Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 53 Olive

Chapter 53

Olive

Sandringham Estate, December 1956

A s the car moved through the Norfolk countryside, I gazed out of the window and thought of Jack. The months we’d already spent apart had only made me miss him more, and I was miserable, despite the approach of Christmas. According to the itinerary of the tour, he would be in the Southern Ocean now, headed for the Chatham Islands, where the duke would deliver his own part of the annual Christmas Day message.

Jack seemed so impossibly far away. Half a day, in fact. I often found myself calculating what time it was for him, twelve hours ahead of British time. His Christmas Day would be over before ours had hardly begun. Just like our chance at being a family was over before it had hardly begun.

Rather than bringing us closer together, as I’d hoped it would, telling Jack about Lucy had crushed him, and now he was halfway around the world, and furious with me. With no way of contacting him, there was nothing I could do but wait for him to return in February, and hope that, by then, he’d had time to understand, and to forgive me. The alternative was too awful to think about.

I let out a long sigh, hardly noticing we’d arrived as Evans pulled the car through Sandringham’s gates.

“Not like you to be so quiet,” he said.

“Sorry. I was miles away.”

“Halfway around the world I’d say, judging by the look on your face.”

Did he know? I offered a half-hearted smile. “Indeed.”

Inside, I took a moment to pause and appreciate where I was before I headed to the small room that had been set aside for me to work in. An office of my own. It was a far cry from my first Christmas here, blundering around the kitchen and attempting to speak to anyone who would respond to me. I only wished I could tell Jack about it all: how Charlie Bullen had retired—at last—and how Tom had offered me the position of royal correspondent on a permanent basis.

I still couldn’t get used to the idea that Charlie’s desk at Broadcasting House was now mine. I would never be fond of the man, but I was at least able to respect his years of dedication to the BBC, and to the monarchy. Rumor was it that it had pained him to see the royal family’s relevance being questioned, and the way the press increasingly speculated about their private lives, and he couldn’t bear to be part of it anymore.

Finally, all the potential I’d shown was being recognized. I had a weekly radio broadcast called Royal Roundup , and my more in-depth studies on different members of the royal family had been widely regarded as refreshing and modern. A new take on an old institution. The queen and her staff trusted me, it seemed, and trust went a very long way in securing the smaller details and shared intimacies that allowed me to show the royal family not just as static images on postage stamps and commemorative teacups, but as real people, with hopes and fears, and flaws.

I was working on a piece for a Christmas week broadcast about the duke’s tour. My angle was to explore how the temporary space in the royal marriage allowed each to shine individually; Philip especially. For so long, he had been in his wife’s shadow, and the strain was starting to show. Gossip was circulating among the Fleet Street columnists about his roving eye, and the palace hoped that a piece in his favor would help his image.

But it was my appointment at three o’clock that I was most looking forward to.

On the dot, I was escorted to the library, where the footman announced me.

“Miss Carter, ma’am.”

The queen looked up, her face widening into a smile. “Miss Carter! How can it possibly be this time of year already! Goodness, where do the months go?”

I curtsied. “It’s hard to believe, ma’am. But here we are again.”

“And I believe that congratulations are in order.”

“Ma’am?”

“On your new appointment. I heard about Charlie’s retirement. I was very pleased they passed the baton to you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I hope I can fill his shoes.”

“More than adequately, I should say.” She picked up her papers from the desk. “You will be pleased to know that I have a thorough first draft this year. When I sat down to write it, I knew precisely what I wanted to say.”

I settled in the chair opposite, notepad poised on my knee as she read her script aloud.

It was surprisingly tender and moving. There was something especially heartfelt about this one as she spoke about spending Christmas apart from her husband. As I listened to the queen’s sentiments about Philip, I felt how closely they chimed with my feelings about Jack.

The emotions I’d tried to keep in check for so long came flooding out.

“Oh dear.” The queen passed me a box of tissues. “That isn’t quite the reaction one hopes for from a Christmas address.”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I don’t know what has come over me.” I dabbed at my eyes and cheeks. “I’m missing someone too, this Christmas. Your words struck a nerve.”

“Is that a good thing, or not?”

“Good, ma’am. Your speech... it’s beautiful.” I finally composed myself.

“And perhaps I have you to thank for that.”

“Me, ma’am?”

“I have rather enjoyed our time together over these past Christmases. You remind me who it is I am speaking to. I know some consider my life to be very detached from reality, but some things transcend status. A mother missing her children. A wife missing her husband. You remind me of the woman I might have been, Miss Carter. And for that, I am grateful.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to such a candid speech and was glad the dogs chose that particular moment to barrel into the room.

“Thank you, ma’am. It is a privilege to be here, to spend time with you.”

