‘No. She seemed excited. Like something really good was going to happen, you know?’
‘How did it show?
‘It was just her mood. When we were dyeing her hair. Sort of feverish, if you know what I mean.’
Joan thought she did. She was reminded of fellow Wrens from her wartime digs again. Sometimes, going to meet a new man, they’d had a certain look about them. It was a heady mixture of anticipation, uncertainty and bravado. They were about to do something they would never get away with in peacetime. Fun, with a hint of danger. But those wartime girls had been going to meet lovers. And Rita had been clear, Rodriguez wasn’t that.
‘Did she talk about him? Rodriguez, I mean? Perez, as he called himself.’
‘No. Just her hair. That it had to be perfectly “princess” and very blonde. She looked a dream.’
‘Did she say where they were meeting?’
‘No, the silly pet. If she’d told me about that mews place, I could’ve told the police as soon as I started to worry. She normally did tell me, too, in case anything went wrong, you know. She’d leave a note next to the kettle. But not this time. The police assumed I was the person who rang up, but it wasn’t me. I kept telling the sergeant who talked to me, but he wasn’t listening.’
‘And what about the diamonds? Do you know why she was wearing those particular ones?’ Joan saw Rita’s eyes narrow. ‘I’m not from the papers, I promise! But I have to ask.’
‘No,’ Rita said harshly. Joan sensed she didn’t want to think of her friend being reduced to the ‘tart in the tiara’. ‘I never saw them. She went on about her hair, and about the dress. It was a beautiful white chiffon thing she found in Debenhams. She looked like a goddess. But her hair was just in a chignon. She never even mentioned diamonds. When I heard about . . . what happened . . . I never thought of Ginette. I was sure it must be someone else . . .’
‘Did she know Lord Seymour?’ Joan asked.
‘N-no,’ Rita said. ‘The copper asked me that too. She didn’t.’
Joan caught her hesitation. ‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘Oh, I am. It’s just that he asked for her once. He went for Jean Harlow types. Really old-fashioned blondes, you know, so she didn’t fit back then, being brunette as she was, but he’d heard good things about Ginette. This is ages ago. Anyway, she said no
And yet, someone had. And for some reason, Gina – or Ginette – had worn them to an assignation in a place she’d told no one about, with a man she knew to be violent, whom she seemed excited to meet. Joan couldn’t make sense of any of it, but she had a lot to tell Her Majesty.
Joan’s letter to the Queen was marked ‘Hartnell embroidery: notes for Canadian state visit’ and contained several sketches of maple leaves . . . followed by a detailed account of her conversations with Beryl and Rita. She left out the bit about pretending to be an escort herself. Some things weren’t meant for royal ears, or eyes. But she thought Her Majesty might be amused if she knew.
The Queen tucked the sealed envelope containing the letter into the pocket of her tweed jacket, and announced that she was off to visit her mother’s fishing lodge on the estate.
‘It may well need repairs. I want to give it a thorough inspection,’ she told the page who fetched her wellingtons.
She took three of the corgis with her, loaded into the back of a sturdy Land Rover that she drove herself, headscarf knotted firmly under her chin, with her two protection officers travelling at a respectful distance behind her on the winding, pine-clad road through the estate.
The lodge was built as a log cabin with a long porch along the front, facing a deep, salmon-friendly pool in the river, and it looked as if it would be perfectly at home in Canada, amidst forests, snows and bears. This thought briefly made the Queen wince as she pulled up outside, remembering the live, televised, bilingual speech she had agreed to give there in less than a month. What a fool she had been!
She put on the handbrake and took a deep breath before getting out to let the corgis out of the back. They were thrilled to be in this smorgasbord of new smells and quickly set about examining as many of them as they could. Watching them fondly, the Queen found she was leaning against the Land Rover and was reminded that she had learned to fix the engine of one of these workhorses when she was a teenager at Windsor. She was proud of her achievement then, and still proud now. If she could master a Land Rover, she could certainly say a few words in front of a television camera. It would just take practice and patience, and practice and patience were both things she was good at.
