His wife had repeatedly reminded him that he was already past normal retirement age. And he had repeatedly told her, choose a job you love and you will never have to work a day in your life. And he truly loved his job, the thrill of turning his boyhood dream into a reality.

  The one consolation about retirement was it would give him more time for his hobby – his passion really – his racing pigeons. It was something he shared with the late Queen Elizabeth, a fellow pigeon fancier, whose train he’d twice had the privilege of travelling on for previous royal visits to Sussex, the last occasion being in 2013.

  On the first, in 1988, he’d sat up front in the cab alongside the driver, learning the ropes of driving, or rather chauffeuring, this train. Unlike the express trains travelling at 90mph, for the comfort of the royal passengers the speed was generally restricted to 70mph.

  The Royal Train was pulled by a Class 67 diesel locomotive, painted in Royal Claret livery, and there was a second locomotive behind, in case the train needed to reverse. There were three Royal Train locomotives in total, one being a spare. The regulars were the Royal Sovereign, No. 67006, the Queen’s Messenger, No. 67005 – and No. 67029, the newest, the Royal Diamond, named by Queen Elizabeth in celebration of her Diamond Wedding Anniversary in 2007. All three of them, at the instigation of King Charles, ran on environmentally friendly biofuel made from waste vegetable oil.

  On this Monday morning, as Briggs had arrived to start what he thought would be a routine shift on the London–Brighton line, he was informed that he would be driving the Royal Train, containing Her Majesty Queen Camilla and her entourage, to Brighton. The front locomotive would be the Royal Diamond.

  It was for security reasons that none of the pool of drivers who were qualified for the Royal Train ever knew in advance that they would be driving it that day. It was only when they turned up for their shift that they’d be told.

  He smiled ruefully as he thought about security and how times had changed, due to financial cuts. Back on that very first trip in the cab, as a trainee driver for the Royal Train, there was a British Transport Police officer on every railway bridge on the entire route from London to Brighton but now there would not be any. But there were cordons both at Victoria Station and the destination, Brighton, as well as a Royal Protection team on the train itself.

  A big fan of the new Queen, when Stan was told the news by his manager he was beyond thrilled, if a little nervous. What a great journey to end his career on! Such an honour and privilege. And hopefully, it would all go smoothly.

  5

  Monday 20 November 2023

  The King was supportive of the Royal Train on environmental grounds, and Queen Camilla was even more enthusiastic – particularly as she was never happy in a helicopter.

  The back-room bean-counters of the Royal Household had long been advocating scrapping the train. They pointed out the cost of maintaining the three dedicated locomotives and nine carriages, for the very limited occasions the Royal Train was used, was too high compared to air and road travel. They, disdainfully, nicknamed it the Palace on Wheels.

  But the current train was very far from anyone’s definition of a palace. In Edwardian times – then decked out with sumptuous velour upholstery and gold inlay – it had rivalled anything the heyday of the Raj had to offer. But after a major refit for the late Queen’s Jubilee in 1977 the interior was far more basic. If in former times the train might have been awarded five stars in any hotel guide, the refurbished one, forty-five years on – with its Formica work surfaces and avocado bathroom suite that wasn’t retro cool but just plain old-fashioned – would have struggled to get even three stars on TripAdvisor. Not that any members of the Royal Family who made occasional use of it were in the habit of posting about their accommodation on social media. But at least the actual Royal Carriage itself, with air suspension, a full-width sofa, and beds facing lengthways rather than across the rails, for maximum comfort, gave its passengers a far smoother ride than any commuter train.

  For Queen Camilla, its real value was that it enabled her, travelling around the country for two or more days of public engagements, to stay over in comfort, in total privacy, without having to resort to hotels or return to London. And, parked in a siding, they were secure inside a police cordon.

