Monarch: The Life and Reign of Elizabeth II

Elizabeth II has, God willing, many more years in which to increase her store of memories - and, probably, jubilees. But already she has a rich stock of remembrances to dwell upon: dusting the Little Welsh House with Margaret, the first corgi, the first horse; old Queen Mary's wooden teaching blocks; her gruff, royal grandfather's soft, tobacco-smelling beard; playing croquet on the lawn with Philip on a summer's afternoon in Dartmouth; Sir Henry Marten sucking on his handkerchief; dancing the Hokey-Cokey in the streets on VE night; resting with Papa against a boulder on the hills above Balmoral; cradling the newborn Charles in her arms as Philip came in sweaty from playing squash; Winston Churchill in his frock coat; Harold Wilson puffing on his pipe; Patrick Plunket bringing in the presents to go through at Christmas; wise old Charteris twinkling over his half-glasses; laughing with Porchey when Highclere won at Chantilly - and, perhaps, when the lens of memory is not so rose-tinted, the rasp of Windsor's smoke catching in her throat on a chill November afternoon at the end of her annus horribilis, and the clock ticking down in the Chinese Dining Room that sunny Friday evening after Diana died, with the lights bright and the TV camera staring, and the sound of the crowd, her affectionate subjects and masters, murmuring as they milled around the flowers stacked up against railings outside.