Chapter 2 #2
With a mocking look, he shook his head. ‘There is nothing more taxing than giving people a seat they think is beneath them.’
They vanished through the secret door and headed into the back corridors. As they passed elaborately uniformed footmen, butlers and maids, it felt as if they were backstage in a theatre.
‘You’ll have to convince the minister you’re up to the task,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure he’ll be too happy about leaving a woman in charge of it, and an American, at that.’
Irked by this doubt in her abilities, she reaffixed her glasses. ‘My mother was British, and I’m a citizen. Plus, she taught me how to make a decent pot of tea, which I gather is the greatest test of them all.’
He chuckled. ‘You gather correctly.’
As they continued down the corridor, she asked, ‘And how are you involved with the coronation?’
‘I’m looking after the diplomatic side of things – the dignitaries coming from abroad, organizing where they’ll stay and dine, how they’ll get to and from the abbey.’
‘That sounds like a lot of tedious work, telephoning all those hotels and restaurants.’ She laughed. ‘I’d much rather be organizing the stands.’
‘It won’t be me who does the telephoning,’ he said frostily. ‘I’m a diplomat. I manage assistants to do that kind of work.’ As if to prove this point, he began to flick through the folder of papers, too busy for her.
They came to a wider corridor, doors on either side opening into offices – some larger ones, busy with desks and people, and others small, containing a single desk for a manager.
‘Here’s where the preparations and politics take place. The offices at this end are dedicated to the coronation, and at the other end is the Privy Purse along with the advisors’ offices.’
The main coronation office was the largest, filled with desks and filing cabinets, a series of cordoned-off desk spaces on the far side.
In the centre of the room, suited men of various ages stood around a large table discussing a document.
Towards the door, a middle-aged woman with pursed lips typed rapidly, the noise like a thousand marching insects.
As Sinclair led her through the tables and desks, Miranda asked, ‘Why don’t they use the plans from the last coronation, or the one before, Edward’s one that didn’t happen?
’ She’d read about it. There had been that sensational abdication: ‘Selfish and bad’ King Edward had fallen in love with an American divorcée and had to give up the throne to his ‘stuttering but good’ brother, King George.
‘Fifteen years is a long time,’ Sinclair said stiffly. ‘Everything needs to be reviewed and modernized.’
Miranda looked around the antiquated office. ‘You can say that again!’
Without so much as acknowledging this, he gestured to a desk not far from the spectacled woman. ‘This is where you’ll be.’
‘And where do you sit then, Mr Sinclair? Or do you have a separate office?’
‘I have one of the cordoned-off desks on the other side of the room.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But as I said before, I’m working on something completely different from you, so I can’t imagine our paths will cross.’ And with that, he said, ‘Good day, Miss Miller,’ and stalked off.
‘It’s Miranda,’ she said to his disappearing figure.
She pulled out the chair and sat down. With no work to do, nothing to even look at, she found her eyes straying to the group of men standing around some plans in the middle of the room.
Suddenly, one of them lowered his voice, the others crowding closer, and if ever anyone liked a secret, it was Miranda.
Deciding to look inside a nearby filing cabinet, she moved soundlessly behind them, ears open for any snippets of their conversation.
‘We’re dealing with people at the very top, and they’re being very cagey,’ one of the men was saying. ‘Impossible to get anything out of them.’
Another one lowered his voice. ‘Is it because of the rumours?’
‘What rumours?’ the first man whispered.
‘Some people are saying the queen isn’t strong enough to reign, that she’s too easily swayed, especially by her husband – and we all know who’s behind Philip, don’t we?’
‘Don’t we just!’ one of the other men replied.
What are they talking about? Miranda thought.
‘And then there’s Edward,’ the man whispered. ‘He still has his eyes on the throne, wanted to step in when his brother became ill.’
Edward? Miranda scoured her brain. Could they mean the queen’s uncle, the king who abdicated to marry Wallis Simpson?
‘His supporters are using Elizabeth’s weakness, saying she isn’t experienced enough. They want him to step in as a regent and look after the throne until she’s older.’
‘But what about his part in the war?’ an older one said.
‘What part?’
He lowered his voice. ‘Edward helped Hitler in some way or other, hoping to claw his way back to the throne should Hitler take Britain.’
The other men looked shocked, as did Miranda. She’d have to look into that later.
On her way back to her desk, the typing woman looked inquisitively at her, repositioning her glasses.
