Mr Ware felt for the bump in his belt, under his jacket, to check that what he’d stuffed down there was still in place. It was.
After meandering aimlessly about for an hour or so, Mr Ware wheeled north, skipping off the pavement into the thronged street itself, where the crush of people was lighter. He walked up Lower Regent Street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. On the corner, a man was doing Find The Lady on an upturned cardboard box. Mr Ware recognised him, and exchanged a wink. The man threw a Queen, an Ace and another Ace face down on the cardboard surface; the cards often overlapped. A crowd of people, all male, from old men to boys, had gathered. One relatively well-dressed man had evidently been enticed to the front, and Mr Ware guessed that he would be the one of whom the card-player had great hopes. He wondered how many of the crowd were not stooges, and thought not many.
‘No money, no money, no money, just for fun, which d’you think?’ said the card-master, throwing the cards down once again.
Bashfully, the well-dressed man pointed to the card in the middle and it was turned up. The Queen. There was an instant ragged cheer – part of the purpose of this part of the trick, apart from lulling the mark into a false sense of security, was to attract a bigger crowd.
‘Ooh, you’re good at this, come on, how about making it interesting? What about a ha’penny?’
To show he was a good sport, the man bet a halfpenny, and was successful again. There was another massive cheer, and the card-master, with a pantomime pout of astonishment at his customer’s extraordinary, untrained skill at Finding The Lady, gave the man a penny and challenged him to have a real bet.
‘Go on! Be a sport! You can’t quit now! Give the poor feller a chance, sir,’ said the crowd who were bustling in behind him, physically preventing him from leaving. In the distance, someone was singing ‘I’ve got a luverly bunch of coconuts.’
‘Come on. A quid.’
Intimidated, the man agreed to bet a pound. He swayed somewhat, and Mr Ware made a mental bet of his own – that the man had not been drinking at all, but felt constrained to explain away to the crowd and to himself the imminent disaster on the grounds that he was drunk. He betted a pound, pointed to one of the cards and of course on this occasion it was an Ace.
‘Come on! Have another go! Get your money back.’
‘No, no.’ The man, thoroughly ashamed, tried to leave, was jostled back, and when he persisted, was jostled on his way by the spiteful, vengeful mob.
‘G’wan then. On your way.’ Instinctively, simply to partake of the fun, Mr Ware came forward and joined in the shoving of this unfortunate man, whose VE Night had now been entirely spoiled. An apprentice draughtsman, who lived in Ipswich and was up in the capital just for the evening, he went back to Ipswich on the early train the next morning and never came to London ever again.
Turning up into Great Windmill Street, Mr Ware found what he was looking for: the Butterfly Club. There was no sign or outward indication of any sort to the passer-by. To gain admission, Mr Ware had to crouch down on his haunches and reach awkwardly through a row of rusty railings that ran alongside a tobacconist’s door and rap with his knuckle on a pane of glass. Presently, a figure appeared down there, looking up expressionlessly at Mr Ware, and then vanished. Then a cellar door opened and this man walked up a shallow flight of rusty metal steps, and unbolted a square section of mesh wire to allow access. Mr Ware followed him down through the door, and entered the premises. As he did so, through force of habit, he removed his wedding ring with some effort, and placed it in his pocket.
It was a surprisingly large room in an L-shape, with a bar on one side, tables and chairs; Mr Ware walked on to look around the corner where there was a small stage, a piano and a microphone on a stand. The stage was empty but not the bar, at which four or five men were standing, each wearing a boxy demob suit, smoking and without exception drinking gin. The one Mr Ware was looking for was quite obvious, from the way he flinched with alarm at the sight of him. It was Colin Erskine-Jones.
‘Colin.’
Colin was actually sitting on a high stool which he now attempted to scramble off, perhaps to greet Mr Ware, perhaps to go to the lavatory, or perhaps to make a panicky escape. Mr Ware placed himself squarely against Colin, preventing him from moving. Colin rearranged his features in such a way as to suggest he was pleased to see him.
‘My dear chap. My dear chap. Drink?’
‘I was going to order a gin and It, Colin.’
‘Do please let me get it,’ quavered Colin, as if there was any question of anything else. ‘What are you having? Oh yes, gin and It.’
Mr Ware nodded coolly and Colin made the order. