Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 33 Olive

Chapter 33

Olive

London, December 1954

F rost sparkled on the lawns of Green Park. It was a perfect December morning, a nip in the air, the rosy glow of winter sun turning everything to gold.

Rosie looped her arm through mine as we made our way along Piccadilly back to Broadcasting House. “Come on. I’ll treat you to a piece of Turkish Delight from Fortnum and Mason.”

“A piece .”

“Yes! One piece. I’m not made of money! I thought you’d want to celebrate with this being your last afternoon of Miserable Maguire breathing down your neck before you head to Sandringham. You lucky thing.”

“I can’t wait, even if it means putting up with you-know-who.”

Rosie beamed. “I am so proud of you, Olive! This is what you’ve always wanted. A role on the royal beat—even if it’s as Charlie Bullen’s assistant!”

I sighed. “The man is insufferable, but if I have to put up with him to get where I want to be, then so be it. I am finally being taken seriously.”

My “rather unconventional” but wildly successful reporting on the Speedbird flight, and my more traditional coverage of the queen’s tour of New Zealand had impressed Tom Harding and had even caused Maguire to offer a mild compliment. I’d covered a variety of stories since, including the terrible BOAC airplane crash in the Mediterranean, and Roger Bannister’s incredible four-minute mile at Oxford University. I’d approached Tom about covering a story on Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio’s wedding, and on a new American rock ’n’ roll singer called Elvis Presley, but he considered them to be overseas news stories and wanted my focus to remain on home affairs. Although home affairs were far less interesting, I was finally getting noticed. Things were starting to go my way—with work, at least.

My quick trip to the other side of the world last December had taught me a great deal. Mostly, that I didn’t care for turbulence—or for air travel at all, especially after the terrible de Havilland crash in the Mediterranean shortly after I’d returned home—but it had also taught me that, apart from my job, it was my family who made me the happiest. Absence really had made my heart grow fonder. If I’d loved Lucy to bursting before I’d left, I loved her twice as much by the time I returned.

But over the past year, my heart had also felt an absence in another direction.

Toward Jack.

How was it possible to miss someone I’d barely spent the sum total of a week with in the last two years? But miss him, I did. Especially when his postcards arrived with a line or two about their latest port of call, and a silly remark about still not having fallen into the sea. He had even sent a postcard from Balmoral while he’d worked there over the summer, but somehow another year had passed without our meeting. I’d found myself thinking about him more and more, and as I’d watched Lucy turn another year older, I felt his absence in her life more acutely than ever.

Apart from my parents, Rosie was the only person who knew the truth about Jack. She understood my anguish about protecting Lucy, and yet she also knew how my feelings for him had developed.

And now there was another complication: Peter Hall.

Unreliable as ever, he’d disappeared off the face of the earth again after contacting me last year. His job as an airline pilot meant that he was often away, but even that wasn’t an excuse. And then, after months of silence, he’d telephoned a few weeks ago, suggesting we meet at The Thirsty Dog for old times’ sake. When the day came, he’d failed to show up, and I’d returned home embarrassed and annoyed with myself for ever thinking he might have changed. A few days later, a bunch of red roses had arrived, with an apology.

Dearest Carter,

Can you ever forgive me for letting you down? My mother took a nasty fall. Had to rush to the hospital. Give me a chance to make it up to you? I’m at the address below. Staying with my mother until she’s back on her feet.

P x

At first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to forgive him, or give him another chance, but something about the Christmas season and the approaching end of another year on my own made me nostalgic and sentimental, so I’d telephoned and agreed to meet him.

“I suppose a certain someone will be at Sandringham again this year?” Rosie said now, as we turned into Fortnum’s. “Do you think this might be the opportunity to tell him about Lucy?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. And, there’s another slight complication.”

Rosie looked at me through narrowed eyes. “What have you done now?”

“I’ve decided to give Peter another chance.” I knew she would disapprove. I prepared myself for her objections.

“Oh, Olive. Are you sure?”

“Not really, but he apologized for standing me up last week. His mother had a fall.”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “He’s using his mother as an excuse now? Sounds like Peter Hall all right.”

