Buckingham Palace, December 1952
December arrives with a blanket of thick fog and a flurry of activity as the staff begin their preparations for Christmas. I am reassured by the familiar traditions—the arrival of the trees, the planning of menus, the many cards to be signed—and yet even in these well-worn tasks there is change.
I feel my father’s steady hand guiding me as I carefully sign my name beneath the Christmas wishes. Elizabeth R. My new signature feels as strange and unfamiliar as the person I have become.
Elizabeth Regina. Elizabeth II. Queen.
I glance at Grandpa England’s coronation photograph on the desk, and then at Papa’s beside it, and imagine the weight of the St. Edward’s crown on my head. I smile lightly, remembering the time Papa let me try it on. I can hardly believe he won’t be with us this Christmas, can hardly believe such a vibrant happy life was taken by the cruelest of illnesses, leaving me, his eldest daughter, on the throne far too soon. “You can do this, Lilibet,” I hear him say. “And you will be wonderful.”
I dip my head in silent acknowledgment. I can, and I will.
A light knock on the door catches my attention, and one of the groundsmen steps inside. “They’re here, ma’am.”
I put down my pen and stand. “Jolly good. Do they look nice?”
He smiles. “Rather splendid this year, ma’am.”
A sense of childish anticipation washes over me. “Come along then, Susan, Sugar! Time to inspect the trees!”
My dear corgis stir from their slumber beneath the desk at the sound of their names. I rub their velvet-soft ears and take a treat from my pocket as they follow me along the corridors. I hum Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite under my breath, the music still in my ears after a recent trip to the ballet. How can one not be infected by the magic of Christmas, even when one is filled with sorrow.
Downstairs, we are met with a bustle of activity.
The trees are, indeed, magnificent. Three noble firs, grown on the grounds at Windsor Great Park, ready to be decorated in lights and colorful baubles. Holly boughs, fragrant evergreen wreaths, and garlands already drape the fireplaces and the grand staircase. Soon, stuffy old Buckingham Palace will glow with Christmas cheer and sparkle with hundreds of glittering ornaments. A smile crosses my lips.
Philip arrives in a burst of cold damp air, arms full of books on flight and air travel.
“There you are, Lilibet.” He plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Yes. Here I am.”
“This bloody fog is exasperating,” he says. “Damned impossible to fly.”
“Dangerous, too.” I frown as I walk to the window. The government has issued an instruction to the public to remain indoors as much as possible, but many have ignored the plea. There have already been a number of horrible accidents. “I do hope it blows over soon.”
“They expect it to last until the end of the week, at least.” He sighs as he drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Might as well get on with it then, I suppose.”
I look at him. “With what?”
“Your speech, darling.”
My stomach cartwheels at the prospect of the message I am to deliver over the wireless on Christmas Day. I am far more nervous about it than I thought I would be. How truly awful it must have been for poor Papa every year as he tripped and stumbled over his words. “Won’t Tommy handle all of that?”
“Given half a chance, yes. He’d probably read out the bloody thing, too.”
“Philip!” I scold, but I can’t suppress a smile. My husband is wary of certain members of the household staff that I have inherited from my father.
“You must write your own message, before your private secretary puts words in your mouth. Say what you want to say, not what the establishment thinks you should say.”
He’s right. As usual. “Very well,” I concede. “But perhaps a spot of lunch first. I work better on a full stomach. Speaking of which, I still need to decide on the Christmas menus for Sandringham.”
“What’s the decision? Powdered egg or Spam? How many dishes will be comprised mostly of potato?”
I laugh. Rationing is still making formal meals and menus very tricky to plan. The kitchen staff certainly have their work cut out for them. “I think we can do a little better than that. We have some new staff joining the Sandringham team apparently. Maybe they will find something inventive to do with whatever supplies they can acquire.”
Philip laughs. “Inventive? At Sandringham? I’m not sure they’ve even heard of the word. Anyway, come along. I’m famished.”
But that is precisely what we all need to be now: inventive. Traditions may lend us comfort, but as I look out again at the fog obscuring the view of London I know so well, I am also aware that traditions will have to change as we navigate our way through the unfamiliar path that lies ahead.