Night of Triumph (8 page)

She turned around, and – converting her tense grimace into a grin – tried to examine the tapering train of bodies for signs of Margaret and the two men. They were not there. They
were gone. She was alone.

Elizabeth did not at first realise that she was entirely at liberty to free herself from the conga line and look for them properly. But a lifetime of formal engagements had taught her that, in
the event of a crisis, with all eyes being on her, the best thing was to keep going as if nothing was wrong. So she just went on, jogging and conga-ing, frantically wondering where they had got
to.

Every other person seemed to be collapsing boozily on the ground. It was getting dark. Finally, Elizabeth extricated herself from the human snake and searched frantically, while keeping her
bogus spectacles glued to her face with her finger and thumb.

‘Margo. Margo.’ Elizabeth didn’t dare shout the words, so ridiculously said them at normal, and inaudible, talking volume. She became silent.

Well, it was too bad. Margaret had clearly tired of the whole thing and turned tail, heading for home. They might have told her. And the men might have had the gumption to stand up to Margaret
in this caprice. Or perhaps leaving her alone like this was some sort of prank. Yes, that was it. Elizabeth’s paleness was now due more to anger than fear. Well, there was nothing for it, but
to walk back to the Palace, unaccompanied. And if Margaret and the others caught it, well, it was just jolly well their own fault.

Elizabeth set about stalking home, her euphoric mood now utterly cancelled. But this was not easy. The parks authority seemed to have put up barriers which blocked her advance at every turn,
like a maze. And then there were the crowds, which were becoming ever more boisterous and drunken. Keeping her glasses held in place, Elizabeth now realised that getting recognised would be a
calamity – though the dark disorder actually made it unlikely – and so she tried to walk while keeping her eyes fixed to the ground. Periodically, she would look up and see that she had
been walking in the wrong direction entirely. And people would keep crashing and bumping into her.

Far over to her right, an unruly crowd was singing ‘What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?’ and on the ‘up she rises’ line was actually throwing someone up into the
air, tossed from a blanket or coat. Was it a woman or a man, a boy or a girl? He or she seemed to be crying ‘stop’ or ‘help’. Elizabeth couldn’t quite hear. She went
up on tiptoe to see, couldn’t, then went up on tiptoe again, and was knocked to the ground. A wave of bodies surged drunkenly from somewhere behind and to the right of her.

Elizabeth screamed. She locked her elbows into her ribcage, clenched her fists in such a way as to bring her tensed wrists to her cheeks, and brought her knees up, in an awful parody of the
song. She thought she might be trampled half to death and many people stumbled over her, falling over themselves, and causing other people to fall over.

No one offered to help her up, and no one asked if she was all right. They just kept jumping and stumbling over her: a continuous Becher’s Brook, scrambling and flailing overhead.
Elizabeth was able to get herself up on her elbows, and had rescued her bogus spectacles, resettling them on her nose. She shuffled along the ground on elbows and knees, and found herself
relatively in the clear, but when she tried to stand up, to her intense mortification and disgust, Elizabeth felt faint, and might easily have fallen back down again.

‘I say, are you all right?’

There was a hand – actually, three or four fingertips – on her shoulder. Elizabeth looked up.

An alert, amused young woman was looking down at her. She was wearing an unflattering, closely fitting chocolate brown suit, sensible brown shoes, and – even in this first instant,
Elizabeth could see this – rather too much makeup, which gave her kindly face a waxen look. Elizabeth did not reply at first, and nothing in her upbringing had schooled her in how to respond
to an unsolicited remark from a member of the public who was addressing her on the assumption of equal terms.

‘Are you all right?’ the woman repeated, and then said, with an indulgent chuckle, ‘One over the eight, is it? Well, we’re all at it, tonight!’

Elizabeth was now stung, and rapidly got up.

‘I certainly am not drunk!’ she said hotly.

Untroubled by her irritation, the woman continued in the same vein. She had perhaps heard the same declaration from drunks many times before.

‘Oh, all right then, all right. Let’s get you straightened out.’ With the stiffened, flattened palm of her hand, the woman then brushed the dirt off Elizabeth’s uniform;
about the grass stains, she could do nothing.

‘Is that everything?’ she asked, squinting at the fabric in the gloom. ‘I’m afraid I’ve gone and left my glasses at home, so I can’t quite see.’

