Wartime Princess (3 page)

 

 

I was miserable last night. I have a sore gum, and it hurts to eat. Allah says it's a little mouth ulcer and it will soon go. Little! It feels huge when I run my tongue over it. I'm sure I can feel a dent in the top, like a volcano.

Lilibet was kind to me. ‘I wish I had the ulcer instead of you,' she said.

‘I wish you did, too,' I said, but then I felt mean.

It was such a beautiful, sunny day today. Our cousin Margaret Elphinstone has arrived. She's a lot older than me. I think she's about fourteen, so she's nearer Lilibet's age. But it doesn't matter, because she plays just as much with me. She's fun.

Crawfie drove us in the pony-cart to the village, and bought us some sweets. I love sweets. I usually finish them quickly. Lilibet doesn't. Today I sucked instead of crunching, because of my little mouth ulcer. My sweets lasted much longer than usual! Some village children watched as we left the shop. I waved, and they gave tiny waves back. I suppose they can go to the village shop whenever they like, lucky things.

 

 

A really bad thing is happening. Our country is at war with Germany. Or should that be against Germany? Mummy and Papa are really upset. The news came over the wireless. Germany has invaded Poland, and bombed their biggest city, Warsaw.

Lilibet took me for a walk down to the stables, and told me not to worry. ‘Will they bomb London?' I asked.

She put her arm round me. ‘You mustn't be frightened, Margaret,' she said. ‘We have a fine army protecting us. And our Royal Navy and Air Force.' She smiled. ‘We'll be well looked after.'

I thought about the guardsmen on duty outside our palace. They wouldn't be much help against bombs.

‘Papa's going to be very busy,' said Lilibet, ‘so we must be good.'

After tea, cousin Margaret, Lilibet and I tried to imagine what the war will be like. I sort of pictured swords and armour, like King Arthur, but the others said I was silly.

‘In the Great War,' Lilibet said, ‘thousands of young men died in trenches.'

‘I've seen pictures,' said cousin Margaret. ‘It was horrendous. Thick mud and shooting and explosions. The men lived in damp clothes and they hardly ever had a bath. I heard their feet rotted because they were wet all the time.'

I hope it's a very quick war. I hope none of our brave soldiers is killed.

 

 

Papa made a speech on the wireless last night. He spoke well, though slowly. My poor papa does find it so hard to speak sometimes, and he has help for his important speeches from a man called Mr Logue. Papa has trouble getting certain words out. Not when he reads us stories, though! He reads almost perfectly, then, and he's wizard at doing the voices.

After they played the national anthem, Lilibet asked, ‘Do you think people stand for the national anthem when they hear it on the wireless, as they do in theatres?'

I got the giggles. ‘Imagine people all over the country having dinner, and suddenly leaping to their feet! There'd be napkins and runner beans all over the floor!'

That earned me a stern look from Mummy. When I got a chance, I whispered to her that it was Lilibet who made me giggle.

My sister saw me. ‘What's she saying, Mummy?'

Mummy waved a hand. ‘Nothing, darling. Just Margaret being Margaret.'

Crawfie told us thousands of children are being evacuated. They're leaving London to live in the country. I'm sure they'll love the countryside, especially the children who live in tiny houses in crowded streets. But I'm sad for them, because they'll miss their parents. I know how bad that is, because Lilibet and I miss Mummy and Papa when they go away.

When I said I understood how the children felt, Lilibet said, ‘You think you understand, Margaret, but it's so different for us. When Mummy and Papa go away, we still have Crawfie and Allah and a whole army of people looking after us. And we speak to Mummy and Papa every day, even when they're abroad. Those children have gone to live with strangers, and many of them don't have a telephone. Imagine that!'

I can't imagine that. I do hope the children have a sister or brother, at least.

 

 

We have blackout now. That means all the windows have thick black curtains over them, so no light shows through. Mummy said on the telephone that we must never open our curtains at night to peep out, if the lights are on. The reason for the blackout is so German pilots can't see where the cities are.

