Daughter of Empire by Pamela Hicks Read Free Book Online Page B

much bigger than the dogs, and although he never bit or clawed, he was so strong that he knocked me over a couple of
times. When he started to get up on his hind legs and rest his paws on people’s shoulders, he was quickly rehoused in a loosebox in the stables.
    My mother had returned from her travels in time to commission a dress – she chose a glamorous, slinky column of silver sequins – for King George VI’s coronation. I too had a
new dress made – long, white with silver threads, a little posy of artificial flowers and green ribbons at the waist – and most thrillingly of all, a vibrant apple-green velvet cloak
with a pale green velvet lining. Being so young, on the actual day of the coronation I was left behind at Buckingham Palace while my mother and sister went to Westminster Abbey. I didn’t mind
– it was such fun to watch the procession and I felt a stab of pride as I caught sight of my father riding just behind the King and Queen’s splendid gold coach amid the dancing flags
and cheering crowds.
    Old Brook House had been sold to a developer while we were in Malta and my mother had since bought the two-storey penthouse that would take its place. This is where Patricia and Zelle now lived
during the week, and sometimes I would be taken in the staff bus from Adsdean to visit the family there. The views over Hyde Park were spectacular, and in the summer, when the trees were in leaf,
all you could see from the back of the house was greenery and the odd church spire. It was difficult to tell that you were in London. The new Brook House was much more contained than Adsdean and I
especially liked the huge Van Dyck portraits that hung in the long hallway. I could instantly recognise a Tudor or a Stuart – much faster than I could recognise a relation – and as I
skipped past, I would say a cheerful ‘Good morning!’ to each one, stories about their lives running through my mind. I also loved examining the stunning
trompe l’oeil
panels, newly painted – in a soft pale greyish blue – by the artist Rex Whistler. There were fanciful depictions of the countries my mother had visited; images of the family houses;
armorials with naval, music and gardening themes; and a portrait of Sabi playing with a snake.
    By this stage, in autumn 1937, it was my turn to go to school – Buckswood Grange, near Crawley. I was eight and a half, and after leading such a quiet life at home without Patricia, being
away at boarding school was unnervingly chaotic. My life thus far had been comparatively calm – sometimes the only person I would talk to all day was Nanny, so the constant and endless noise
of school was horrifying. I just couldn’t find any peace among the clamour of the everyday: the din at mealtimes; the scraping of chairs and banging of doors; the playground awash with
running, screaming girls; and the giggling at night as soon as the dorm lights went out. I felt very miserable. Eventually, on the advice of a doctor, the school did something about my discomfort
and I was allowed to spend leisure time alone. I would take a book and find an undisturbed corner in which to read, while the other girls played their frenetic games.
    It wasn’t that I didn’t have good friends at school. I did. But I preferred playing with one girl rather than in a big group. Belinda was a perfect choice – quiet, rather
serious and, like me, highly conscientious when it came to schoolwork. Belinda’s parents were tea planters in India, and when her mother came to England, she would often take Belinda and me
out to tea. On one such occasion, she suggested we might like to go with her to the polo at Cowdray Park. I could hardly contain my delight when I discovered that my father was playing in the
second match, skipping over to kiss him at the end of the chukka. He was even more astonished, and then rather embarrassed, that somebody else was taking me out for tea when he was close to the
school.
    My mother did come