Friend or foe, Miranda thought. Only one way to find out.
‘Hello there, I’m Miranda.’
The woman’s mouth shifted from a shocked O into a curiously impish smile. ‘You must be Betty’s niece. I’m Hilda.’
Just like that, Miranda made her first connection, and bingo! Hilda could be precisely the type of friend she needed.
Miranda lowered her voice and asked, ‘I don’t suppose you have time for a quick chat, do you? I don’t know a thing about the royals and already feel a little lost.’
‘Anything you want to know, just ask away.’
And so Miranda did just that, beginning with, ‘Do you know anything about Edward’s trying to get back on the throne?’
The older woman’s eyes lit up, and the more Miranda learned, the more she rubbed her hands with glee.
This was precisely the kind of intrigue that O’Hara would adore.
AS SHE TIDIED HER desk at the end of the afternoon, Miranda couldn’t help thinking how much more efficient the office would be if it weren’t for the clunky palace bureaucracy.
What a curious place, she thought as she hurried to Victoria Station, where she retrieved her suitcase from the luggage room and made her way to Betty’s house.
Camden couldn’t have been more different from the Upper East Side, where she’d been staying with her wealthy friends.
Although Miranda hadn’t come from class, she’d been educated into it.
It had taken hard work to get a scholarship to college, but she knew it would be her path to freedom.
After her mother’s car accident, her father had fallen apart.
In his absence, Miranda had to take the reins and look after herself.
It taught her to be determined, and if she had to fit into Betty’s old terraced house for a while, so be it.
The door was opened in a rush of great enthusiasm by Betty. ‘A very big welcome to you, Miranda!’
Although greyer and rounder, Betty was just as jovial as Miranda remembered, and she gathered Miranda into a firm embrace before propelling her down a corridor to a large, cluttered kitchen.
The place was homey and warm, a waft of a meat stew cooking on the stove.
Miranda hoped that Betty’s cooking had improved since her last visit, when she’d been given jellied eels and pickled eggs.
‘Let’s get you warmed up.’ Betty sat her down at a table coated with flour. ‘You’ll have to put up with a bit of chaos – I’m always in a rush, it seems, with my job and volunteering with the shelter. I’ve given you Harry’s old room, and there’s an extra wardrobe at the top of the stairs.’
‘I was sorry to hear about Harry.’ Miranda couldn’t remember the details of her cousin’s death, another casualty of the war, but her aunt was busy clearing the table, wiping away the flour and moving a brutish-looking cactus to a windowsill.
‘Thank you, and now I have you here, Miranda. There’s nothing quite like family.’
‘Well, we don’t actually know each other all that well—’ Miranda began.
But the older woman stopped her. ‘We’re still family, no matter what, dear.
Do you remember when you were last here, with your mum?
You must have been only eight or nine.’ She stared at her for a moment, as if trying to see a resemblance.
‘We were so close, your mother and I. A sister is a valuable thing.’ She shook herself and moved the cactus onto a cluttered sideboard.
‘We’ll be thick as thieves before you know it.
’ She nodded decisively. ‘Anything you need, and I’ll be there. ’
Miranda got up to fill the kettle. ‘Oh, Betty, thank you, but I’m fine on my own. Independent to the core, that’s the way I’ve always been.’
‘It’s the way you’ve had to be, dear, what with your childhood cut short.
’ She gave her what could only be described as a motherly look.
‘Everyone needs family.’ Then, having none of Miranda’s nonsense, Betty took the kettle back from her and pressed her back into the kitchen chair.
‘You have to have someone behind you, dear. Otherwise, how can you share a good laugh when things go haywire?’ And with that she gave a bray of laughter so raucous that Miranda had to join in.
The kettle on, unmatching china cups, saucers, jugs and sugar bowls were plonked onto the table – no doubt the rest of their sets subject to Betty’s cavalier attitude to breakable objects.
‘You’re the image of your mother.’ Betty plumped herself down beside Miranda. ‘It must have been horrendous for you, everything that happened.’
More than anything else, Miranda loathed people talking about her mother’s accident and death. It was rarely mentioned without pity, often used with the term ‘poor’, as in ‘you poor thing’.
Miranda wasn’t poor anything.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she told her aunt, setting out the cups and saucers. ‘The accident was so long ago I barely remember it, and her death, well, we all knew it was coming.’