily Times , and had joined the BBC’s home affairs department just after the war.

“I hear Charlie Bullen can’t go to Sandringham,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as you like.

Mr. Harding ran his hands through his hair and glanced up at me. “Yes. Bloody unfortunate, and everyone else is ill or has left the city to get away from the fog. And with this being the queen’s first Christmas and everything...”

“ I can do it.”

He rummaged for something in his desk drawer. “Do what ?” He stopped rummaging and looked at me. “Have we met before?”

“Yes. You hired me last month. I was in the typing pool previously.” He nodded, although I wasn’t entirely convinced he remembered me at all. “I can go to Sandringham. Cover the royal Christmas piece for Mr. Bullen.” I sat down in the chair opposite him. “I mean it, Mr. Harding. I can do this! I adore Princess Elizabeth— Queen Elizabeth. I’ve been fascinated by her for years. I know it sounds silly, but I feel like I understand her.”

He laughed. “Those are not exactly compelling journalistic credentials.”

“I mean that I understand her as a woman, not just as a queen. I can look at her differently. See another side to her. A more feminine side. Who is the young woman beneath the jewels and tiaras? What does Christmas mean to her as a wife and a mother—and a grieving daughter—besides all the formal business of being a queen?”

That got his attention. He leaned back in his chair. “Hmm. That might be an interesting angle, I suppose.” He paused for a moment as he studied me. “It’s a very important piece, Carter. Listeners look forward to it every year. I’m just not sure you’re...”

“Ready? I am , Mr. Harding. I am ready. I’ll be a breath of fresh air. Just what we need. Maybe what the queen needs, too? Someone more like her? Well, not very like her, but more like her than Mr. Bullen.” The question and hope in my voice hung in the air between us, entangling with the smoke from his cigarette.

Harding’s face softened. “You talk rather a lot, don’t you?”

“Afraid so. But I’m a good listener, too.”

“Well, I don’t have anyone else I can spare, so I suppose it’s you or nothing.”

“Really? I can do it?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his hands steepled at his chin. “This is important, Carter. Essential, in fact. You are there only to gather notes on the preparations, so that Charlie can record the Christmas special. How the trees are decorated, what traditions they follow, what they will be eating for Christmas dinner—that sort of thing. Nice and light. Nothing too serious. And keep out of everyone’s way. You are not going there to become the queen’s best friend. Understood?”

I nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Our association with the royal family is very finely balanced. One wrong word, one foot out of line, and we may not be invited back.”

“Believe me, if you let me go to Sandringham, I will do everything I possibly can to make sure I am always invited back.”

At this, he burst into laughter. “I have to hand it to you, Carter. You have the confidence and self-belief of someone far more experienced than you.”

I leaned forward and shook his hand. “Self-belief is the only way to get experience, isn’t it? Thank you for the chance. You won’t regret it.” I bumped my hip off the filing cabinet as I made to leave his office, sending a potted plant rocking.

“I’m already regretting it,” he said. “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

I hurried back to my desk, a grin stretching across my face, my mind awhirl. What would my mother say? And Lucy? She’d be so excited. Rosie would be sick with envy when I told her. She was as obsessed with Elizabeth as I was. We’d already picked out our coronation outfits from the Dior collection. Rosie’s mother was a dressmaker and was making us a replica each.

“What’s got into you?” Rosie asked when I slid into the chair at my desk.

I grinned at her. “Christmas spirit, Rosie! One has had a bit of good news.”

“Is one going to tell one’s best friend?”

“Later. Now hush. You’re distracting me, and I’m terribly busy.” I winked at her, eliciting a soft laugh.

At the end of the day, we pulled on our coats, hats, and gloves and made our way out into the gloom. It was worse than it had been earlier. The fog was now laced with smoke from the factories and coal fires burning across the city against the freezing temperatures. We could hardly see our hands in front of our faces as we made our way slowly toward our favorite pub. Everything was muffled by the thick fog, and the roads were almost empty.

As we hurried across the road in front of the pub, we came across a small group of people gathered around a stationary taxicab.

“What happened?” I asked, turning to a newspaper seller beside me.

“Some poor woman got knocked down. Looks to be in a bad way.”

Rosie pulled me away as a bell sounded through the murk and an ambulance approached, but as I stepped around the crowd, I couldn’t help but take a quick glance. All I could see were a woman’s shoes, several Christmas parcels strewn nearby, and a number of striped peppermint lollipops, crushed against the tarmac. But it was a bright red cloche hat in the road that left a lasting impression on me—a burst of color among all the dark and gray.

As we walked away, I wondered who the poor woman was, and who might be waiting for her, peering out into the fog, desperate for her to come home.