  For Quentin Haig, the Royal Train Officer and Manager of the Royal Train for more than twenty years, this train was his beloved universe, and he was immensely proud of just how immaculate it always was, in advance of any journey. He was particularly happy that it was a favoured method of transport for the current Prince and Princess of Wales, and even more so that Queen Camilla was keen on using it.

  A perfectionist, Quentin Haig had arrived at the siding near Milton Keynes at 6 a.m. this morning, as he always did on days the train would be in service. He’d checked that the exteriors of both locomotives, and all the Royal Claret-coloured carriages in which Queen Camilla and her royal party would be travelling, were immaculate. Today they would be using seven carriages. If The King had been accompanying her, with his additional entourage, they would have had eight or, more likely, all nine carriages in use.

  Then he had walked along the corridors, through the interior of each carriage. The first behind the front locomotive was the staff sleeper, where he slept, along with three engineers, who looked after the electronics, plumbing and physical hardware, as well as a representative from Network Rail. Then through into the Household Diner, which was effectively the staff canteen. The next carriage was the marginally more ornate and comfortable Royal Diner, followed by The Principals’ bedroom carriage with its bathroom suite.

  This connected through to the royal sitting room, followed by an office carriage complete with desk. The final two carriages were the sleeping quarters for the Royal Household staff, which on today’s journey, along with Peregrine Greaves, The Queen’s Private Secretary, comprised: her two Queen’s Companions; her dresser; Director of Communications; Equerry to The Queen; the royal doctor; Director of Royal Travel; a valet; a footman; her hairdresser; and a team of Protection Officers.

  As he went through the carriages that would be occupied by The Queen herself, he checked every detail, switching on and off the table lamps to ensure the bulbs were working. He ran the taps of Their Majesties’ bath, to check the water ran clear and warm, and flushed each of the seven loos.

  Finally, at 8 a.m., the train crossed the Thames and then reversed back over it and onto the reserved and heavily guarded Platform 9 at Victoria Station.

  The royal party would be arriving at 9.15 for the scheduled departure at exactly 9.30 a.m. Quentin prided himself that not once, in all the years under his watch, had the Royal Train ever arrived at a destination more than fourteen minutes either side of the scheduled time. Today’s driver for this leg of the journey, Stanley Briggs, had been made well aware of this. He would nail it, he assured Quentin Haig.

  6

  Monday 20 November 2023

  Queen Camilla had spent much of her childhood in Sussex, at her family’s country home in the village of Plumpton, just 12 miles east of Brighton, so it was always a joy for her to return to the county where she had so many happy memories.

  As she boarded the train on this glorious November morning she had a spring in her step, although she knew that she faced an emotional couple of days talking to terminally ill people in a series of hospices. But she was buoyed as always by the inner strength she’d inherited from both her parents. Her father, a soldier in the Second World War, was twice decorated for gallantry, and her mother, despite a privileged life, had worked tirelessly for many years for a charity helping children with disabilities.

  Breaking with tradition, as part of the modernization of the monarchy, instead of Ladies-in-Waiting, Queen Camilla chose to use the term of Queen’s Companions. Their role was similar to that of Ladies-in-Waiting but less formal and more relaxed.

  The two Queen’s Companions accompanying her on this trip were tall, elegant Baroness Westwood, ‘Tiny’ to her friends, who was married to one of The King’s best friends and who carried The Queen’s lunch – comprising a banana and thermos of tomato soup – in her Louis Vuitton holdall, and Lady Elena Trevelyan, a jovial, bespectacled mutual chum of both The King and The Queen. Joining them in the sitting-room carriage of the train, seated closely to The Queen, was the reassuring, smartly dressed figure of Jayne Bennett, her own Private Secretary and trusted source for advice and guidance. Sir Peregrine Greaves and one of the ever-present RaSPs, the tall, burly, quietly unobtrusive, suited and booted Jon Gilhall completed the ensemble. Additional RaSP officers were stationed further down the train.

