Christmas with the Queen

Queen Elizabeth II

Royal Yacht SS Gothic , South Pacific, December 1953

L ondon’s stuffy obligations and gray winter skies feel like a distant memory as I gaze out from the deck of SS Gothic and see nothing but sparkling blue water and cloudless skies. I capture the view on the cine camera dear Papa gave to me as a wedding gift, “to capture life’s happiest moments.” I sometimes imagine myself as a much older woman, looking back on these films of Philip and I, in the flush of our youth. I wonder what lies ahead for us. The death of my dear grandmother, Queen Mary, earlier in the year, was another great loss to the family. The old guard are slowly departing, and I must press on, without their steady hands to guide me.

I close my eyes and let the warm sun flood my face. Despite the approach of Christmas, there is no mention of steamed puddings or hearty stews and soups, no familiar festive scent of cinnamon or ginger. Here, we dine on freshly caught seafood, vibrant salads, and platters of exotic fruit. I must have lost a stone in weight already, despite eating heartily to sustain the energy needed for all the shaking of hands and smiling and polite conversation.

Dear Philip is in his element, back on the water where his soul belongs. He is proving to be a wonderful support. Charming as ever, if a little unpredictable at times in his chosen line of conversation. I remind him, occasionally, that we are always being watched, the press waiting for the slightest misstep. And he reminds me that he doesn’t give two figs about the press. “Damned vultures, circling a kill.” Philip hates the intrusion my unexpected ascension has brought into our now very public lives. Being at sea gives us both a chance to escape from it all for a while—until the next port of call, at least.

We have already covered so many miles, across the crystalline blue-green waters of the Caribbean, through the Panama Canal, and along the bottom of the world toward Fiji and Indonesia. I have learned so much about the people and nations of the Commonwealth. Our next stop is New Zealand, where I will broadcast my Christmas Day message from Government House in Auckland. I will be the first monarch in history to visit the country, which lends its own particular excitement and anxiety. We will visit some forty-six towns and cities, and have over a hundred scheduled functions to attend. I’ve heard they are even dying the sheep red, white, and blue to mark the occasion.

I have been working on my speech for several weeks, but I fear I have yet to hit the right note. It is difficult to concentrate when one is so consumed with learning the latest country’s customs and culture, so as not to offend or embarrass. Besides, it is hard to think about Christmas while I gaze out upon tropical seas and feel uncommonly warm.

I find myself wishing that a younger woman, perhaps someone like Olive Carter from the BBC, could be with me again. I found her practical manner and steady encouragement most fortifying at Sandringham last year. Instead, I am accompanied by a pack of press men of a certain age, most noticeably Charlie Bullen. My father always found him quite amenable, but I must admit that I struggle to like him. It is very trying at times to be around the old establishment, but as Philip reminds me, they will not be here forever. “Stay on the throne long enough, darling, and you will have your pick of who you want around you.”

A light cough behind me interrupts my ponderings, and I glance over my shoulder.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Philip says as he joins me at the railing and places his arm around my shoulders. “You look nice.”

“Do I? I feel rather dull compared to the photographs of Margaret they keep putting in the newspapers.”

“Margaret is Margaret. Don’t compare yourself. Besides, the sun on your cheeks suits you. You are positively glowing.” He thinks for a moment. “Bloody hell. You’re not expecting again, are you?”

I laugh. “No. A woman can glow for other reasons.”

“Evidently.” Philip gives me that look I have come to recognize, a twinkle in his eye that makes my pulse quicken a little.

I smile and rest my head on his chest. “The ocean is so beautiful, isn’t it? No wonder you loved being in the Navy.”

“Shall we stay here?” he says. “Run away. Leave crumbling old Buck House and the crown jewels to the rats?”

“Tempting, isn’t it? But I rather think we should go back, for the children at least.” I smile.

He lights a cigarette and leans against the railing, his back to the ocean, his face turned to mine. “Must we? I’m sure they can manage with Nanny Busybody and their aunt Margaret to corrupt them.”

“Philip! It’s Nanny Lightbody. You mustn’t call her that!”

I scold him playfully, but I love him with all my heart. I would happily run away with him. I would go anywhere with my darling Philip by my side.

Although I know it is impossible for the children to be here, I still feel a nagging seed of guilt at being away from them. Six months is such a long time when they are so very small. Philip says I worry too much, that they’ll be having a marvelous time being spoiled rotten and eating far too many cakes, especially if Margaret has anything to do with it. Philip doesn’t worry as much as I do, having had a rather disrupted childhood himself.

Mine, on the other hand, could not have been happier. I have such fond memories of playing with Mummy and Papa at our beloved family home at 145 Piccadilly, how Papa would chase me and Margaret around the garden, and pull us along in the little trolley Grandpa England gave us for Christmas. Of course, our governess, dear Crawfie, was always on hand, but it is our family time with Mummy and Papa I remember the most. I hope my children will have the same lasting memories of happy, carefree days with Philip and I.

“Well, let’s enjoy it while we can,” he says as we steam ahead. “We can just be Philip and Lilibet again, for a while.”

I loop my arm through his. “Lilibet would like that very much.”

The gong rings for dinner.

“Best not keep the chefs waiting,” I say. “You know how precious they are about their creations.”

Philip taps me on the rear as I turn toward the stairs.

“Philip! Behave!”

He roars with laughter.

I do love him so, the silly old thing.