Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 58 Olive

Chapter 58

Olive

Sandringham Estate, December 1957

E vans turned the corner and the now-familiar black gates of Sandringham Estate swung into view. A smile crossed my face.

“There she is, Lucy!” I said, leaning forward to get a better view of the impressive sandstone buildings in the distance, lit by the soft light of early morning. “Like a regal old lady, isn’t she!”

Lucy’s nose was pressed to the glass in the back of the car. She didn’t have to kneel up to see out anymore. She was tall, like her father, and she was growing up fast.

“Will the television people already be here?” she asked.

“I expect so. There’ll be lots of cables and wires and lighting to set up before the broadcast.”

“Will I be able to watch them get everything ready?”

She was such a curious child, eager to understand how things worked.

“I’m sure we can ask someone. But you’re not to get in the way. You were lucky to be invited.”

“Glad to be back?” Evans asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“I am! Sandringham is almost starting to feel like my Christmas home! This is when the countdown starts, when you drive through those big black gates, and I hear the crunch of the tires on the gravel.” I thought of how unsure I had been when I’d burst into Tom’s office five years ago and had practically begged him to send me in place of Charlie Bullen. “There’s something in the air here. It makes me feel like a child again.”

Evans pulled the car to a stop, opened his door, and walked around to open mine. As he did, Mrs. Leonard appeared in the doorway.

“Looks like someone’s waiting for a kiss beneath the mistletoe,” I teased as I took my small case from the seat. Lucy jumped out after me.

Evans blushed. “Don’t be starting that nonsense again,” he said.

“I will keep saying it until the two of you admit you’re madly in love and do something about it! I saw the two of you, inseparable at Andrea’s on opening night!”

At this, he threw his hands in the air in mock despair and returned to the driver’s seat. I watched him wave to Mrs. Leonard as he passed her, and I saw the smile that lit up her face in response. I wondered if I could concoct a plan to bring them together, as I had for my parents. My thoughts flitted back to Jack’s po’ boys and his cookery lessons, how we’d laughed as I’d made a mess of everything.

Life was busy for us both at the moment. After the excitement of opening night at Andrea’s, and a packed restaurant every night since, summer had tipped toward autumn and a busy season of royal functions and banquets to report on—and now, here we were, racing toward the end of another year, the prickle of Christmas in the air. Jack was joining us later, as a special guest of Max Barrington. He’d—quite rightly—insisted Jack should be served from the royal kitchens as a guest, as a way of thanking him for his years of hard work. Mason had been invited, too, but he and Rosie were spending Christmas with her family in Cornwall.

When I stepped inside, I took a deep breath. It was good to be back. The elegant rooms and long corridors hummed to the sound of festive preparations, the rattle of ladders and the clink and clatter of decorations being hauled here and there. A welcoming fire crackled in the grate. Cedarwood smoke scented the air, mingling with the aroma of clove-studded oranges and fragrant bundles of cinnamon sticks tied with crimson ribbon. No wonder the queen loved spending Christmas here. And yet, this Christmas at Sandringham, everything would be very different with the live television broadcast of the queen’s Christmas Day speech.

Preparations were already well underway. The TV crew had arrived the previous day, causing chaos, according to Mrs. Leonard.

“Tearing the place asunder with their cables and microphones and Lord knows what else. Prince Philip finds it all fascinating. Her Majesty isn’t quite so enthusiastic. I suspect she’s nervous.”

Regardless of her nerves, the queen was prepared to embrace change when necessary, to do the right thing for the monarchy. I’d learned a lot from her, but that was perhaps the most important lesson: that what we want, and what we must do, are two entirely different things.

We stepped over snaking wires and long rolls of cable, careful not to tread on or dislodge anything. Two television cameras were already set up alongside several large lights. There was a palpable air of tension about the place.

Everyone was on edge after a few difficult months following Lord Altrincham’s latest scathing opinion piece, in which he’d described the queen as a “priggish schoolgirl” and her style of speaking as “a pain in the neck.” His words were cutting and personal and had clearly hit a nerve. In response, it had been decided that this year’s Christmas message would be televised. Let the people see the queen. Give them access to her home on Christmas Day. It was a risk, but a risk we all hoped would pay off.

Times were changing and, as much as I loved radio myself, it was increasingly considered to be old-fashioned. Having seen how quickly people had flocked to a television set to watch the coronation, the royal family believed they could, once again, use it to their advantage.

“I didn’t realize it would be quite so technical,” Mrs. Leonard said as we avoided another spooling cable. “I can’t help thinking it is all a bit unsavory, all this equipment and intrusion. I worry the intimacy of the Christmas message will be lost among it.”

“I think it will be wonderful,” I said. “Viewers at home won’t see any of the wires and cameras. All they will see is Her Majesty, speaking directly to them. She is the consummate professional. I’m sure she will take it all in her stride.”

“Who will take it all in her stride? Me, by any chance?”

I dipped into a curtsey as the queen entered the library. “Ma’am.”

She wore a stiff sapphire-blue satin dress, belted at her tiny waist, a string of pearls set off perfectly by the sweetheart neckline. Her perfume was bright and floral—expensive Yardley, no doubt. Only England’s finest for Her Majesty.

“Jolly nice to see you, Miss Carter.”

“It’s actually Mrs. Devereux now, ma’am.” I still couldn’t stop smiling whenever I used my new name. Mrs. Olive Devereux. Jack said it sounded positively aristocratic.

“Ah. I see. Very good. Such happy news. My congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“What do you make of the new house guests?” she continued, indicating the television cameras. “They’re quite well behaved, but the dogs have rather taken against them.”

I smiled. “Not too off-putting, I hope.”

“Sylvia tells me I am to ignore the cameras and everyone in the room, and imagine I am speaking to a mirror, or to my husband.”

Sylvia Peters, a colleague at the BBC, had been drafted in to coach the queen specifically on presenting to camera. Sylvia was a pro with many years’ experience.

“They offered to provide me with something called a tele-prompter,” the queen continued, “so that I can read the script, but I have declined.”

“Will you keep your notes on the desk, ma’am. Just in case?”

“I will. But I shan’t use them. There is little point in having a television camera pointed at me if the audience can only see the top of my head while I read from a script!”

Pragmatic as ever. She’d grown in confidence over the years since I’d first met her. She wore her responsibilities as well as she wore her beautiful Dior dresses. The echo of grief that had haunted her first year on the throne had been replaced by a shimmering sense of purpose and duty. I wished her father could see her. He would be so incredibly proud.

“I believe we shall see a little more of you in the new year,” she added. “A television documentary is being planned?”

“Yes, ma’am. We hope to continue the success of the televised Christmas Day speech, to let people know it isn’t a one-off and that they can expect to see you on their television screens more often.”

She laughed lightly. “Not too often, I hope. Besides, I haven’t done it yet. It might be a one-off after all!”

“I doubt it very much, ma’am.”

“Well, it is most kind of you to lend your support.”

Just then, Prince Philip strode into the room, arms full of books. “I brought a few, Lilibet. Wasn’t sure which one you meant. Golly, don’t you look a picture! I could...”

The queen cleared her throat and busily tidied some papers on her desk. “Don’t let me keep you, Mrs. Devereux. Christmas is for family, after all.”

Philip turned as he saw me beside the window. “Ah. Sorry to interrupt.”

I dipped a curtsey as I tried to keep a smile from my lips. “Thank you, ma’am. Your Highness. And a very happy Christmas to you both.”

I returned to my temporary office, where a parcel had been placed on my desk, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a ribbon. On the front was one word. Olive. I knew the handwriting.

I opened the paper and gasped. Grandpa’s Kitchen—Wholesome Southern Cooking, by Jack Devereux. Jack’s cookbook! It was beautifully presented, each recipe accompanied by an illustration of the finished dish, and occasional family photographs of Jack and his grandpa, or Jack in his chef’s whites, and other memories from his time in the royal household. I flicked through the pages, smiling as I saw a recipe for Olive’s Tomato Soup and another for Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s Po’ Boys . But it was when I returned to the front of the book and read the dedication on the title page that my heart lurched.

For my daughter, Lucy. The missing ingredient.

The first flakes of snow began to fall as I looked out of the window to see Lucy and Jack, laughing as they chased the queen’s corgis around the lawns in the falling snow. He’d made it in good time. I smiled, my heart full of love.

I pulled on my coat and hurried downstairs.

The snow sparkled as it fell, coating the gardens with its glittering, bright beauty, making everything new again.

Lucy called me over, her cheeks alight with a rosy glow, her excited breaths drifting skyward. Our girl was blossoming into a bright and confident young woman.

Laughter filled the air as we scooped up the first dredges of snow and threw snowballs at each other. Jack brushed a lock of hair from my eyes as he took my hands. Suddenly, he spun me around in circles until I was dizzy. I couldn’t stop laughing and screamed at him to stop.

“My turn!” Lucy cried, running to join us.

He took her hands, and we twirled and twirled in giddy circles until we fell to the ground, our faces turned to the sky as the lacy white flakes fell around us. The distant sound of church bells and Christmas carols rang through the air.

Jack reached for my hand. “I’m so glad to be with you. With both of you.”

I turned my face to his and squeezed his fingers. “There’s nowhere else we could be, Jack. There was never anywhere else I wanted to be.”