‘Yes, I think that’s everything,’ said Elizabeth evenly. ‘Thank you.’

Neither said anything for a moment, and although a gaggle of people near them were now doing a ‘hands, knees, and boomps-a-daisy’ dance that left them sprawled and giggling on the
ground, while one of them twanged on a banjo, the dense centre of the crowd seemed to have passed elsewhere. It was relatively quiet.

‘My name’s Katharine, by the way.’ Katharine stuck her hand directly out. Elizabeth shook it politely, wondering whether to give her real first name.

‘And you are ...?’

‘Lil,’ said Elizabeth, fudging the issue.

‘Right-o. What do you think of all this, then?’

‘Remarkable.’

‘Where are you stationed?’

‘Windsor. And you – civvy street, I suppose?’

‘Rather. I work in St James’s. Well, actually in Whitehall. I’m a secretary to – well, I shouldn’t say.’ Katharine looked a little flirtatious.
‘I’m actually secretary to some highups. I really shouldn’t say.’

It occurred to Elizabeth to have some mild sport with this woman and her ‘highups’.

‘Really?’ she prompted, affecting wide-eyed admiration. ‘Who? Who d’you mean?’

‘Well, I work in
Downing Street
. And sometimes I take dictation from ...’

‘Gosh,’ said Elizabeth, ‘you don’t mean ...?’

‘I do!’ said Katharine. ‘Mr
Morrison!
He’s awfully nice.’

‘Jolly good,’ said Elizabeth, already feeling ashamed to have secretly mocked.

‘I say,’ Katharine then said, ‘I’m awfully sorry for saying you were tight. It’s absolutely plain that you aren’t. Sorry about that.’

‘Not a bit.’

They stood around for a moment. It was now almost entirely dark, though the throng was lit in pools from the street lights along the Mall. Elizabeth knew that she now ought to be making her way
back to the Palace as quickly as possible, and yet years of training in graceful gratitude had taught her that simply leaving Katharine was not correct. She noticed a wedding ring on
Katharine’s left hand.

‘Is your husband with you tonight?’ she asked politely.

‘Oh, he couldn’t get away,’ said Katharine breezily. ‘He’s always got a lot of work on.’ Katharine looked for a ring on Elizabeth, too. ‘I say, Lil, do
you have a chap?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I’m engaged to be married.’

Elizabeth realised that she had never actually spoken these words out loud to anyone before. Just saying them had a liberating, exhilarating effect. Instantly she felt better and smiled, and
this produced a warm, wide smile from Katharine too.

‘Well, you’ve got something else to celebrate tonight, haven’t you?’ Elizabeth nodded. She supposed that she had. It was all she could do to stop grinning from ear to ear
like a madwoman. What was the
matter
with her? Had VE Night brought out some sort of instability? But even this thought, so far from sobering Elizabeth, tempted her to giggle further.

‘Why don’t we drink a toast to that?’ said Katharine suddenly. She produced a green leather flask from a hip pocket, unscrewed the silver top and offered it to her.

Elizabeth took it, smiled a silent thanks, and swigged. From somewhere, she couldn’t think where – the pictures? Cowboy films? – she knew that she was supposed to wipe her
mouth and hand the flask back with a worldly grin. Drinking in the street! But she stood there, dumbly, holding the open flask. Katharine gently took it back from her. The liquid contents were ...
what were they, actually? Brandy? Whisky? Elizabeth had no idea. Anyway, the drink was branching through her veins, making her feel giddy and keen. Elizabeth was no Methodist. She had had wine
before, and was reasonably sure she had tasted spirits too. But she couldn’t remember them ever having this effect on her. She supposed it was the combined effect of the drink, the
atmosphere, and having been knocked over. Or rather, having been rescued from having been knocked over. That was it.

‘Do you think I could have another sip? Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’

Elizabeth now took a good swig. Katharine took the flask back from her and had one herself.

‘Ha, take a pull on that – it’s a bellrope!’ said Elizabeth, remembering Arthur Askey on the wireless.

Katharine gave a polite though slightly mystified-sounding laugh.

‘I say, if we walk over here a bit, we can get out of this crowd.’

They did so, Katharine swinging her arms easily. Elizabeth realised that she should be getting back to the Palace, and found herself wondering if they were worried about her. In the next
instant, she thought: Oh blow.
Let
them worry.

They walked in silence. Katharine offered Elizabeth the flask and she took another drink.