I told Lilibet I thought it was a waste of time. ‘If I was a German pilot,' I said, ‘I'd fly over during the day, when I could see everything.'

She laughed. ‘Then you'd be shot down,' she said.

I don't like the sound of this war business. I hate Mummy and Papa being away. I'm glad I have my sister. She's sensible, and she always makes me feel better. Well, she tries to.

I thought cousin Margaret might want to go home, but she's happy to stay. We're going to play circuses tomorrow out in the field. Lilibet will be the ringmaster. She always is. I expect I'll be the dear little naughty pony. Cousin Margaret says that suits me perfectly. What colossal cheek (as Papa would say)!

 

 

Lilibet has been thinking about Prince Philip! I know she has, because she asked Papa on the phone today what would happen to all those fine cadets at Dartmouth, now we're at war. She told me what he said.

‘All those who are trained will join the Royal Navy and be posted to ships.'

‘Will they fight?' I asked.

‘Of course,' said Lilibet. ‘We must all defend our country.'

I don't know how much defending two young princesses can do.

‘Our cousin Philip will go to sea,' she said. ‘I shall write to him.'

Lilibet is very, very good about writing letters. I'm not so good. I mean to write, but there's usually something more interesting to do, and I have to be nagged. Then when I do make an effort, I get told off for not writing more than I absolutely have to. That's not fair. If I'm writing a thank-you letter, surely the most important bit is the thank-you. I can't imagine our grandmother, Queen Mary, wanting to read a lot of chit-chat about what I had for tea. Mummy says that's not the point, and Lilibet agrees. That's hardly surprising, as Granny thinks I'm spoilt, but she's always sweet to Lilibet, who is her pet.

I get annoyed when Lilibet sides with other people. Sisters should stick together.

 

 

I was thinking about sisters sticking together. I used to think that Lilibet and I would always be together. But there will be a time when we can't. One day, when we're quite grown up, Lilibet will have to be queen. Her life will change, and she'll rule the country and the Commonwealth, and be Empress of India. What will I be? I'll just be Princess Margaret Rose. I'll stay the same, for always. Unless I marry a king, of course. But I'm not doing that. It would mean living in another land, away from Mummy and Papa and Lilibet. Oh no.

But if I'm going to stay a princess, I shall make sure I can do all the things I want to when I grow up. I'll go to theatres, and ballets, and balls and parties. I don't want somebody else deciding what I do.

Poor Lilibet won't be able to say, ‘I think I'll go to the ballet this evening.' All her outings will have to be planned, like Mummy's and Papa's are.

When I'm grown up, I'll have my own apartment in the palace, so I can see Mummy and Papa every day, but if I want to go out I'll just order the car and go. I won't ask anybody.

When my sister is queen, I shall show her this diary – well, bits of it – and she'll remember what it was like when we could play and have fun together.

 

 

I was grumbling today because I had to wear a pink skirt and jacket which I don't like, and Crawfie said I was selfish, and I should think of the poor evacuees. Some of them don't even have pyjamas or a change of clothes, and the kind country people who look after them have to find things for them from somewhere. I would willingly let them have the pink skirt and jacket.

Lilibet had a letter from a London friend who's gone to live at her family's country house for the war. They have evacuees staying in cottages in their park.

‘What are the evacuees like?' I asked.

‘Quite good fun, actually,' said Lilibet. ‘But Susan says they've hardly ever seen proper fresh food before. She says they appear to live on fish and chips at home.'

There are fish-and-chip shops in London. I've seen people eating out of newspaper as we've driven past. It smells delicious!

 

 

I can't believe how long it is since I wrote in my diary. I've forgotten half of what we've been doing. Mummy and Papa come up to Birkhall to see us as often as possible. I told Crawfie and Lilibet that when they arrive tomorrow I'm going to beg them not to go back to London.