“There’s no harm in seeing him, is there? Maybe he’s changed?”

At this, Rosie laughed. “I’m not sure men like Peter are capable of changing.”

“Well, I’ll never know if I don’t go and see, will I?”

“And if he has changed? What then?”

“Then I’ll have a bit of harmless fun with him. God knows I could do with some.”

Rosie stopped walking and looked at me. “But if you’re having fun with Peter, where does that leave things with Jack?”

“It leaves things exactly as they are now. There’s no chance of anything developing between me and Jack. He’s far too busy to commit to a relationship—let alone fatherhood. Jack is such a huge complication, Rosie. I just want a bit of fun. Is that so terrible?”

“Sex, you mean?”

I batted her arm. “Rosie May!”

“Deny it all you like, Olive. I know you and Peter have unfinished business, so fine. See him. Sleep with him, if you must. But please be careful. Don’t jeopardize whatever you might be able to salvage with Jack for the sake of a quick roll in the hay with Hall. This could all go exactly as you want it to. But it could also go horribly wrong.”

We walked on. “Trust me, Rosie. I know what I’m doing.”

Going to see Peter was really more of an attempt to forget about him than it was an intention to reconnect with him. I felt that I needed to see him to test my reactions and, perhaps, to test his. I hoped I would find him to be the same unreliable Romeo he’d always been, that I would be disappointed by him, relieved to discover there wasn’t the slightest spark of attraction.

The Highgate address he had given me meant taking the underground across London. I doubted myself at every stop and nearly got off several times.

Finally, I made my way out of the station and up the hill. With its eighteenth-century architecture and parks and abundance of trees, Highgate was a pretty part of London. I passed the cemetery and Highgate School. Cyclists whizzed by. Groups of friends stood outside bakeries and greengrocers, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands against the crisp December air. It was a stunning winter’s day.

Too soon, I arrived at the address at Mill Crescent. I took a deep breath, walked toward number 6, and knocked on the door.

A woman around my mother’s age opened it. She had a pleasant face and a warm smile. “Can I help you, love?”

“Hello. I’m here to see Peter?”

“Ah yes. He mentioned a friend would be calling. It’s so good of him to stay while his mother recuperates.” She pulled the door fully open. “Come in, dear. He’s in the front room. I’m his aunt—I shan’t get in your way.”

I stepped inside, and she showed me into a neat little room. “A friend here to see you, Peter. Be nice. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Peter was hunched over a table, doing a jigsaw puzzle. It had been so long since I’d seen him and yet, it suddenly felt like no time at all had passed.

“Hello, stranger,” I said.

He turned and put his hands on his hips. “Olive bloody Carter! Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.” He walked toward me and planted a kiss on my cheek. “You look great,” he said. “Were you always this pretty?”

He didn’t look too bad himself. He was tanned and healthy and his new moustache suited him.

I pulled off my gloves and hat. “I believe I was even prettier back then.”

At this, he laughed. I remembered his laugh, loud and hearty.

“It’s good to see you, Olive. Really good. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Neither was I.”

We looked at each other for what felt like forever, until his aunt returned with the tea, poured us a cup each, fussed about some cake, and eventually left us alone.

“Likes to know who’s who,” Peter whispered. “Keeps tabs on me, and any visitors.”

“And do you have many?” I asked as I took a sip of tea. “Visitors?”

He pushed his hands through his hair. “No. Which is why she’s so eager to know who you are!” He looked at me again. “Christ, Olive. I’ve missed you.”

“Liar.”

He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. I really have.” He took a packet of cigarettes from the table. “Do you smoke?”

I took one and leaned forward to get a light. “Not often.”

“Are you one of those ‘only after sex’ girls? Shame we never got that far.”

“Peter! Stop it.”

He laughed. “Stop what? Flirting with you? Never!”

“This is a nice house,” I said, desperate to change the subject. I could already feel his old charms working on me.

“Our family home. I’m staying for a week or so, until Mother is back on her feet.”

“Peter Hall, the good Samaritan. Who would ever have thought it?”

“I wasn’t so terrible, was I?”

