Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 20 Olive

Chapter 20

Olive

I woke early the next morning. The swelling on my ankle had come down a little and the pain wasn’t as bad. I washed and dressed, tidied away the few things I’d used, and sat by the window to wait for Evans to arrive as I read over the piece I’d typed up for Tom.

I was pleased with it. I’d focused on the monarch’s Christmas Day message and the important role the BBC played in broadcasting this, and other historic moments, to the nation. And I’d shared an intimate portrayal of the queen, and how much it meant to her to honor her father’s legacy, and to speak to the nation. All I needed to do now was prove to Tom Harding that I could deliver the piece for broadcast as well as I could write it.

I used the telephone in the cottage to place a call to Broadcasting House. I’d realized that if Rosie could get me a dictation machine, I could record my piece and present it to Harding in a way that would be much more powerful than giving him a typed script.

“Rosie. It’s Olive.”

“Olive! I thought you’d been kidnapped! Where are you?”

“I’m still at Sandringham. It’s a long story. I’m heading home today but I need you to do me a favor.”

I explained about the dictation machine and arranged to meet her later, in reception.

“Anything else happen?” she asked. “Did you see Jack?”

“Yes, actually, I did.”

“And?”

“And nothing. It’s too late, Rosie. He’s a grieving widower. And even if he wasn’t—that ship sailed a long time ago.” There was no sound from the cottage next door. Jack must have left early for his shift. Neither of us had asked for the other’s telephone number or address last night, so we had no way of keeping in touch. It had been a fleeting reunion. That was all. “It’s probably best if I forget I ever saw him again.”

“But don’t you think you should—”

“I’d better go. The driver is just here. I’ll see you later.”

I’d written a powerful piece for Tom Harding, so even if I hadn’t done everything I’d come back for, I had that, at least. Now, I just wanted to get home to Lucy and have a quiet family Christmas.

As I hobbled to the door, I saw an envelope on the doormat. My name was written on the front. I opened it and pulled out a page of writing paper with the Sandringham Estate header. On it was written Recipe for Shrimp and Grits with a list of ingredients and instructions. It was good to see you again! J

I returned the page to the envelope with a smile. Jack had clearly forgotten I was a terrible cook. I could barely manage to make an edible tomato soup, let alone shrimp and grits, but I was touched that he’d thought about me.

Evans helped me into the car and made sure I was comfortable before we set off.

“Now, miss. I finally have a bit of time, so if there’s anything last minute you need to pick up, let me know and we can make a detour.”

“Well, this is very presumptuous of me, but would it be possible to stop by Broadcasting House when we get to London? There’s something I need to drop into work. I won’t be long.”

“No problem at all. As a matter of fact, it gives me the perfect excuse to pop to Hamleys and pick up a few things for the grandchildren. I spoil them rotten!”

I hadn’t been back to the office since I’d heard my piece credited to Charlie Bullen, and I was still furious about it. I hobbled inside on the crutch I’d been given, met Rosie, and found a quiet room to record my new piece before making my way to Tom’s office.

“Carter! What are you doing here? I thought you were out of action.”

“I was—I am. But I wanted to give you this.”

“What is it?”

“A piece I worked on while I was at Sandringham. Since my last report was considered so helpful, I thought you might like another. I’d be perfectly happy for my own name to be attached to it. Unless Charlie would prefer to take the credit again?”

Mr. Harding at least had the grace to look embarrassed. “Ah, yes. About that. It was all very last minute. We decided to use your report after all, and it was too late to change the listings and...”

“You don’t need to explain, Mr. Harding. I understand exactly what happened.” I took a breath to stop myself saying something I might regret. “This new piece is about traditions and the importance of the Christmas Day message, and how the monarchy and the BBC help us come together as a nation—and as a family—in these historic moments. In fact, I spent some time with Her Majesty. It’s all here, in my report. I’ve also recorded it on the dictation machine, in case there was any doubt about my ability to be put in front of a microphone.” I placed everything on his desk. “I suspect it’s far too late to be useful for this year, but I wanted to give it to you, nevertheless. I’m ready to do more, Mr. Harding.”

He looked at me a moment and smiled. Harding was an intensely private man. Rumor was he’d gone through hell in the Great War when he was young, suffered from shell shock for a while, but he had a good heart and a soft center. “You remind me a little of my wife, you know. Just as stubborn and absolutely determined to get your way.”

“I’m honored,” I said. “I’ve read all her Genevieve Wren pieces.” “A Woman’s War” had been a very popular and—for the time—ground-breaking column Evie Elliott had written under the pseudonym Genevieve Wren during the Great War. She was considered a trailblazer for women in journalism and had a legion of admirers—myself included.