‘Lil,’ asked Katharine, ‘where’s your chap now? What does he do?’

‘He’s in the Navy.’

‘Ah. Jolly good,’ said Katharine.

Elizabeth returned, ‘How about yours?’

‘He’s in civvy street, back home.’

Something in the thought appeared to make Katharine thoughtful and, simply to cover the silence, Elizabeth asked for yet another nip from the flask. That really would have to be her last.

‘Oh, really!’ Katharine seemed to have spotted something which caused her some amused exasperation. ‘Look at that.’

Elizabeth looked, but couldn’t see what she was supposed to be looking at.

‘What?’

‘Look. Courting couples.’

Elizabeth looked harder and then saw them. They were everywhere. Why hadn’t she seen them before? It was like nudging the reception on a wireless dial which made everything loud and clear
after a lot of growling and fizzing. Men and women kissing passionately in the gloom. Under trees. On the ground, on blankets which had rolled up over them. She could even see legs poking out from
bushes. She could also see single women standing around on their own, smoking and looking about, as if waiting for someone. How odd.

‘This is supposed to be VE Night. VD Night is more like it, if you ask me!’

Elizabeth did not have the smallest clue what Katharine was talking about. However, in her high good humour and out of politeness to her rescuer and new friend, she returned Katharine’s
knowing smile. Katharine sighed.

‘When are you getting married, Lil?’ she asked, suddenly.

‘I’m – I’m really not sure,’ said Elizabeth, surprised to add this to the many things that she did not know about her future.

‘Will it be a church wedding?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I only ask because some people don’t. You know – have weddings in church.’

‘Mine will be. Was yours?’

‘What?’

‘Was your wedding in a church?’

‘Yes,’ said Katharine vaguely. ‘Yes it was. A jolly nice church. And we went to Margate for our honeymoon. Where are you going for your honeymoon?’

Again, Elizabeth was disconcerted to realise that she did not know, and could not be certain how much say she had in this matter, if indeed she had any at all.

‘Well, I – I don’t really know.’

Katharine gave Elizabeth a playful slap on the arm.

‘Oh, Lil, don’t be so feeble! You
must
know.’

‘I don’t, really I don’t.’

‘But you must have some idea?’

Elizabeth pulled herself together and tried to think of somewhere.

‘Well, how about France?’

‘The Riviera, you mean? The Cote D’Azur?’

Elizabeth tried imagining what these places were like, tried thinking of what the worldly thing to say about them might be.

‘Well, yes, possibly,’ she allowed, as if these choices were acceptable, but rather too obvious.

‘Antibes? Juan Les Pins?’

‘Mm,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I suppose.’

‘Or what about Monte Carlo?’

‘Yes, that could be an idea.’

‘Oh, Lil, you are a tease!’ Katharine burst out laughing, and slapped her arm again. Elizabeth looked puzzled once more.

‘Monte Carlo! Juan Les Pins! As if any of us has the money for that sort of thing! What a leg-pull!’

Elizabeth attempted to join in the chortling, as if congratulating herself for pulling someone’s leg. But hadn’t it been Katharine who had suggested all those places? Their laughter,
that is to say Katharine’s laughter, died gently away and was replaced by another pensive quiet.

‘Your honeymoon. Your wedding night. It’s the most important night of your life.’ Elizabeth could see that her friend’s expression was very serious. ‘It is when you
know your husband for the first time.’ Katharine turned to look at Elizabeth, sharply. ‘I take it that this would be the case with you?’

‘Oh yes,’ Elizabeth nodded earnestly.

Looking mollified, Katharine returned the subject. ‘For the first time. The very first time. Between those sheets. A sacrament. You submit to him. It is the price.’ Katharine
laughed, to signal that this serious part of the conversation was over.

‘Well,’ she giggled. ‘That’s the wedding night. All bets are off. Don’t you agree?’

Another absolutely inexplicable remark.

‘Oh yes.’

‘When my husband and I had our Margate honeymoon, we didn’t emerge from our room for four days!’

‘Had you had shellfish?’ Elizabeth asked.

There was a great zoom and a whoosh. Celebratory Lancasters were flying overhead, absurdly low. Irresponsible, surely? But this was VE Night. Elizabeth suppressed an upsurge of fear and
disapproval and replaced them with genial, tolerant bemusement. And in truth, she was in a very good mood.