  Camilla, dressed in blue, sat at the Formica-topped desk that had been installed at the request of the late Queen Elizabeth, making some last-minute changes on a speech she was due to deliver tomorrow night in Bristol for her domestic abuse charity, SafeLives.

  She and her husband were self-confessed workaholics, even though many of the public wouldn’t view them as such. At their time of life, when most people would have been retired for a decade, they both remained utterly motivated, as if aware of the limited time they had to achieve so much.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tall, silver-haired figure of Sir Peregrine Greaves approaching, immaculately suited and deferential, as always, but assertive with it. He had a way of walking that made him look as though he was gliding on wheels. She always felt that in part he was like a wise old friend who had her and The King’s back, but also in part that he knew more than both of them did. Secrets that he didn’t share.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘I thought before we are rolling that we might have a quick look through today’s schedule?’

  ‘Of course, Peregrine,’ she said and looked at the sheaf of papers he placed in front of her, skimming down to the first appointment.

  10.45: Arrive at Brighton Station.

  11.15: Arrive by car at Martlets Hospice. Meet, greet with Director.

  11.25–11.55: Tour of hospice. Meet and engage with patients.

  11.55–12.10: Coffee with nursing staff.

  12.15: Depart by car for Brighton Station.

  12.30: Lunch break on train.

  14.00: Arrive at Arundel Station.

  14.20: Arrive by car at Chestnut Tree House Hospice.

  The schedule at Chestnut Tree House was pretty much identical to Martlets. Then after that she had a relaxing evening to look forward to, watching a play at Chichester Theatre, and drinks with Hugh Bonneville during the intermission. From there, she would travel by road to the train, which would be in a railway siding just outside the city and would remain there for the night. A light supper and then bed.

  She glanced at her watch. They would be off very shortly. ‘Not too bad a schedule is it, Ma’am?’ the Private Secretary asked in a manner that made it both a question and an answer.

  During the past twelve months she had attended 233 engagements, and there were times when it felt that half of them were all on the same day. She smiled. ‘I think it’s very well balanced, both today and tomorrow,’ she said, then gave a friendly grimace. ‘Well, apart from the helicopter tomorrow afternoon, from Bournemouth to Bristol.’

  Greaves was well aware of her dislike of the helicopter, but also that she did accept that often it was the only practical option for most of her tight schedules. ‘Ma’am, if I may say, if it is of any comfort, that the safety record of the Royal Helicopter is somewhat better than the safety record of trains – on this particular line at any rate.’

  ‘Really, Peregrine?’

  The Private Secretary checked his wristwatch, then nodded. ‘I’m absolutely serious, Ma’am. In approximately one hour we will be travelling through Clayton Tunnel, just north of Brighton, where the worst railway crash in British history, at the time, happened.’ He gave one of those knowing smiles that always infuriated her.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Not wishing to frighten you – apparently, due to a signalling error, a southbound train was halted in the middle of the tunnel. The steam locomotive of the following train smashed into the rear of it. Twenty-three people were scalded to death and a further one hundred and seventy-six were severely injured.’

  The Queen shuddered. ‘How dreadful. What a horrendous thing to happen. That must be one of everybody’s worst nightmares.’

  He nodded. ‘Indeed. The tunnel is haunted, apparently. Locals say on stormy nights you can sometimes hear the cries of the victims.’

  The Queen shuddered again and gave him a quizzical look as if uncertain whether he was teasing.

  ‘One of your predecessors, Ma’am, Queen Victoria, was so disturbed by the disaster that she refused from then on to travel through that tunnel on her regular visits to Brighton. She would alight at Hassocks Station – which was extended to accommodate the then extremely long Royal Train – and travel by coach and horses across the Downs to Brighton.’

  ‘And that’s what we’ll be doing today, is it, Peregrine?’ she teased.

  He smiled. ‘Well, Ma’am, I think we’ll be all right today.’

  ‘Let’s hope so!’

