Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 31 Olive

Chapter 31

Olive

S leeping on the job, Carter?”

I woke suddenly from a daydream in which Jack was kissing me. I sat up in the deck chair and shielded my eyes from the glare of the sun.

“Mr. Bullen? Cripes. Sorry, I must have dozed off for a minute.”

“Yes, I heard some of you had a late night,” Charlie Bullen said, with more than a hint of disdain.

“Late? Oh, that was an early night! All very tame.”

He harrumphed and muttered something about showing some respect.

My cheeks were flushed, either from the sun or from the events of my daydream, I wasn’t sure. And yet, even as Charlie Bullen’s rotten old potato face peered at me from where he sat in his wheelchair beside me, his injured leg held rigid in a cast, my thoughts returned to my dream, and to the pleasant time I’d spent with Jack in the last twenty-four hours. Despite all the complications of being in his presence, and the constant questions in my mind, I still found him impossibly attractive. I wished we could spend more time together; wished I could experience that kiss of his for real once again.

I checked my watch. There was still an hour before we were due to leave the ship. “I was sorry to hear about your accident,” I offered.

“Were you?”

“Of course! Hopefully they’ll get you patched up in the hospital.”

“It seems that you are always around to step in for me. I’d almost think you were planning these accidents.”

At this, I laughed. “I do seem to be taking advantage of your misfortune, don’t I? But, as long as the job gets done—and done well—I suppose it doesn’t really matter which of us is reporting, does it?”

He frowned. “Make sure to include the duke in your reports, as well as Her Majesty. He likes to feel involved.”

I stood. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bullen. I know what I’m doing.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“And good luck at the hospital,” I added. “I would say ‘Break a leg’ but, well...”

His face almost broke into a smile. “You’d better be getting down to the others. We’ll be docking soon.”

As I hurried to my cabin to get the last of my things, my mind returned to my daydream. Memories and moments with Jack swirled like oil in water: VE Day, when we had danced at the jazz club and drank champagne together on Primrose Hill; all the day trips and picnics and walks when he’d been there; that impromptu evening we’d spent together in The Thirsty Dog, an offer of coffee, a beautiful night of passion. Jack had always been there, and yet, our timing had always been wrong.

And here he was, inviting me to meet him in London—but he would be on the tour until May, and he might not have time to meet before he went up to Scotland with the royal family for the summer. At this rate, we might as well agree to meet once a year, at Christmas.

It was impossible to find a way to tell him about Lucy, and yet that was all I could think about whenever we spoke, always looking for a break in the conversation and searching for clues as to his feelings about children. Did he want them? Did he like them? How would a child affect his dreams and plans? Lucy had come so far without a father—and I had always carefully navigated around those who’d judged me or asked difficult questions about my life as a mother without a husband—so there was only one chance to get this right. There was too much at stake, too much to risk, too many people to hurt if I got it wrong. That was why I hesitated.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and though I was excited to have stumbled my way back into this fascinating world of royalty—and was determined to grasp the opportunity—my heart was already counting the days until I could go back to London, to my daughter.

As I rushed along the corridors to the front of the ship, where the press had assembled, I heard a voice call out behind me.

“Happy Christmas, Olive! See you next year!”

I turned to see Jack smiling broadly, his dimples on full display, his tousled blond waves ruffled from running his hands through his hair. “Happy Christmas, Jack!” I called as I waved back to him.

Oh, Jack. If only you knew. If only I could find a way to tell you.

Our pre-arrival briefing had done little to prepare us for the size of the crowds and the sheer excitement of New Zealanders at seeing the queen and the Duke of Edinburgh. Everywhere we went, the route was lined with well-wishers, waving Union Jack flags and cheering as the motorcade passed.

At every stop, every tour and cultural event, every formal reception and dinner, the press area was like a rugby scrum, everyone packed in like sardines as they tried to get the best shot. This was an event of global interest. Most of the world, it seemed, had sent someone to report on it, not to mention all the local newspapers, radio, and television crews. Men teetered on stepladders with their cameras and flashbulbs poised. Cables and wires from television and newsreel teams snaked around our feet. Being small, I managed to tuck into gaps others couldn’t reach, and I crept my way to the front like a mole burrowing its way out of the ground.

The queen was such a diminutive figure, dwarfed by the size of the crowds. I watched in awe as she took it all in her stride, passing bouquets of flowers to her ladies-in-waiting, shaking hands, stopping now and again to chat.

A man beside me spoke into a recording device, taking notes for later. “Nice dress. Off-white in color.”

A woman beside him sighed. “It’s a gown, not a dress.”

I turned to her, and winked. “And the color is champagne,” I added.

We exchanged a smile as she reached past him and offered a hand to me in greeting. “Angeline West. Fashion editor with the Philadelphia Herald .”

“Olive Carter,” I replied. “BBC.”

The man ignored us both. “The gown has local New Zealand floral emblems sewn onto the skirt,” he continued.

