‘Your mother has told me about this plan of Margo’s and yours!’
What plan? Elizabeth looked over at Margaret and was silently infuriated to see that she was putting on her ‘innocent’ face – lips compressed, gazing blandly up at a corner of the ceiling – copied from Minnie Mouse in a film show that they had seen at Windsor.
‘I think it’s jolly good,’ continued the King; his mood of fatherly indulgence now had a boisterous, almost euphoric quality. ‘As long as you’re not out for too long, and you stay with these two chaps, then yes, jolly good. Be back in a couple of hours or so.’
What plan?
Margaret now approached her and had the grace to look sheepish.
‘Lilibet, I thought it would be fun to go out tonight, sort of incognito! I knew Mama would never let me go on my own, so ...’
‘So you told her it was my idea.’
‘Oh do let’s go out, Lilibet; it will be such fun. We’ve got Hugh and Peter coming with us, and you know as well as I do that we’ll never be able to square Mama and Papa ever again. It’s now or never.’
The full significance of what Elizabeth had been coerced into was only now dawning on her. She was going to go on a raucous evening out, what the Americans called a ‘double date’, with two young men – a daring adventure of the sort she had never experienced with her fiancé, and never expected to. What would Philip say when he found out? She did not doubt the probity of their chaperones for a moment. Indeed, she was incapable of questioning the motives of anyone who came into contact with her.
But she knew her mother had been hoping that the King would forbid this adventure, or at least would be unconvinced, so that his wife would have the casting vote of disapproval. Nobody had expected that he would be quite so enthusiastic and issue what amounted to a command. She knew her father well enough to realise that the fact that Margaret was a minor actually counted in the scheme’s favour. She was still a child; in his heart, the King thought of Elizabeth as a child too, and so being out with a pair of responsible male adults could do no harm.
Margaret was now by the door, beckoning frantically, and with a facial expression somewhere between a grin and a wince. She knew quite well that every moment now spent in their mother’s company might cause her to persuade the King against this plan. Bobo and Crawfie both stood behind her, each with a face like thunder.
With a curtsey – her parents broke off from conversation with Mr Churchill to nod in return – Elizabeth left the room and began to walk down the corridor with Margaret, exchanging little blows, kicks and slaps.
‘Beast.’
‘Pig.’
‘Sneak.’
‘Wet blanket.’
‘Girls.’
Crawfie’s thin voice cut in. There was a moment’s quiet.
‘Who are these men, anyway?’
Margaret’s smile was complacent, as if she could never be caught out on such an obvious technicality.
‘Hugh’s a cousin of Lady Fermor’s – you know, mama’s lady-in-waiting. And Peter’s his friend.’
The corridor was gloomy. All the windows were still cardboarded up, in case the glass was blown in by a bomb attack – the Palace had been a key target – and two lightbulbs in three had been removed for reasons of economy. The Queen loved economy, loved discussing it, worrying about it, enforcing it. Economising was not a pose with her. Peacetime would deprive her of much pleasure.
Accelerating, the Princesses rounded a corner, clatteringly descended a flight of stone steps, went down another passage and out into a courtyard. Hugh and Peter, their consorts for the evening, were waiting for them there, in the company of three civilian police officers. Hugh had a brilliant, reassuring smile which Peter was attempting to mirror, intended to announce the evening’s mood of raillery and good humour. The policemen just looked blank and tense.
Elizabeth thought their companions for the evening were terribly handsome, and people who had never seen her close up were surprised by how attractive she was. As she approached, and secured a delicate bow from each man, Elizabeth sensed that this was particularly the case with Peter, rather sweetly shy and less relaxed than Hugh. She wondered which of the two she was supposed to be paired off with, a question smartly answered when Margaret curled her arm through Hugh’s.
‘Now, I’ve got a plan,’ Margaret announced, and from a pocket took out two pairs of stage spectacles, props from their family pantomime production of Puss In Boots at Windsor Castle. They actually had plain glass. Elizabeth and Margaret both put them on, and instantly had a busybody-ish, American air. The two men laughed uncertainly, but Elizabeth sensed that the effect was strange and surreal rather than funny. She wanted a mirror, but nobody had one.
‘Are we ready?’ asked Hugh briskly.
‘Rather!’ said Margaret.
‘Absolutely,’ said Elizabeth.
Peter just nodded. Reflexively, the four of them linked arms, as another officer on duty opened a side gate and they streamed through it: rather as she had gone out onto the balcony, single-file and then a straggling line. Elizabeth found herself grinning and ducking as she emerged, as if under a rain shower or a handful of confetti. And she had gone into a trot, as if trying to reach some enclosure a few yards away. But of course there was no enclosure. This was it. She was outside. Elizabeth slowed down, to let the others catch up with her.
Even she could see that everyone, absolutely everyone, was drunk. People reeled and staggered. They lurched. A number, civilians and military, saw her uniform and saluted. Within the first minute, one man came lumbering up to Elizabeth for a kiss; his mouth was puckered up in a way that turned his lips into a tiny pale rosebud. He tripped over his own shoelaces and crashed to the ground fully twenty yards away, and was picked up under his armpits on either side by two men who looked like the Military Police. Close enough to startle all four, and on the other side of them, a man played ‘God Bless The Prince of Wales’ on his harmonica. A number of people had climbed to the very top of lampposts and were shouting ‘Hurrah!’ over and over again. Elizabeth thought it quite the most amazing thing she had seen, and the cheering buzzed inside her skull like a swarm of bees. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
The man who had fallen over appeared now to have fainted, and was being dragged along by his friends while his knees and toes trailed feebly along the pavement. He crumpled entirely; his shoulders heaved, and a policeman asked if everything was all right. Another top-hatted man, who looked like a bishop, was walking purposefully over from a different direction, apparently to ask the same question.
Margaret whispered something in Hugh’s ear. He grinned, and Margaret scampered up behind the policeman. Elizabeth held her breath, unable to credit what was clearly about to happen. Margaret raised her hand, and then with an almighty forward swipe – so that it would not be immobilised by the chinstrap – knocked off the policeman’s helmet so that it fell over his face, and then reached over and grabbed it with both hands. She turned around, pointed at the approaching bishop and squealed loudly:
‘He did it! The blackguard!’
Then Margaret tucked the helmet under her arm and called out to the others:
‘Run!’
They ran; the furious policeman was about to give pursuit when the prostrate man groaned and slumped down further. The officer realised that he had no choice but to stay with him. The bishop now slowed to a halt, perhaps wondering if the policeman would indeed suspect that he had something to do with this affray, and then walked thoughtfully in another direction.
After some minutes of running and dodging through the mob, Elizabeth, Margaret, Hugh and Peter found themselves in the gloaming of St James’s Park. Breathless, sweating and unable to speak, they just stared at each other. Finally, Margaret felt sure enough of her prize and her safety to take the helmet out from under her arm and put it on. She instantly puffed out her cheeks, raised her right palm in a ‘stop traffic’ gesture and with the other mimed putting a whistle to her lips, and did a pompous, waddling
march back and forth. The two men behaved as if they thought it was the funniest thing they had ever seen. So did many raucous passers-by. Peter’s laugh was the more nervous.
Elizabeth was ignoring her sister, looking for the policeman, squinting and straining to see through the crowd. After a moment or so, satisfied that he was not in pursuit, she turned to look at Margaret. Emulsion-white, and livid with rage, she snatched the helmet from her.
‘How could you?’ she snapped. ‘How could you do such a stupid, irresponsible thing?’
In any other situation, the men would have felt it their job to intervene, and calm the ladies’ bad temper, perhaps with a supercilious hand on the arm. Such presumption was of course out of the question here. They were silent.
‘Oh, Lilibet, come on.’
‘I will not come on.’
‘Come on.’
‘I will not.’
‘Give me the helmet back.’
‘Shan’t.’
‘At least wear it yourself.’
‘Won’t.’
‘Or let Hugh wear it.’
