Joan frowned. ‘With me?’
‘Yes, Miss McGraw.’
Joan saw the way Dilys pinched her lips when she said ‘Miss McGraw’. She had suggested that Dilys should continue to call her Joan, as she had in Joan’s typing pool days, but the other woman primly insisted on ‘Miss McGraw’ now. Joan felt judged and found wanting. But it didn’t do to let it show.
‘I’m coming. Do you have any idea what it’s about?’
‘None at all. Sir Hugh doesn’t let me into his confidence.’ With a sour look, Dilys waited to accompany her down the corridor.
An uneasy truce had emerged between Joan and the men in moustaches in the days since the Queen had made her feelings known about the ‘gross insubordination’ report. Joan’s place in the Private Office was safe for now, but Urquhart, whose office she shared, had effectively sent her to Coventry. His detailed instructions for what Joan was to do while he was away were delivered via his personal secretary, Sarah, even though she worked down the corridor and Urquhart’s desk, by contrast, was literally opposite Joan’s.
It hadn’t escaped her notice that Urquhart was also the person in charge of the royal couple’s upcoming Danish schedule, where Ingrid Kern had made her strange appearance. Technically, it was easier for him than anyone else to sabotage the Queen abroad. But in reality, any of the three men had access to the files and diaries in question, and were senior enough to instruct staff to do their bidding and keep quiet about it.
Of all of them, Urquhart was the least likely to get away with it, Joan thought. Now that she was experiencing his more childish and stubborn side, she saw a man who simply couldn’t hide his feelings. Dealing with him was a walk in the park compared with Brigadier Yelland.
So far, she hadn’t seen much of Jeremy Radnor-Milne, the press secretary. He was either locked away in his office or out wining and dining his contacts, but Joan noticed he had a large framed photograph of the Queen on the wall behind his desk. The real person working two floors up wasn’t enough for him, it seemed.
Sir Hugh Masson also hadn’t crossed paths with Joan much, but she knew that he was a canny operator, respected for getting difficult things done without losing good relationships. Sir Winston Churchill himself was an admirer and a friend.
The private secretary’s own war service wasn’t easy to investigate, meaning he had probably worked in military intelligence, and he was understated and academic in his manner. Some people mistook his politeness for weakness. They did so at their peril. He would make a formidable adversary, she thought – if that’s what he turned out to be.
Sir Hugh’s office sat across the corridor from Joan’s and exactly two floors under the Queen’s, overlooking the treetops of Green Park beyond the palace wall. The room was tall and airy, with Georgian windows, a marble mantelpiece and several pieces of antique furniture. It spoke of quiet power and a strong sense of history. Unlike Her Majesty, he kept his desk free of memorabilia, and immaculately tidy. He indicated a wing-back chair beside the fireplace. Joan took it.
‘We appear to have a problem,’ he said, sitting down opposite her. He removed his spectacles and gave them a polish. ‘With your accommodation.’
‘I see.’ Joan paused. She had been preparing for much worse. ‘No, actually, I don’t see. What problem?’
‘As you know, your lack of punctuality has caused Miles great concern. I’ve looked into it, and I understand that you travel across London each morning from Bow – a matter of six or seven miles. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which would be all right, I suppose, if the buses were reliable, but I gather there have been various traffic incidents recently. It’s quite unsustainable. Her Majesty has made it clear that she wants you to be on hand, and I don’t want you getting here tired and flustered. And we really can’t have the Queen’s temporary APS eating jellied eels on Brick Lane, or whatever else they do.’
Joan’s hackles were rising fast. She did her very best to keep calm.
‘I wouldn’t say I was ever flustered—’ she protested, but he cut her off again.
‘The women in the Private Office do not live in Bow. It’s in the East End of London. Too far, in every sense. It risks making you look unprofessional.’
‘I—’
‘So I’ve arranged alternative accommodation. Something more suitable, closer to home. A decent address in Pimlico. It’s walking distance from the palace – a good twenty minutes, but think of it as exercise.’
Oh. This was a complete surprise.
‘That’s very kind of you, but . . .’
‘But what? I’m not really offering, Joan. I’m informing.’ He pursed his lips and regarded her across steepled fingertips.
‘I see, but I’m afraid . . . I don’t see how I can afford it,’ Joan admitted.
Didn’t he think she’d live closer if she could? As it was, a bedroom in her aunt’s flat, shared with her three young cousins, was the best she could do.
‘Westminster rents are problematic,’ Sir Hugh agreed. ‘I understand that. And good places are hard to find – unless one knows the right people. You’re smiling. I read that to mean that you don’t know the right people, and I do, and you’re probably right. As it turns out, we know someone who can help. The rent is perhaps still a little out of your league, even on higher wages . . .’
‘My wages are higher?’
‘Didn’t anybody tell you? Yes, quite considerably. Even so, that part of Pimlico might be a stretch, but don’t worry about it for now. The important thing is that you’re here when we need you, and that you get safely home.’ He shook his head. ‘One doesn’t like to think of what can happen the other side of Fleet Street.’
‘It’s pretty friendly,’ Joan assured him. ‘You’d be surprised.’
His nose twitched, as if he’d thought of something. ‘I notice you don’t really have the accent, by the way,’ he said. ‘How did you avoid it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Cockney. Growing up in the East End . . .’
‘I didn’t,’ Joan said. ‘I went to school in Cambridge. My father works there.’
‘Oh! Does he? At the university? What college?’
‘St Anselm’s.’
Sir Hugh brightened suddenly. ‘Ah! I had no idea. What’s his field?’
‘His field?’
‘Academically. One of my godsons is up at St Anselm’s now, reading Classics. I wonder if he might know him.’
Joan gave him a wry smile. ‘I’m sure he does. My father’s the head porter.’
Sir Hugh looked momentarily derailed. ‘Ah. Oh. Mmm. I see. Important job.’ The warmth of genuine interest faded, to be replaced by something more distant, if not unkind. ‘I remember I was scared witless of the head porter at Trinity. Six foot four in his bowler hat.’
‘My father’s six foot five.’
Sir Hugh frowned. ‘Wait a minute. My godson mentioned something . . . He wasn’t at the Somme, was he? Decorated for valour?’
Joan nodded. Vincent McGraw was a bit of a legend among the undergraduates, having single-handedly rescued four officers of the Coldstream Guards who were trapped under fire in their collapsing trench. He was nearly seven feet tall in his head porter’s bowler, powerful as a boxer, firm but fair, the night-time nemesis of drunken student revellers. At home, he was soft as a pussycat, a prizewinning solver of The Times crossword, and a soppily fond single parent to his only child.
‘You must be very proud of him,’ Sir Hugh suggested.
Joan shrugged. ‘I am.’
After that, Sir Hugh’s expression was neutral. He didn’t give away whether he was pleased to be working with the daughter of a hero from the First World War or alarmed at having to make conversation with the offspring of a college servant. He steepled his fingers again.