“Is that so? I must tell her!”

He picked up the items I’d placed on his desk. “Very well, Carter—I’ll listen to your recording, but I don’t know that I have space for it in this year’s Christmas schedule, even if I like it.”

I was disappointed to hear that, but at least I’d gained his attention. “But if you like it, I could record another piece, for another occasion? The coronation is coming in June.”

“Let’s not push it, shall we?”

I smiled and hobbled to the door.

“Happy Christmas, Carter. Enjoy the few days’ rest. We’ve a busy year ahead with the royal family. First the coronation, and then there’s talk of an ambitious overseas tour.”

It was a busy royal year I fully intended to be part of. “Happy Christmas, Mr. Harding.”

Christmas morning started, as usual, with Lucy bounding into the bedroom and bouncing up and down on the bed.

“Wake up, Mummy! It’s Christmas! Father Christmas has filled my stocking by the fireplace. Come and see!”

I pulled her into me and gave her a hug. “Happy Christmas, darling bear. Are you sure it’s Christmas morning? It’s still very dark outside.” I reached for my watch. It wasn’t yet six. “Why don’t you try and sleep a bit more? Tell me when you see the first bit of daylight.”

She was restless and excited and fidgeted beside me as I dozed.

“Mummy! Mummy! It’s daylight. Look!”

I gave up, hauled myself out of bed, threw a blanket over my shoulders and trudged, bleary-eyed, downstairs, where we followed our tradition of sharing an orange while Lucy opened her stocking. No pony had arrived down the chimney, but there was a special note from Father Christmas to tell her she would be starting riding lessons, which was the next best thing. My heart burst as I watched her. My gorgeous girl. My precious gift.

There was a lovely simplicity to our family Christmas, especially after all the rigid formality of Sandringham. Breakfast in our pyjamas, a walk before our slightly chaotic lunch of goose and all the trimmings—overcooked sprouts, slightly soggy swede, almost burned roast potatoes—then Christmas pudding and Harveys Bristol Cream as we settled in front of the wireless for three o’clock.

I was so nervous on the queen’s behalf. Now it was my turn to shush my mother as the national anthem played and we waited to hear her voice.

“ Each Christmas, at this time, my beloved father broadcasted a message to his people, in all parts of the world. Today, I am doing this to you, who are now my people. As he used to do, I am speaking to you from my own home, where I am spending Christmas with my family. And let me say at once I hope that your children are enjoying themselves as much as mine are... ”

As she spoke, I followed the words quietly along with her, willing her to do well, to not stumble as her father had so agonizingly done. Her voice was a little higher than when she’d rehearsed, lifted a tone by her nerves. She sounded so young, vulnerable in a way, and yet serene.

I needn’t have worried for her. For the full six minutes and eight seconds of the broadcast she was pitch perfect, relaxed, and yet perfectly regal. She was a triumph.

My father patted me on the arm. “Well, love. Whatever you said to her worked a treat.”

“I can’t really take any of the credit, Dad! I only gave her a few bits of advice.”

“But it’s not everyone who can say they advised the queen, is it? Give yourself some credit. Your mother certainly will. She’ll claim it was all down to you.”

My mother told him to stop being silly.

While my parents dozed that afternoon, and Lucy played with her presents, I took a moment alone. I added the latest newspaper clippings to my royal scrapbook, along with the cutting from the Radio Times for the piece I’d written that Maguire had presented. It might have had Charlie Bullen’s name attached to it in the listings, but I was determined that next year it would be my name, my voice.

While I didn’t envy the queen her grand homes or her Dior dresses or jewels, I did envy the sense of purpose she had and the path that was mapped out for her: a husband, two children, a carefully managed schedule, a diary full of appointments, a lifetime role of queen stretching ahead. I seemed to have only questions: What would the new year bring? What would I be doing this time next year? I certainly hadn’t expected this year to end with Jack Devereux strolling back into my life, and I wondered if there was more yet to our story, more surprises for the new year to deliver.

As I tipped the contents of the satchel I used for work onto the bed, a pocket lighter tumbled out—the lighter Jack had used to start the fire in my cottage. I must have picked it up when I was gathering the rest of my things. As I turned it over in my hands, I noticed an engraving on the back. To darling Jack. The light of my life. Andrea. X

My breath caught in my throat as the words engraved themselves onto my heart in sharp, painful scratches. I’d made the best of things, but sometimes I longed to be the light in someone’s life, to be loved, and to love in return.

And, although Jack didn’t know it, there was another light in his life.

I took the locket from my bedside table and opened the catch. The photograph of the little girl inside, the little girl Jack had admired was, in fact, his daughter.

Our daughter.

The light of my life.