‘No.’
Margaret paused for a second, then attempted to grab the helmet back by force, and the sisters grappled and tussled almost to the ground as Hugh and Peter looked on. There was wolf-whistling from onlookers. Only the knowledge that they were making a spectacle of themselves ended the struggle, with Elizabeth still in possession. Sweaty, dishevelled, but careful to put their mock glasses back on, the women straightened and stared at each other defiantly.
‘Margo,’ said Elizabeth levelly, ‘we are going together to take this helmet back to the policeman; you are going to return it and apologise.’
‘Shan’t.’
‘Yes, you are.’
‘No, I’m not.
‘You jolly well will.’
‘Jolly well won’t.’
‘Come along.’
‘No.’
‘Then I shall go myself.’
Elizabeth gave Margaret a moment to relent, but she was unrepentant. So she began to march back in the direction in which they had been running, cupping the helmet in both hands. Peter spoke up.
‘Your Royal Highness.’
Instantly, all three – Elizabeth now from afar – turned around and quelled him with a fierce glance. He would give the game away. Apologetically, Peter approached her, and the others followed.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he murmured, ‘but giving the helmet back might just tip them off as to who you are. Other people might find out, too. Or he might not realise who you are and just cut up frightfully rough and try to arrest you or something.’
‘Yes, exactly!’ piped up Margaret.
‘Don’t try to pretend you’d thought of all that.’
‘I had.’
‘You hadn’t.’
‘I had.’
‘Oh, rot.’
Elizabeth walked slowly back. She knew they were right. It was a novel experience, having to argue, out here, in this crowded, democratic arena.
‘All right,’ she said, with as much good grace as she could muster, and handed the helmet back to Margaret. For an awful moment, all four thought that this quarrel would spoil the whole evening.
‘I say, Your Royal Highness,’ said Hugh quietly. ‘Why not try the thing on yourself?’
‘Oh yes, do!’ said Margaret, magnanimous in victory, and once again returned it.
Elizabeth shrugged and smiled, perennially aware of the overwhelming importance, on this and every other occasion, of being a good sport. She put the helmet on. Everyone laughed supportively. She puffed out her cheeks and put on the same pop-eyed expression and wagged her finger. She did the voice.
‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello. Now then, now then. What’s all this? Let’s be ’avin’ you.’
They laughed, and so did a couple of young men in uniform, who cheerfully applauded. As if prompting her, they hummed some Gilbert and Sullivan, and before she knew quite what she was doing, Elizabeth shyly sang:
When a felon’s not engaged in his employment ...
And her companions sang:
(His employment ...)
Or maturin’ his felonious little plans ...
(Little plans ...)
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
( ... cent enjoyment ...)
Is just as great as any honest man’s!
By now a rather large crowd had sprung up, who all sang:
Whoooaaaaa ...
When constabulary duty’s to be done, to be done, a policeman’s lot is not an ’appy one ...
Elizabeth had been conducting with two forefingers and, with a knee-bend, gamely contributed the final bass drone:
’Appy one ...
Everyone cheered and clapped, and Margaret kissed her sister on the cheek. Hurrah! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! The crowd melted away, in search of other entertainments, but Elizabeth continued to beam, as the significance of what had just happened dawned on her. She had just done something, which ... well, she had done something. Something which people liked. Done it herself. Nobody was sucking up to her; nobody was bowing the knee; nobody was pretending because nobody knew who she was. She’d done it! On her own!
Well, not exactly on her own. She went up to Margaret and whispered, ‘I’m awfully sorry for being a bore!’
‘Likewise.’
‘Pax?’
‘Rather.’
They linked arms again and began to walk; the men fell in behind. A rather more traditional power relation had been established. For the first time, Elizabeth began to look at the people around her; freed from the need to make conversation, or wave, or defer, or gracefully accept deference, she started to look – and what she saw was kissing. People kissing. Everywhere. Margaret nudged her and pointed, discreetly, and Elizabeth nudged her back. They giggled. Margaret peeped behind to see if Hugh and Peter were reacting to this spectacle, but they maintained decorous, non-committal smiles. Mindful at all times of her responsibilities, she turned to bring Hugh into the conversation.
