Christmas with the Queen

Queen Elizabeth II

St. Mary Magdalene Church, Sandringham, December 1956

I miss Philip terribly. I take no solace from the golden hue of December sun flooding through the stained-glass windows, no joy from the song of a mistle thrush outside, no pleasure from the peaceful solitude of my beloved church. Everything feels less without him here; smaller and quieter. Myself included.

I take a moment alone with my thoughts and my prayers before returning to the house and the children and the business of the crown. I am not ashamed to admit that it sits heavy at times, especially now. I wonder what life Philip and I might have known if we had followed our hearts and settled on the beautiful island of Malta, as we’d planned. But plans are not permanent—they are fleeting moments, a whisper on the wind, a mere possibility. Nothing more. Those of us who see our plans fulfilled might consider ourselves very fortunate indeed.

I make my way back to the house. It is a short stroll along the gravel path that crunches pleasingly beneath my shoes. Soon, the pathways will be lined with local well-wishers, come to catch a glimpse of their royal family as we make our way to church for the Christmas Day service. It is my favorite part of the day, a welcome break between the endless parade of rich food for breakfast and lunch, and a rare opportunity to mingle with local parishioners and to pray and give thanks in our beautiful church.

I call Susan to follow me. She has found something fascinating in a hedgerow, which will no doubt result in her eating, or rolling in, some foul thing. She trots along at my ankles. I can’t help but smile at her jaunty gait. I envy her simple existence.

Back in my study, I push papers around on my desk and let out a long sigh. Susan lies at my feet, chocolate eyes trained on mine, entreating me to suggest another walk before the light fades. I lean down and rub her velvet ears.

“You miss him, too, don’t you?”

She tilts her head slightly, still waiting for the magic word.

I smile. “Soon. I have all these papers to sign first.”

She rests her head on the tips of my toes. It seems we all must wait for the thing we want the most.

The fire spits and crackles pleasantly in the grate as I work. I have asked for it to be banked high, and the heat is a joy at my back. Philip would declare it “bloody stifling” and pull off his jumper dramatically.

I smile at the thought. Dear Philip. He loves nothing better than a stiff breeze in his cheeks, a nip in the air, preferably a howling gale.

I am happy he is back at sea, taking charge of matters, pulling on the loose threads of a naval career he so loved. Philip is like an ocean wave himself, restless and petulant, pulled by forces beyond his control. I know it bothers him at times to live in my shadow, to walk two steps behind, to give me the space to be queen. So it is fitting that he has this time to be himself, to simply be Philip again, and not a Prince, or a Duke, of anything.

I hope he will be happier when he returns, and that we will be happier as a result. Those around me seem to falter at the slightest disagreements and rush to the divorce courts, but there can be no such outcome for Philip and I. We must find a way to make our differences work, because our marriage is not simply about the two of us.

I reach for the photograph on my desk, taken at Balmoral five summers ago, the wind pulling my headscarf, his hands resting on the top of his walking stick. A perfectly normal young couple in love, enjoying the splendor of the Scottish countryside. That was the summer before dear papa died. We had no idea what awaited us in the months that would follow.

“One day at a time, Lilibet,” my father once said when I’d asked him how one learns to be a king or queen. “One day at a time. That is how.”