The hall, however, remained empty. Nell knew where Mr Geraint would be at this time of day: in the room over the arch, writing. His huge work on the history of his family was still unfinished, but he had discovered he had an ability to write what he contemptuously called ‘pot-boilers’. Nell had never read one, of course, but Hester had and said, albeit grudgingly, that they weren’t half bad. Which meant she enjoyed them and admired Mr Geraint’s ability, Nell knew.
‘They’re sort of spooky adventure stories,’ she had said when Nell asked. ‘About big old castles, and ghosts and treasure and secret passages. They’re fun to read, anyway. You’ll enjoy them when you’re older.’
So Mr Geraint would be in his room, boiling pots. And Hester? Nell glanced down the stairs again. The Cliftons made a lot of extra work, which was why she had been upstairs at this time of day. Mum had said she wouldn’t make their beds any more, she had enough to do without that. She said Mrs Clifton was quite clever enough to pull sheets and blankets into place and plump up pillows, but she had told Nell to go to the Cliftons’ rooms and empty the chamber pots, a task which, it seemed, she believed might be beyond Mrs Clifton. Nell, not liking the job, had done it the easy way, by sliding up the sash windows and emptying the blue chamber pot with the gold edging and the smaller green and red one into the wild garden below. No one had been out there, though she had thought it might be rather fun if Mrs Clifton were cutting roses or wandering along the overgrown paths. It wasn’t that she particularly disliked Mrs Clifton – as Dan’s mother she had at least one use – but Nell foresaw a good few menial tasks coming her way if Mrs Clifton stayed on and on and didn’t marry anyone. She knew she should have carried the pots downstairs and emptied them properly, rinsed
and returned them, but she had not. She agreed with Hester that guests should either empty their own chamber pots or go downstairs and use the earth closet close to the side door. Mr Geraint always did, but perhaps the rules were different for owners and guests.
Nell finally decided that her mother would be in the kitchen making the midday meal, and that she was, to all intents and purposes, alone in the hallway. She flung a leg over the banister, wriggled herself into a good position and pushed off briskly with both hands. It was wonderful, the next best thing to flying, an activity which Nell had only experienced in dreams. The rushing air lifted her dark hair, her short skirt flew up, her knees gripped the rail, controlling her speed. It was glorious, glorious, she wished she dared shout and scream!
Unfortunately she hadn’t paid enough attention to the curve. When she felt it coming she should have braked hard with hands and knees, but she was enjoying the illegal swoop so much that she forgot, shot off the end of the banister at speed, and thumped straight into something – or rather someone – who uttered a deep, barking grunt as her weight landed amidships. For an awful second she thought it was Mr Geraint, then, as she struggled to get to her feet, fighting clear of someone’s legs and elbows, she realised it was Dan. Flattened, winded, looking as though he would tell her a thing or two when he got his breath back, he rolled around clasping his stomach and casting black looks at her as she stood apologetically over him.
‘Oh Dan, I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t see you …’
‘Aaargh, eeeeze, eeeze …’
‘You’re winded; I hate that,’ Nell said cordially. ‘I expect you feel you aren’t ever going to breathe again, but you will, honest.’
‘Ki-ki-kill …’ Dan wheezed, rolling over on his front and beginning to kneel up. ‘Aaargh …’
‘You aren’t killed,’ Nell said bracingly. She tried to
heave him to his feet but he lunged out at her and she stepped diplomatically out of range. ‘Didn’t you see me coming down the banister? I always come down that way, don’t you? It’s tophole!’
‘Didn’t say I was killed,’ Dan wheezed at last, scowling at her from all fours. ‘Said I’d kill
you
, you stupid kid! And when I get my bloody breath back I will!’
‘Oh Dan, don’t be cross,’ Nell said anxiously. ‘I didn’t mean it, it wasn’t really my fault, I was coming so fast my eyelashes got into my eyes, I couldn’t possibly have seen you. Come on, let’s go into the kitchen; there might be oatmeal biscuits!’
But Dan, usually partial to Hester’s oatmeal biscuits spread with butter and honey, shook his head until his black, silky hair flopped over his eyes, and made a grab for Nell.
‘You aren’t getting out of it that easy, you stupid little ninny; how d’you like that?’
As he spoke he caught her wrist between his fists and began to turn the flesh, his left hand pulling to the left, his right to the right, in an extremely painful Chinese burn. Nell, taken aback, simply stood for a moment. Boys didn’t hurt girls, did they? She frowned up at Dan, whose expression was not pleasant; he was waiting for her to cry, she could tell. Well, he might wait; she certainly didn’t intend to start sobbing for mercy. Instead she turned in his grip and brought her fist round; it hit his nose with a satisfying crunch. Dan let her go; one hand flew to his face, the other proceeded to punch her as hard as he could.