I nodded. “You were rather in love with yourself. And with any pretty girl who happened to look your way.”

He smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I was young and irresponsible. Selfish.”

“And you’re now a responsible, reputable pilot. How things change! I think you’re very brave. After experiencing air travel, I’m quite happy to never go up there again. Especially after that terrible crash last January.”

“The de Havilland flight from Singapore to London? I was supposed to pilot the return flight.”

“Oh, gosh, Peter. How dreadful. I covered it for a news report. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“Bloody awful business. We can’t live in fear of everything though, can we? It’s no good living in what ifs. Might as well lock the door and never step foot outside again.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “Do you ever hear from the old gang?”

“Only Rosie. We work together. And I... ran into Jack recently.”

“Jack Devereux! Blimey. Haven’t heard that name in forever. Dull Devereux. How is he? Still boring as hell?”

“Don’t be mean, Peter. He’s making quite a name for himself as it happens, as a chef in the royal household.” It suddenly dawned on me that Peter wouldn’t know about Andrea. “Oh, you probably didn’t hear.”

“Hear what?”

I paused before continuing. “Andrea died, two years ago. A tragic accident in that awful fog.”

“Bloody hell. That’s rough. Sounds like Jack’s been through a lot. And poor Andrea—she was a nice girl.” He took another long drag on his cigarette. “Anyway, tell me about you! How the hell have you been?”

We talked for a while about casual things, not straying too far into the past, ignoring the obvious questions about the present. I told him about my role at the BBC, and my recent promotion.

“So, is there a husband on the scene?” he asked. “I presume someone has snapped you up!”

I shook my head. “Then you presume wrong.”

“I’m surprised. Heard you’d run off to Cornwall with some new chap you’d met. Maybe I should have snapped you up while I had the chance.”

“Maybe you should.”

“My mother’s greatest disappointment is that I haven’t married and had kids. She’s desperate for grandchildren, but I keep telling her I’m not the family man she wants me to be. Marriage and children—scares the hell out of me.”

“I think it scares the hell out of most people, growing up, facing responsibilities.” I stubbed out my cigarette, regretting having it at all. The taste of nicotine was awful in my mouth. I took a breath, knowing what I wanted to say, but aware of what would probably happen if I did. “I don’t have a husband, but I do have a daughter.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You have been busy. Didn’t have you down as the fallen woman type.”

“Oh, I’m full of surprises, Peter.” I opened the locket around my neck to show him the photograph I kept there. “This is Lucy.”

I was testing him, checking for a reaction, as I always did with men I met. Did they like children, or would they run a mile at the thought of courting a woman with a daughter? I watched Peter closely.

He leaned forward and lifted the locket from my chest, his fingers brushing my skin lightly as he did. “She’s cute,” he said as he studied the photograph. “The same eyes as her mother.” He closed the clasp of the locket, let it fall gently against my chest, and lifted his gaze to meet mine. “What happened? Some lovable rogue leave you in the lurch?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Well, it’s none of my business. And it doesn’t scare me off, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

We talked for a while. It was strange to be drinking tea and eating cake with Peter Hall. He was different from the wild party boy I remembered.

“Anyway, I’d best be going,” I said as we drained the last of the tea. “Thank your aunt for the tea and cake.”

He smiled with that easy charm he’d carried when I first met him. “I hope we can do this again, Olive. Or maybe swap the tea for a drink and dancing? I really have missed you.” He reached for my hands. “We were good together, weren’t we? And I was a fool to let you go.”

“You didn’t ‘let me go,’ Peter. I left of my own choice.”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “I didn’t think I’d get a second chance, but maybe I was wrong?”

The lilt of hope in his question hung in the air between us as I scribbled my telephone number on a piece of paper.

A smile lit up his face when I handed it to him. “Is that a yes? A second chance?” he said.

“It’s a telephone number, for now.”

As I walked down the garden path, he called out, “She’s beautiful, your daughter. Takes after her mother. If the father is still around, he’s an idiot for walking out on you both.”

I turned to look at him, then closed the gate behind me and walked down the street, the thump of my heart matching the beat of a sudden heavy rain shower against the pavement.