‘Are all these people married, d’you suppose? Or engaged?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, of course, Your Royal Highness. Just not to each other.’
Hugh’s sally got a gratifying, scandalised squeal from Margaret and an indulgent laugh from Elizabeth.
A little boy, lost, wandered into their path, blubbering and looking frantically round.
‘Dad? Dad! Where are you, Dad?’
Elizabeth instantly went down on one knee with a concerned frown, but before she could ask him anything, a man appeared out of nowhere, grasped the child under the armpits, put him on his shoulders and capered away. Elizabeth couldn’t see how the boy reacted; she couldn’t be sure if this man actually was the father or not.
The unmistakable sound of a slapped face came from behind them.
‘There’s no need for that.’
‘Well. Sauce.’
‘You know what we agreed.’
‘I agreed to no such thing.’
‘Thief!’
The four of them whirled around again, to see two boys, one with a handbag under his arm running at full tilt in the direction of the Mall. A woman was giving ineffective chase, hobbled by heels which would have made even walking difficult. Her beau, clearly incapable with drink, was merely waving his fist.
‘Oh lor,’ commented Peter, weakly.
‘Oh dear,’ agreed Hugh.
‘One hopes that this sort of thing is not going to be a feature of the evening.’
The crowd now became agitated at something. The mass rippled and parted. A figure was approaching; his presence was apparently not welcome, judging from the frowns, jeers and cat-calls. Someone started humming Gilbert and Sullivan again. It was their policeman, minus his helmet, walking quickly and purposefully in their direction.
‘Corks!’ said Margaret quaintly, and then, for the second time, ‘Run!’
Five
Mr Ware grinned. He had just thrown a firework, a penny banger,
into a shopfront doorway and it had made an almighty loud noise. Everyone had jumped, especially the two swell chaps in Guards uniforms he’d seen coming out of The Captain’s Cabin. They had stared at him; he had stared back and someone shouted ‘That’s got the festivities started’ and there was a huge laugh.
The evening was back the way he wanted it. Mr Ware was grateful for the laugh. He liked a bit of a pat on the back, metaphorical or otherwise. He’d actually had the most awful row with his wife before he’d left the flat – about their plans for the evening, and how exactly they were to get what he had decided they both wanted. There were rich pickings to be had, he told her. She said it was too dangerous. Too dangerous! As if they hadn’t done dangerous things before now, and had dangerous things done to them!
At that moment, a very intoxicated Canadian in uniform literally attempted to pat him on the back, and Mr Ware instinctively pretended to be drunk too, slumping against him with a grin; he allowed himself to be helped up, while the man’s girlfriends looked on, chattering and laughing.
‘Y’okay?’ the man laughed.
‘Oh, yes, sorry, sorry, thanks very much!’
‘B’bye now!’
‘Cheer-o!’
The Canadian sauntered away, a lady friend on each arm if you please, and Mr Ware ducked round the corner, removed the Canadian’s wallet from his inside jacket pocket and began to extract the cash. Ten pounds and ten shillings! And a French letter. He put the money and the rest of the doings down into his trouser pocket. The wallet went flapping down into a dustbin, like a dead bird.
You see? Windows of opportunity had to be scrambled through. Chances had to be grasped. But Mrs Ware, that shiftless and ungrateful slattern, did not see. She did not appreciate that this night offered them a real chance. Their final chance. Tomorrow the party would be over, and it would be back to peacetime civvy street.
Well, they had agreed in the end. That is, he had told Mrs Ware she would get another fourpenny one if she gave him gip. Last time that happened was when she had made a fuss about him carrying on at the Club. She didn’t half get one that night, but she’d been provoking and provoking, for all the world as if she wanted one. She got one that night, all right. Actually, it was more like a sixpenny one. Just occasionally she’d got a ninepenny one, and on one occasion the full shilling. Whump.
Night of Triumph Page 4