‘Little bitch! You’re a pest, that’s what you are, you and your bloody mother, trying to get rid of us, trying to bloody kill me. I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry, Nell Coburn!’
Even love will only stand a certain amount. As Dan’s other fist abandoned his nose and joined its brother, Nell forgot that she adored him, forgot she was a young lady,
forgot everything except that Dan was hurting her on purpose, and therefore must be hurt back. She was a small, skinny seven, Dan a husky ten-year-old, and he should have been able to beat her to a pulp with one hand tied behind him, but perhaps he held back a bit or perhaps Nell’s outrage gave her additional strength. At any rate she launched herself at him, scratching, kicking, punching, and in seconds the two of them were rolling on the marble tiles, locked in a deadly embrace, Dan using language Nell had never heard before. When his hand slammed into her face, intent it seemed on gouging out her eyes, she bit his finger as hard as she could and held on, clenching her teeth like a small bulldog. Dan swore and shouted, kicked and punched, but was unable to free himself of her unwelcome attentions.
‘Daniel! Helen! What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
Mr Geraint’s voice was like a douche of cold water on a couple of warring mongrels. Nell was so surprised and horrified to find Mr Geraint looking down on them that her mouth dropped open and Dan’s finger slithered thankfully out. Dan, probably already remembering his years and superior strength, struggled to his feet and held out his hand to her.
‘Get up, Nell,’ he said rather shakily. ‘Are you better?’
Nell stared. Better? did he think she was ill?
‘What’s going on?’ Mr Geraint said sharply. Nell saw with surprise and dismay that his face was not only angry but shocked. ‘Fighting like a pair of street arabs … Dan, what have you to say for yourself, boy?’
‘Sorry, sir. I was trying to – to – catch her. I tripped, we collided. I didn’t mean are you better just now, I meant are you all right?’ He turned to Nell and gave her a strained and imploring glance. ‘
Are
you all right, Nell?’
‘Yes, I’m all right,’ Nell said quickly. ‘I’m sorry about your finger; are you all right, Dan?’
Mr Geraint looked from one to the other. His mouth twitched, Nell saw it.
‘Just a – a collision, was it? Not a fight at all, then?’
‘She’s three years younger than me,’ Dan pointed out so self-righteously that Nell had hard work not to gasp.
‘And a girl,’ Mr Geraint reminded him.
‘Yes, and a girl, of course.’ Dan had the grace to look a little red around the gills, Nell saw with satisfaction. ‘Can we go now, sir?’
‘Shake and make up?’
‘We can’t,’ Nell said quickly. ‘Because you only do that if you’ve quarrelled and we haven’t, have we, Dan?’
‘No, we haven’t,’ Dan said equally quickly. ‘We were just going through to the kitchen, sir, to see if Mrs Coburn had made the oat biscuits yet. Can we go now, sir?’
Nell, glancing from face to face, blinked. She had never heard Mr Geraint called sir quite so often before, nor quite so fervently. Dan plainly wanted his good opinion – as indeed, she did. But Mr Geraint was looking amused again and not cross, which was a relief.
‘Yes, you may go,’ he said. ‘And if you can convince your mothers that you’ve not been fighting you’re cleverer than I thought you. Off with you!’
They left, making for the kitchen, until Mr Geraint had turned on his heel and headed for the study. Then with one accord they headed for the side door.
‘That was a narrow squeak,’ Dan said in amicable tones as they left the castle behind them and headed for the woods. ‘I’m sorry for starting the fight. But you got me right in the bread-basket, you know – it really hurt.’
‘That’s all right; how’s your finger?’ Nell asked solicitously. ‘I don’t think I drew blood, did I?’
Dan examined his finger. ‘It’s dented,’ he announced. ‘You broke the skin; remember your dad telling us how beavers kill trees by ring-barking them? Well, if I were a tree …’
They grinned at each other.
‘I’m glad you’re not a tree,’ Nell said shyly. ‘Dan, did I ever tell you about the ghost in the Long Gallery? Well, this morning, when I was walking past …’
Miss Huntley was hiding behind a handsome rhododendron bush, with the railings of Hamilton Gardens at the back of her and the sooty bush providing cover. It was hide-and-seek, and the Princesses were the hunters.