  Gliding a little closer to The Queen and shooting a wary glance in the direction of her two Queen’s Companions, he lowered his voice and looked a little uncomfortable. ‘There is an issue I would like to raise with Your Majesty – nothing to do with transport. Perhaps later today we could have a few private minutes?’

  She frowned. ‘Of course, Peregrine.’

  He looked at his watch again, ever the stickler for time. ‘Thank you, Ma’am. We should be off any moment now.’

  ‘Towards the cries of the victims?’

  He gave her an uneasy look as if uncertain for a moment whether to smile. When he finally did, it was a smile that did not sit well on the stiff, aristocratic features of his face.

  7

  Monday 20 November 2023

  As the dot of 9.30 a.m. approached, Stanley Briggs stared ahead through the windscreen, past the upright wiper, at the brightly lit and empty platform. The platform to their left was also empty, for security, as were the next two beyond those. He confirmed back on his radio, first to Victoria Railway Station Signalling, and then to Quentin Haig, the Royal Train Manager, that he was good to proceed.

  The electronic light box displayed first CD, for Close Doors, followed by RA, for Right Away. A uniformed member of the platform team, standing by his window, waved a green flag.

  Shaking with nerves, with his right foot he pushed the pedal – known as the dead man’s pedal – down to the floor. At the same time, with his trembling left hand, selecting forward he eased the accelerator handle gently, very gently, towards him, and released the brakes. The train started to travel forward. So gently it would not have spilled coffee from a mug in front of him; so gently, he hoped, that Her Majesty would not even be aware they were off, unless she looked out of the window.

  It seemed, as it always did, for those first moments, not that they were moving but that the rails in front of them were gliding towards them. The platform was slipping past at a steadily increasing rate. Two green lights glowed brightly ahead. And beyond, brilliant daylight.

  As the end of the platform receded and they progressed out of the station’s vast canopy, high-rise and low-rise buildings appeared on the near horizon, along with a tall red crane. They passed under a low, drab concrete bridge, with two green lights for him, which spanned the wide number of tracks feeding into the station’s nineteen platforms. On the far side he saw the speck of an airliner out of Heathrow climbing high into the sky. They clattered over a series of points, still going at a gentle pace, and an oncoming red train – the Gatwick Express, passed them to their right at a slow speed, on the up-line.

  The four chimneys of the old Battersea Power Station loomed ahead to his left, more high-rises and then they were crossing the Thames, over Grosvenor Bridge. He steadily increased the speed, keeping a watchful eye on his signals. All the ones so far were green, but he was ever mindful that if he saw a red one in the distance he would need to start slowing immediately – careful not to brake too hard with his royal passenger on board, but only too well aware that with seven carriages and a heavy locomotive behind him, it would take him a good mile to bring the train to a halt.

  An alert beeped as he crossed another set of points approaching Clapham Junction, setting off a warning klaxon, and he instantly hit the yellow button with his right hand, to silence it. The klaxon, triggered by magnets in the rails before any station or bend or change of speed limit, was one of the two fail-safe systems for the drivers. The other was the pedal he kept firmly pressed to the floor.

  If he lifted his right foot off the pedal for more than eight seconds the train would come to a rapid but steady halt and he would get a radio message from the area signaller asking if he was OK. He’d done it on one occasion and, like many of the mistakes he’d made over the years, if you valued your job, you only did it once. He still winced at the memory of the day, with eight full carriages behind him, he’d forgotten to stop at Gatwick Airport.

  They rolled through Clapham Junction. It was after rush-hour now and just a handful of people stood on the two platforms – up-line and down-line – they were passing. A few gazed in astonishment, and he saw phone cameras raised.

  Then they were out the far side and shortly there were two sets of tracks merging – as an illusion – into just one, at the vanishing point some distance ahead. He stared through the windscreen at the ever-changing view, a privileged one that passengers never saw and one he had never tired of in all his years of driving trains, and suddenly, he had to pinch himself. I’m driving The Queen! I’m bloody driving The Queen! How good is that?