Christmas with the Queen

Epilogue Queen Elizabeth II

Sandringham House, 25 December 1957

T he gentleman from the BBC approaches the desk. He speaks in a low whisper, as if afraid to startle me and send me running into the woods.

“One minute to go, ma’am.”

The entire situation reminds me of a Balmoral stag hunt. Tread quietly. Speak softly. I nod to indicate my understanding, straighten my shoulders, try to ignore the thump of my heart beneath my stiff satin dress. I wish I had worn something less formal. What does one wear for one’s first television broadcast? My mouth feels horribly dry.

“Might I have some water?” I ask.

My request stirs a flurry of activity. The young woman who has been coaching me rushes forward with a glass of water.

“Anything else, ma’am?” she asks.

I shake my head as I take a sip and wish I had accepted Philip’s suggestion of a Dubonnet to settle my nerves.

“You’ll be wonderful,” she whispers. She takes the glass and steps to one side.

“Thirty seconds.”

The man behind the camera adjusts a wire at his feet. I focus my gaze directly at the lens, just as I have rehearsed. I do hope I don’t look awful. One never had to worry about such things when one spoke into a radio microphone.

Philip stands off to the right, arms folded, a bemused smile on his face as he leans against a bookshelf. I honestly don’t know why I let him convince me that it was a good idea for my Christmas Day message to be broadcast live on the television. He can be terribly persuasive when he sets his mind to something. “We need to modernize, Lilibet,” he’d said. “Bring the monarchy right into people’s homes. That’ll show bloody Lord Altrincham and his bloody opinions.”

I try to forget the cruel remarks about my being a “priggish schoolgirl” and steal a glance at a photograph of the children on the desk, and another of Mummy and dear Papa, each item carefully chosen and arranged with exact precision. “Some flowers, perhaps, ma’am? A couple of books?” So much fuss for a few minutes on air.

“Ten seconds. Nine, eight...”

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I have been informed that people at home will see images of the exterior of Sandringham while the national anthem plays.

I think about my grandfather, delivering the first Christmas message exactly twenty-five years ago, his gruff voice crackling over the wireless as if from a different world entirely. I picture Papa sitting at this very desk, stumbling painfully over his words every Christmas Day. It caused him so much anguish; so much worry. “You will do a much better job when it is your turn, Lilibet darling,” he’d said after his first Christmas speech. “You’ll be an absolute marvel.”

“Five, four, three...”

I count the two and one silently in my head as I have rehearsed, take a breath, open my eyes, then turn to the camera and smile.

“Happy Christmas.”