A Three Dog Problem

She walked along further, peering into rooms either side of her and sniffing for that elusive scent. Gradually, her attention fixed on a large mahogany wardrobe half hidden in the corridor behind a pillar. One of its doors was slightly open and as she approached, she noticed the dull gold tassel hanging from its key. Ah, yes!

Memories floated through the fog of time, sharpening with each step. This was the piece of furniture that had sat outside the nursery, adopted by Mummy’s chief dresser as an overflow for grown-up clothes. It was wide and solid, polished to a rich, red patina over time. She laid her hand flat against the nearest door, like greeting an old friend.

The half-open door revealed a barren space, marked with battens along each side that must have been used to hold wide shelves – to store linen, she assumed, in more recent times. But the wardrobe had been stripped of everything, shelves and all, ready to be moved, and now it was almost back to the way she remembered it.

When Uncle David abdicated as Edward VIII in the dying days of 1936, the family hadn’t wanted to locate to the large, cold, shabby Palace from their comfortable home in Piccadilly, but this was where Papa worked now and Mummy said they needed to ‘live above the shop’. Mostly, it was a series of endless corridors lined with tall footmen in red coats, and the feeling of being watched and needing to be a proper princess, and not being sure quite how. But it had its compensations. It was simply marvellous for hide-and-seek.

Mummy’s long furs had hung on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, covered in cloth bags, and her cashmere shawls had been carefully rolled and stored in a hanging rack on the left. In the middle had been mink jackets and opera coats, and if you stepped up onto the solid floor, you could disappear among them. She remembered Margaret Rose hissing, ‘Lilibet! Quick!’ as she secreted herself among the protective cotton bags. And not being able to resist joining her. Her sandals were clean (she checked), their small, slim bodies both fitting neatly inside without ruining the clothes. It was lovely to be surrounded by Mummy’s evening things and to catch a faint wisp of her scent mixed up with the powerful smell of the cedar lining, to keep the moths away.

She must have been about eleven and Margaret six or seven. They were hiding from Crawfie, their governess, who didn’t know she was playing a game. It was terribly, terribly wrong, and that’s what made their hearts pound faster. Poor Crawfie. She called and called, and Margaret’s body shook with laughter.

They hid there several times and only got caught and punished once. She couldn’t remember what the punishment had been – probably something to do with missed treats at teatime – but Margaret had declared it was worth it and she was right. Now that the wardrobe was empty of clothes one could probably still fit inside, even at this great age. Even with a dodgy knee.

The Queen grinned at the thought and then, to her own astonishment, found herself stepping up, just to see. She braced a hand against the closed door on the right. The wardrobe floor was only six inches above the ground. Her right knee complained, but as she brought the left one up to join it, she could feel Margaret’s presence, and Mummy’s too, though the velvety scent of L’Heure Bleue was gone, along with the cedar smell. She must have imagined it.

It was warm and dark inside, and peaceful. In the fifties, Anne used to hide here in her turn – just as scornful of the punishment – and she said it reminded her of Narnia. Yes, you could imagine Narnia behind the wall, a hidden world of magic, accessible only to children. The Queen half closed the door behind her and paused to breathe in that air again. She only had to stoop very slightly. The wardrobe was capacious and there were occasional – very occasional – advantages to being a shrinking five-foot-three. She said a silent hello to her sister, who would have laughed like a drain to see her here.

Then, without warning, the image came back to her of the poor young Russian who had been found dead in a wardrobe not long ago. She suddenly needed to get out fast, but just as she was turning round to step out backwards, safely, she heard voices at the top of the distant stairs, and the footsteps of two people rapidly approaching.

What to do?

Of course, the obvious thing was to keep calm, carry on with her exit and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was happening. It wouldn’t be that easy, though. Climbing down would be harder than climbing up. Could one bear the staff to have the sight of their monarch appearing clumsily from inside a piece of furniture, bottom first? No, of course not.

The pair were only a few steps away. She pulled the half-open door a little closer, leaving barely a six-inch gap. They would be able to see her if they looked, but surely nobody would ever search for a queen in a cupboard?

She waited anxiously. They stopped. They had opened a door into one of the nearby bedrooms, but lingered on the threshold, talking. Her knee was screaming, but there was nothing to do except wait.

They lowered their voices. Up to now, they had been chatting noisily about preparations for Scotland. There was a rustling. The mood changed, the tone was furtive.