‘I suppose . . . There are people who are very good at imagining the future, you know, and reaching for it, but I find that I . . . well, I lean a little bit into the past. I need tradition, and religion, you know, and old-fashioned ideals like morality and self-discipline. Peace. Love thy neighbour. Truthfulness. They get me through . . . That’s not too boring, is it?’
‘Not at all,’ Daphne said. ‘Perhaps we can work it in. Start with home and hearth – there you are, welcoming people into your home, but you’re doing it through the modern medium of television, and the new technologies can be rather frightening, but to deal with them, people can draw on . . . oh, I don’t know exactly, but something to do with what you said. Traditional values.’
‘Oh, all right. The old and the new. I can see that.’
‘The question is, can you
The Queen thought about it and her face lit up at last. ‘Yes! I really can. I think you have something, Daphne. I know people who feel as I do. Slightly frightened, I mean. Not wanting to let go of everything that’s got us this far. But we must look forwards, mustn’t we? We must.’
‘Wonderful, ma’am. That’s the first six minutes practically in the can. Let’s work on it tomorrow. Right now, I could do with some gin. Couldn’t you?’
They had two gin and tonics, followed by quite a lot of champagne, a glass of wine with dinner (Daphne had three), and a little whisky to round off the evening. There was no more talk of speeches, or television, and Daphne thought the Queen looked infinitely more relaxed.
They had been joined for dinner by a couple of local landowners, an artist friend of Philip’s and the Queen’s racing manager. By the time they got to charades in front of an unseasonal fire, the party was raucous. Hair was let down; jokes were blue; even Daphne relaxed, and Philip was in his element.
After a few rounds of charades, someone suggested Nebuchadnezzar. It was explained to one of the younger equerries that this was like charades, but involved whole scenes, with each team dressing up to present them. They raced around the house gathering tablecloths and coal scuttles, performing silly skits and getting gradually drunker.
‘The Ascot Races’ was a popular one, with one of the ladies-in-waiting holding up two coffee cups as binoculars and miming agony, ecstasy and then agony again as a viscount, Sir Hugh and Daphne herself galloped by on all fours.
‘Oh, it’s me!’ the Queen shouted with delight. ‘Winning the New Stakes and then losing the Gold Cup! Atlas was pipped at the post. It was ghastly! You
‘The horse, I think,’ Sir Hugh said, straightening up with difficulty.
It was the Queen’s turn next, and Daphne was the one to get it. Her Majesty stood to face the audience and waved her arms around. She held her fist to her chest. Her diamonds glittered in the lamplight. Was it champagne, or something more fervent behind her eyes? Her cousins and Philip’s artist friend, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her, looked on, pretending to be mesmerised.
‘Billy Graham! Launching his crusade at Madison Square Garden!’ Daphne called out.
‘Oh, really?’ Philip said from beside her. ‘Well done. I thought it was Joan of Arc.’
Two equerries were next. At first, they pretended to play tennis in a dainty, ladylike way, and then one put on a big straw hat and presented the other with one of the dinner plates.
‘Me again!’ shouted the Queen. ‘At Wimbledon.’
Daphne, who had grown up in the theatre, felt that the equerry playing the Queen had made a decent fist of presenting the Rosewater trophy, but the one playing Althea Gibson, the winner, had been disappointingly unimaginative. He had played tennis like a ten-year-old schoolgirl, whereas Althea was a true athlete, better than any man in the room right now. A black woman, too – a real record-breaker. Daphne had watched the highlights of the match on a newsreel and wondered what dizzy heights of fame Althea would reach one day . . . or whether her achievement would be consigned to a footnote in history, as women so often were. Then it was her team’s go again.
‘The news, is it?’ one of the cousins muttered, slurring his s’s, as they gathered in a huddle to decide what to do. He made a suggestion that Daphne found in equal parts distasteful and fascinating, but the others agreed to it. All except Sir Hugh who, she noticed, made his excuses and disappeared. Was he horrified by the idea, she wondered, or did he simply need the lavatory? Roles were assigned among the others, and they did a quick prop hunt and rehearsal in the hall.
