To Betty, the queen was imbued with majesty and power. To Miranda, however, Elizabeth II had always been a distant royal, someonewho, by accident of birth, had inherited a lot of money and, quite randomly, power. Miranda had worked hard for everything she’d achieved, from getting a scholarship to breaking into journalism. The queen had done absolutely nothing to get to where she was.
‘In the States, we have an elected president,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that more egalitarian?’
‘There’s parliament and the prime minister to do that over here.’ Betty cut a few slices off a giant fruitcake, setting them on a plate in front of Miranda. ‘The monarchy is a figurehead, the guardian of our heritage, of all we hold dear. We’re the lucky ones, working in the palace, seeing her every day. You’ll change your tune once you realize how marvellous she is.’
A sound came from the hallway.
‘That’ll be Lucy, my lodger. She’s just arrived from Cornwall.’ Her smile faded, and she leaned across to whisper, ‘I’m a bit worried about her. She seems to be a bit lost here in London, and she’s spending more money than she has. If you get the chance, have a word with her, ask if she needs any help.’
Betty pulled herself upright in time for a young woman – barely more than a girl – to appear at the kitchen door. Her wavy light-brown hair was long, bearing the kinks of having been pinned up all day, but beneath the drab uniform, she was a beauty, with large blue-grey eyes and a full, wide mouth.
‘Ah, Lucy, dear!’ Betty beckoned her in. ‘This is my niece, Miranda.’
‘Hello.’ Lucy wavered at the door until Betty pulled out a chair. Reluctantly, she took a seat.
‘Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Lucy,’ Miranda began. ‘You’re not from the city, are you?’
With Miranda’s careful questioning, Lucy explained how she wanted to be a singer.
‘I hope you’re ready to stick your neck out,’ Miranda warned as she noted Lucy’s timidity. ‘It’s a ruthless business, if it’s anything like New York.’
But instead of cowering, Lucy sat up straighter, brightening at thechallenge. ‘It’s what I’m meant to be, a great singer.’ Her eyes opened wide, emphatically. ‘And I’ll do whatever I can.’
‘You need to get your foot in the door, befriend anyone who has connections, make yourself stand out from the rest.’
Lucy looked from Miranda to Betty. ‘Do either of you know anyone who can help me?’
‘I can’t help you there, love,’ Betty said. ‘And Miranda’s only just arrived, so I can’t imagine she’ll know anyone yet.’
‘I’ll tell you if I meet anyone useful.’ Miranda met her eyes. ‘But let me know if you need any other help.’
‘Well – oh, I shouldn’t ask...’ She blushed prettily. ‘I wonder, do you have any dresses I can borrow? I need to start auditioning, and my clothes aren’t the right style.’
Miranda laughed, looking down at her own perfectly ironed trousers. ‘I don’t tend to wear dresses, but you’re very welcome to borrow the ones I have.’
‘Why don’t we see if Caroline can run something up for you,’ Betty said. ‘She’s an excellent tailor, and it’ll cost a fraction of what you’d get in the shops.’
‘Wouldn’t she mind? She seems so busy.’
‘Give her a few shillings, and she’d be happy to help.’ Betty glanced at Miranda. ‘And perhaps she can run up a nice skirt for you, too, dear.’ She chuckled. ‘You’re probably used to more racy offices, but I’m afraid Buckingham Palace is just about as traditional as it gets.’
Scoffing, Miranda reluctantly agreed. Just as she’d urged Lucy, Miranda also needed to throw herself into the task at hand.
Even if that meant dressing like the natives.
After dinner, Betty showed Miranda to her room, a smallish box of a place with a sagging green bed.
‘No one’s been in it since Harry left.’ She pulled the bedcovers straight, letting her hand linger on the pillow for a few moments. ‘I’ve aired it, blown the cobwebs away.’
Miranda could only feel glad of it, as the room looked as if it hadn’t been touched for years. There was a row of old board games on theshelf, a model plane, and some books about war. She couldn’t quite remember what had happened to Harry.
Glad to be alone, she began to unpack, holding the photograph of Jack against her chest before setting it on the bedside table. Then she pulled out her trusty notebook and began to make notes for her coronation articles. It was decided that for the weekly articles, she would focus on behind-the-scenes news: affairs, arguments, sabotage, or an uncle with links to the Nazis trying to get back onto the throne – a juicy morsel O’Hara would adore.
Deciding to call him, she went downstairs, finding Betty wedged into an armchair with a battered copy ofLittle Dorrit.
‘Do you have a telephone I can use? I need to call a friend back home, explain that I got here safely.’ She put on her nice-girl smile.
‘A telephone? Why no, dear. All your society friends probably have them coming out of their ears, but there’s a good way to go before I can afford one here. We use the telephone box, back toward the Underground.’ She pointed up the road. ‘There’s a shortcut, an alleyway opposite here, but we don’t take it once it gets dark. You never know who’s lurking in the shadows.’ She started rummaging inside her handbag. ‘I have some spare change – you’ll need it for a call to America.’