“A privilege you have earned through talent and hard work. Never forget that.”

She stood up and called the dogs over, and I returned to my work with renewed clarity and confidence.

My piece on Philip was scheduled to be broadcast a week later. I was proud of it—and even more proud to see my name in the program listings of the Radio Times . I, Olive “Calamity” Carter, had finally made it to the listings alongside David Attenborough, Vera Lynn, and J. B. Priestley. For the first time in months, I felt hopeful, even if I was sick with nerves at the thought of hearing myself speaking on the wireless.

My mother was hysterical with excitement. She insisted on opening a bottle of Asti Spumante to mark the occasion. My radio broadcast was the most exciting thing to happen to the Carter family since I’d won a Scottish dancing medal at school. We weren’t a family of high achievers, which meant that even the smallest thing was seen as a great occasion.

My mother grabbed my arm as my piece was announced. “Oh. Oh. She’s on, Bob! BOB! SHE’S ON!”

I hid behind a chintz cushion and closed my eyes.

“ Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, remains somewhat of an enigmatic figure. Not one to easily conform, he walks a fine line between royal tradition and rebellion, always ready to dismiss the rule book and follow his own path. And that, perhaps, has never been more evident than in the first solo tour that he is currently undertaking in the southern hemisphere. But who is the real man who walks behind the queen, and what roles might we see him take on as the queen looks ahead to another year on the throne... ”

Lucy looked at me, then back at the wireless. “Is that really you speaking, Mummy?”

“Yes, love. It really is me!”

My mother shushed us both and turned the volume up.

It was all over so quickly. After weeks of hard work, and several attempts to get the recorded piece just right, it was done.

I emerged from behind the cushion.

My father patted my arm. “Very good, love. Well done. You’re a natural.”

He did his best to hide it, but I saw the tears in his eyes before he excused himself and took a moment in the kitchen. My silly old dad. How I loved him.

How much I longed for Lucy to love her father as much as I loved mine.

On Christmas Eve, I took the package I’d been saving for weeks from the drawer in my bedroom. I was afraid to open it. Jack had left it for me at the hotel in Cornwall. He must have intended to give it to me after the wedding, as a farewell gift before he departed on the royal tour. When he’d left Cornwall suddenly without telling anyone why, Rosie had found it in his room. It had been with me ever since, tormenting me. On the front, he’d written: Do not open until December 25th!

Since it would already be Christmas Day where he was, I wasn’t technically cheating. I sat on my bed and carefully opened the blue wrapping paper, dotted with miniature whisks and spoons. My hands shook. I hardly dared to know what it was he’d wanted to give to me, or say to me, before I’d ruined everything.

I took a deep breath and unfolded the note inside.

Dear Olive,

I’ll be a thousand miles away by the time you read this, surrounded by blue skies and endless oceans, missing you and imagining you getting ready for Christmas. Let me guess: you’ve been to Liberty and Harrods to see the windows, caught snowflakes on your tongue in Green Park, sung carols (badly) in the little church at St-Martin’s-in-the-Fields, and bought an armful of books in Hatchards. Did I forget anything? Oh, yes. Your cheeks are covered in glitter after making Christmas cards with Lucy!

I wish I could tell you this in person this Christmas. I wish I could tell you all the things I’ve been too hesitant to say when I had the chance but, well, the truth is that I love you, Olive.

I love you!

I LOVE YOU! (yes, I’m shouting!)

When I get back, I hope we can spend more time together so that I can show you just how much you mean to me. In the meantime, I’ve been writing down the recipes from our cooking lessons. A silly thing, but I thought you might like them, enclosed here. Perhaps you can try them out while I’m away.

With all my love, and Christmas wishes,

Your Jack

xxx

My heart sang in my chest as I read his words. He loved me. I laughed and smiled, and wiped tears from my face as I read his notes, titled “Recipes for Olive,” beneath which he’d listed the dishes we’d made together, with notes alongside them.

Might be too spicy for her. Dial back the heat? Maybe something a little more mellow.

Likes—seafood (pre-shelled, doesn’t like to “see their faces and legs”), chicken, beef but only well done (doesn’t like the juices).

Dislikes—lamb (too cute), mushrooms (too slimy), parsley (disgusting), olives (ironic).

I smiled as I read on. He had listened to everything I’d said. He had remembered and noted everything I liked and disliked. Nobody had ever taken that much notice of me before.

Jack was always so precise with his recipes, and yet always willing to make changes and adjustments to get it just right. “It’s missing something,” he would say as he dipped a spoon into his simmering pot, taking a moment before realizing it was salt, or spice, or a splash of burgundy it was missing.

I knew now, with absolute certainty, what was missing from my life—if only he would forgive me.

Jack.

It was, and would always be, Jack.