The Queen gave Joan a casually curious glance.
‘Yes? Is it something important? We’re rather busy.’
Joan curtseyed, averting her eyes from the pushing and pulling of royal flesh inside the fabric. She explained about the call.
The Queen glanced at her watch. ‘There’s enough time to take it at my desk. You can come with me. I’ll finish this later. Mr Hartnell, I’m so sorry. I hope you understand. We really mustn’t keep the president waiting.’
The designer was obsequious in his forgiveness. Her Majesty disappeared behind a screen with one of the women and emerged five minutes later wearing a sensible skirt and twinset, and a grin.
‘We have twelve minutes. Odds on we can make it in ten. Sugar, off we go.’
For a moment, Joan assumed that Sugar was a nickname for the woman who had accompanied the Queen behind the screen, but it turned out to be a corgi, who had been lounging in front of a fireplace. The dog cheerfully shadowed her mistress at a brisk trot as they set off back across the palace. Joan jogged along too.
‘Why isn’t Fiona here?’ the Queen asked as they sped along. ‘Hugh would normally have sent her to find me. Is she still away?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘For how much longer?’
‘It’s not certain ma’am, but—’
‘Yes?’
‘I sense it will be quite some time.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
It wasn’t ‘nerves’. On a brief visit to the Private Office two weeks ago, Joan had observed Fiona being sick in the lavatories. Fiona told Joan in passing that she had been doing this every morning for the previous month, and wondered if she had caught some sort of tropical disease. Joan had been the one to break the news to her. She still remembered the look of dumb shock in Fiona’s eyes.
Joan could have told the men in the Private Office as much, but she wouldn’t have betrayed a confidence and anyway, they didn’t ask her. The Queen turned her head to give Joan a look of surprise. It wasn’t normal for staff not to be able to tell her things. But she didn’t press the point.
‘Have you taken over from her?’
‘Oh, no, ma’am. I’m just a typist. I happened to be around when Fiona, um, had to leave. I was able to help out in a small way.’
‘Not such a small way if you’re still there. My DPS is a notorious taskmaster. Well done.’
By now they were approaching the ornate Ministers’ Staircase, heading for the undistinguished lift nearby that went to the Queen’s private apartments. Joan basked in this unexpected praise.
In the lift itself, they took the opportunity to catch their breath and size each other up a little. Her Majesty was a disconcerting mix of perfectly normal and hypnotically familiar. Joan found it hard not to stare. There was an odd modesty about her for someone whose image was so famous. Her face was almost bare, except for a little lipstick and powder, her bushy eyebrows resolutely unplucked, her pale skin smooth and unrouged. What she lacked in vanity she made up for in self-possession. Joan was the taller of the two by several inches, but the Queen was still clearly and comfortably the boss.
The Queen sensed a certain confidence in Joan, too. Though she was ‘just a typist’, she was obviously enjoying her little adventure. She had an attractive, open face with freckled skin and Titian hair (Philip would have called it ginger) neatly rolled in a slightly old-fashioned style. The Queen noticed she didn’t wear a wedding ring and wondered what the story behind that might be. After the war, there were so many. Anyway, here she was.
As they shared a smile, each saw a woman with a job to do, a practical sort, up for a challenge. There was an intelligent spark in Joan’s hazel eyes that the Queen liked very much. In the tight proximity of the creaky lift, with the clock running down, she recognised a kindred spirit.
As the lift reached its destination, Joan finally plucked up the courage to ask something that had been on her mind.
‘Ma’am, while you were in Paris, how did the speech go? I mean, I hope you got it in time.’
The Queen stopped and looked at her closely.
‘It was you.’
Joan blinked. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You found a carbon? Was it in a bin or something?’
Joan was surprised. ‘No, ma’am. They’d all disappeared. But I could remember it.’
‘What? The whole thing? By heart?’
‘Yes.’ Joan was bemused.
The Queen tipped her head to one side and looked at her harder still. ‘It went very well, thank you. Do you have one of those, what do they call it, photographic memories?’
‘I don’t think so, ma’am. I just . . . if I see something, I can generally remember it.’ Joan felt acutely embarrassed. She didn’t understand why other people had trouble recalling the images they had recently seen. What was so difficult about it? Like her father, she’d been able to do it all her life. He didn’t understand the problem, either.
‘I think that is a photographic memory,’ the Queen said. ‘Ah, here we are. Outside my study with . . . what?’ She looked at her watch and smiled. ‘Three minutes to spare!’ She paused on the threshold and turned back. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’
‘McGraw, ma’am. Joan McGraw.’
‘That’s Irish, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. My grandfather was Irish.’
‘Mmm. And you speak French fluently?’
‘I do. My mother was French. I also speak German.’
The Queen nodded thoughtfully. ‘How old are you, if I might ask?’
‘I’m thirty-seven, ma’am.’
She nodded again. ‘I see. Did you have an interesting war?’
They held each other’s gaze for just long enough for Joan to signal that she knew what the Queen meant. ‘Interesting’ wars for clever young linguists at the time tended to involve spying or, in Joan’s case, decoding work at Bletchley Park, before moving on to other, equally interesting things.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The Queen gave her the briefest nod. ‘Yes, well, thank you for your message. And now I must see what Mr Eisenhower wants from me.’
That evening, the Queen had a question for Sir Hugh as he discussed her schedule for the following day.
‘I gather Fiona won’t be coming back for a little while. Is that right?’
‘Ah. Do you? I—’
‘She wasn’t an ideal APS anyway, Hugh. She was always confusing Austria and Australia.’
Sir Hugh was alarmed. He was very fond of Fiona. She was the great-niece of a duke, one of his own distant cousins, and an excellent horsewoman with a weakness for cocker spaniels and couture fashion she couldn’t afford. She could be a little scatty, in an endearing way, but he would argue she made up for it with her cheerful nature, the boxes of pastries she brought in each morning, made by her family’s exceptional London chef, and her uncanny ability to know when he, Miles or Jeremy needed soothing or cheering after a fraught encounter.
‘She was deb of the year, ma’am, if you recall. I think it’s simply a matter of training. With time, she—’
‘Anyway, we need someone new. I like the girl I met yesterday. I think she shows promise.’
‘The redhead? McGinty? She’s just a typist, ma’am. She—’
‘So she told me. I think there’s more to her than that. She helped you out in Paris, didn’t she?’
‘Dictating over the telephone? Yes, she did, but—’
‘She got us out of a hole. I’m very grateful. Don’t search for a replacement for Fiona just yet. Let’s see how this one gets on. And her name’s McGraw.’