Crawfie took me to one side and said, ‘Their Majesties would much rather be here with you, dear, but they have their duty to do. The King must be close to his government, and he needs the Queen with him.'

‘I need them with me,' I said.

‘Of course you do, but you have people around you who love you. Spare a thought for the evacuees, who have no family with them.'

I do feel sorry for those children. I wish they could all come and live at Birkhall and be looked after like me.

Later on, Lilibet and I went into the kitchen garden to look for the last raspberries, and she made me promise not to whinge to Mummy and Papa about them coming back. ‘Everybody's doing their bit for the war effort, Margaret,' she said. ‘We can do our bit by being good and not worrying them. They have a lot to worry about already, you know.'

Right then, I decided. I'll do my bit, too. I won't make Mummy and Papa feel bad about leaving us here. I'll do my best to be cheerful and make them happy. I'm good at making people laugh.

 

 

Lilibet practically made our eyes stand out on stalks today. We were all together in the drawing room, and the wireless was on. The announcer said that one of our battleships, the
Royal Oak
, had been torpedoed by a German U-boat – that's a submarine.

Lilibet leapt out of her chair. I've never seen her so angry. Her fists were clenched, and she went on about ‘all those sailors' and how wicked the U-boat captain was. It's really unusual for her to get het up like that.

I said, ‘Come and sit beside me, Lilibet,' and I held her hand. She sat with her lips pressed together, and then picked up her knitting. Mummy's taught us not to show our emotions in public. Even if we're upset, we mustn't cry or get cross. I thought perhaps Lilibet was annoyed with herself for being angry, even though we were in private.

I told her a joke about an elephant and three oranges, but she didn't laugh. So much for trying to cheer people up. It doesn't always work.

 

 

I said I wished the evacuees could come and live at Birkhall, and they are! Well, not in our house, obviously. They're living in cottages on the Balmoral estate, though. We'll meet them one day.

 

 

Mummy said we mustn't complain if we don't always get the food we like. All sorts of things will be rationed, she said, like sugar and butter and bacon.

Lilibet said, ‘But we get lots of our food from our own farms and gardens, so we'll be all right,' and Mummy said, ‘Yes, darling, we shall. Remind me, where is our sugar plantation?' Lilibet couldn't help laughing, but I was wondering about things like icing on birthday cakes, and sugar mice at Christmas.

 

 

Mummy made a speech on the wireless today to the women of the British Empire. The whole household listened, and everyone nodded and smiled and said her voice sounded beautiful. It always does. Lilibet says she has the sweetest voice in the world, especially when she laughs, and I agree.

 

 

There's a show in London at the Victoria Palace Theatre. I wish we could go. It's called
Me and My Gal
, and they do the Lambeth Walk in it.

‘We're experts at that,' said Lilibet, and we taught it to cousin Margaret. She's tall and thin, and as elegant as a grown-up dancer.

We must have looked funny, as we're all different shapes and sizes. Allah laughed at us, so we made her join in, then Crawfie came and she did, too.

I bet we're as good as the dancers on the stage. I bet I could be in that show. Wouldn't that be wonderful! I absolutely love to sing. I'd need some singing lessons, though, I expect.

 

 

Our cousin Margaret's going home in a few days. She says she'll miss us, and we'll miss her, too. We rode out today, and the ponies were especially frisky. It must have been the sunshine, as the weather's been gloomy lately. Afterwards, Lilibet stayed in the yard when Margaret and I went to get hot drinks. As long as she's wrapped up, she doesn't care about the weather. She adores being with horses.

One of the footmen told Ruby he went past a pub yesterday and the people were all singing ‘Rule, Britannia'. Everyone's proud to be British, she says.

Lilibet just peeped out of the window. ‘There's going to be a frost,' she said. ‘It'll be chilly tomorrow.' Of course it will. It's November. It's Scotland. Oh, how I long for London and our own garden. It never seems quite so cold there.