Standing very still, she watched through the branches as the two little girls searched, Princess Elizabeth with determination and thoroughness, Princess Margaret Rose, who was only three, in more desultory fashion. She wandered along, glancing idly from right to left, her fat little legs going slower and slower. Then she realised that her big sister was almost out of sight and set up her familiar cry: ‘Lilibet, wait! Wait for me!’
Around the perimeter of the garden, faces were pressed close to the railings, watching. It was interest and affection which drew them, Miss Huntley knew, but she found herself resenting it as much for the children as for herself. They were royal, to be sure, but why couldn’t they be allowed to grow up in peace, like other children? Neither Elizabeth nor Margaret Rose ever commented on the silent audience, but Miss Huntley knew they noticed.
‘It will take a great burden from them when the Prince of Wales marries and has a family of his own,’ the Duchess had confided once, when Miss Huntley had remarked on the public’s fascination with her young charges. ‘It isn’t as if either of our little girls was in line for the throne, so it’s hard that they should be followed around. Between you and me, Huntie, it’s another reason why I dress them simply, in sensible print dresses and stout shoes and tweed coats and hats. It makes them blend in better. But I suppose people love to see them because they’re the first grandchildren of the king, and there isn’t much we can
do about it. However, when the Prince marries …’
But as yet, only rumours of affairs and ‘unsuitable gels’ were discussed. Dear David, as the family called him, had not yet met the woman for him, so Miss Huntley had to ignore the watching faces, as her young pupils did. It was a shame, because in many ways the older Princess at least would rather have been outside the railings than in. On a trip to the theatre to see a pantomime the previous Christmas Elizabeth, in the royal box, with one of the complimentary chocolates bulging in one pink cheek, had hung so far out to look down at the audience that her father had been frightened and hauled her back so suddenly that her blue sash came unstitched.
‘I’m sorry, Papa, but I was quite safe really,’ she had said. ‘Oh, but I wish we could sit down there, with the other children! It would be such fun, wouldn’t it Margaret?’
Miss Huntley had seen the Duke’s rueful grimace, and the way he had squeezed his little daughter before letting her go and hang once more over the edge of the box. He and the Duchess did their very best to make life at 145 Piccadilly as natural and easy as possible for their children, but there was a limit to how far they were able to go. Even a simple shopping expedition or a trip to the park meant detectives hovering and the inevitable little group of followers.
‘Got you, Huntie!’
Miss Huntley jumped and squealed; she had been so immersed in her thoughts that Elizabeth’s gleeful grab had taken her completely by surprise. Margaret, trundling round the bush in her sister’s wake, also pounced.
‘Got you!’ she echoed. ‘Got you, Huntie! Now we’ll hide and you can search.’
Miss Huntley glanced at her wristwatch and Margaret did the same, shooting out her wrist to reveal the toy watch just beneath the blue and white cardigan she wore.
‘Yes, it’s time for luncheon,’ she said in her clear, piping voice. ‘Lilibet, it’s time for luncheon – shall you have yours with me today?’
Elizabeth was sometimes allowed to lunch with her parents, a great treat, though she always had a milk pudding instead of the more sophisticated dessert enjoyed by the Duke and Duchess. Now, however, she towed her governess out of the rhododendron thicket and consulted her own watch, a real one.
‘No, Margaret, I’m lunching with Mama and Papa today,’ she said importantly. ‘But you may come in at coffee time. Goodness, Huntie, we had better hurry, we’re both rather dirty and need a good wash. It would never do to let Papa see us all hot and bothered, would it?’
‘No indeed,’ Miss Huntley agreed. ‘And when luncheon is over, if you’re very good, we’ll have a little treat.’
‘Oh, Huntie, we’ll be ever so good! What sort of treat? The naughty sort?’
Lately, Miss Huntley had begun to take the children over to Hamilton Gardens and then to slip quietly through the gate into Hyde Park before the gatherers had realised they were out. In their sensible coats, hats and shoes no one took the slightest notice and they were able to stroll along the sandy paths, watch the yachts on the Serpentine, and the best (and naughtiest) treat of all, watch other children at play.
Once, a skinny girl with a kite which kept getting away from her had asked Elizabeth if she would like to have a go; Miss Huntley had smiled and nodded, and the Princess, cheeks scarlet, eyes bright, had raced up and down the path with the kite, whilst Margaret jumped up and down, cheered her on, and declared that Lilibet was better even than Trudy, the kite-owner, at flying it. But later that evening, when she mentioned the incident to the Duchess, Miss Huntley was told
that such casual friendships should never be encouraged.