“ Embroidered ,” Angeline corrected.

I snorted with laughter, turned on my taping device, and began to record my own notes.

“Our queen is a beautiful young woman, who the many well-wishers in the crowd are thrilled to see in person. For the first time, a monarch has stepped foot on New Zealand soil, and our marvelous Queen Elizabeth is perfect for this historic moment. She is very at ease among the huge crowds.”

“What happened to that old dinosaur the BBC usually sends?” Angeline asked. “Awful man.”

I laughed. “Had a nasty fall. Laid up with a broken leg.”

She looked at me. “What a shame.”

“Yes, isn’t it! I shouldn’t laugh.”

“Well, it’s good to see more women reporters. Madeleine Sommers is here somewhere, too. Do you know her?”

“Madeleine Sommers?” The name was familiar, but I couldn’t remember why. “Didn’t she write about the Hindenburg ?”

“She more than wrote about it, dear. She survived it. I’ll introduce you if I find her. Us gals have to stick together, make ourselves heard. God knows the men have been stomping around with their opinions for long enough.”

She pulled a cigarette from a silver case and offered a “Good luck and merry Christmas!” to me over her shoulder as she rushed off to catch up with her cameraman.

Christmas. It was easy to forget, given the blue skies and summer sun.

And Christmas meant keeping up traditions, regardless of the fact that we were halfway around the world. The queen would deliver her Christmas Day broadcast from Government House in Auckland.

I wished I’d had more time here, more time with her. I felt that she liked me. Even though protocol dictated a certain stiffness and distance, I’d sensed a warmth from her this year that I hadn’t felt the year before. Jack had remarked on how much more at ease she and the duke were at sea. I’d wanted to tell him how much more relaxed he seemed, too, but the best I’d managed was to tell him it was nice to see him laughing again.

It was hard to think about Jack so often and yet know that it would be a long time before I might see him again. What if he met someone in the meantime? What if he stayed behind on some Pacific island?

Suddenly, I felt a rush of panic. What if I never got the chance to tell him about Lucy, never got the chance to introduce her to her father?

At the hotel where we were staying for the night, I took a sheet of writing paper from the desk drawer and wrote a letter to Jack. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, but I knew I had to say something before I returned to England. I agonized over the words for an age, then scrunched the page up and started again. In the end, I kept it short and simple. I would pass it to a member of staff to give to him back on the ship.

Just as I was done, the telephone in my room rang.

“Hello?”

“Miss Carter. This is Michael Charteris, the queen’s press secretary. Sorry to disturb you, but Her Majesty has asked for your attendance at a final run-through of her speech for tomorrow. There’ll be a car outside in five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“Yes, miss. But if you could be downstairs in four, even better.”

I was downstairs in three minutes.

The car took me to the official government residence, where the royal party were spending the night. I was shown into a surprisingly informal room and found the queen sitting behind a desk.

I was introduced. “Miss Carter, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” The queen looked up at me and smiled. “Thank you for coming, Miss Carter. This is becoming something of a tradition, isn’t it. You and I.”

“It is, ma’am.”

“I shan’t keep you long.”

“Take as long as you need, ma’am.”

Once I was seated, she cleared her throat and started to read her prepared script. It was a marked improvement on the version I’d heard a couple of days ago, and her delivery was so much more composed and confident than it had been the previous year.

I dared to tell her as much, offering my praise as respectfully as I could.

“I have had rather a lot of practice since last Christmas,” she said. “I seem to give a speech about something or other almost every week. And the sunshine here helps, don’t you think? It is a little easier to relax when one’s shoulders aren’t hunched against the cold draughts from the windows.”

I smiled. “It’s certainly very pleasant here, ma’am, although I must admit I miss the chill of an English Christmas.”

I concentrated as the queen read on.

“So this will be a voyage right round the world—the first that a Queen of England has been privileged to make as queen. But what is really important to me is that I set out on this journey in order to see as much as possible of the people and countries of the Commonwealth and Empire, to learn at first-hand something of their triumphs and difficulties and something of their hopes and fears. At the same time, I want to show that the crown is not merely an abstract symbol of our unity but a personal and living bond between you and me.”

Once more, I was struck by her sense of duty and certainty, and how she’d put her own hopes and dreams aside to take on this enormous role.

“It’s perfect, ma’am,” I said when she had finished her final read-through.

“Thank you. Philip helped—even though I didn’t ask him to.” She smiled to herself.

“It must be a great help, to have his support,” I said, and then wondered if I’d overstepped the mark.

She looked at me, a little surprised by my candor. “Indeed. Life’s experiences are always much better when shared, don’t you think?”

Her words pricked my heart as I thought about Lucy, and all the moments we’d shared together, and all the moments she would never have with her father. Jack had whirled back into my life like a summer storm, and I was once again faced with the questions that had plagued me since my darling girl was born: was I wrong to have taken the years from them both? Was it too late to change things?

And most of all, would Jack ever forgive me?