Free My Week with Marilyn by Colin Clark Page A

feet.
    â€˜Detective Chief Superintendent Smith,’ said Roger. ‘I’m escorting this lady and gentleman for the day, and they wish to see round the castle. Is there any way in which you can assist?’
    â€˜Do they know anyone here, sir? We need to write down a contact name in the book. Otherwise one of us would need to be with them at all times, and they might not want that, sir.’
    Marilyn was clutching my hand in a rather desperate fashion, and I sensed that she was scared stiff that they would recognise her – and at the same time terrified that they would not.
    â€˜My godfather works here,’ I said. ‘I used to visit him quite often when I was at school. He’s the librarian. He’s called Sir Owen Morshead. Maybe you could call him.’
    Eyebrows shot up all round. I was wearing a white shirt, grey flannel trousers and sandals, not exactly the dress of a typical castle visitor. We all went inside the guardhouse, and the policeman dialled a number.
    â€˜Sir Owen? Main gate here, sir. I have a young gentleman, name of – ?’
    â€˜Clark. Colin Clark.’
    â€˜Name of Clark here, sir, would like a word with you, sir.’ He handed the phone to me.
    â€˜Colin, is that you? What are you doing here?’ Owen Morshead
is an eccentric scholar with a wonderful sense of humour. He has an equally delightful wife called Paquita, and together they are like a breath of fresh air in royal circles.
    â€˜I’m working on a film nearby, and I thought I would bring my, er, friend, my lady friend’ – I grinned at Marilyn – ‘over for you to meet her.’
    â€˜How delightful,’ said Owen. ‘I’m expecting some visitors in a short time, so it would be nice if you could come right now. Do bring her up at once. Just follow the road up the hill until you see another policeman outside my door. He’ll direct you.’
    â€˜I think I’ll just wait at the gate,’ said Roger. ‘You’ll be safe enough in the castle, Miss Monroe.’
    â€˜Ssh!’ said Marilyn with a broad wink and a wiggle, which made the two policemen’s eyes pop out, and off we set.
    News spreads fast, and at the next police post three or four men came tumbling out to see if it was true. In fact they were so intent on gazing at my ‘lady friend’ that I had to push them out of the way so that we could get through the library door.
    Once inside we were in another world. Sir Owen Morshead did not look as if he had ever been to the cinema in his life.
    â€˜How charming, how charming. You are pretty, my dear. I’m sure you and Colin have so much in common. Well, this is my humble den.’ His arm swept round the Royal Library, room after room lined with books and pictures. The tables were covered with books, all the chairs had books piled on top of them, and there were even stacks of books on the floor.
    Owen gave a hoot of laughter. ‘It looks rather dull and dusty, doesn’t it?’ he said, but Marilyn was in awe.
    â€˜Oh, Sir Owen’ – you never quite knew whether she would remember a name or not – ‘I love books,’ she said in a childlike whisper. ‘Have you read them all?’
    â€˜Luckily one doesn’t have to do that.’ Owen was enjoying himself immensely. ‘A lot of them just have pictures.’ He took a large portfolio from a shelf and opened it. ‘These are all by an artist called Holbein.’
    â€˜Ooh, what a beautiful lady,’ said Marilyn, looking over his shoulder. ‘Who is she?’
    â€˜She was the daughter of one of the King’s courtiers, four hundred years ago.’
    â€˜Imagine, four hundred years ago, and she still looks great. Gee. How many of these have you got?’
    â€˜Eighty-nine. And these,’ said Owen, taking out another folder of drawings, ‘are all by an Italian artist called Leonardo da Vinci.’
    â€˜Wait a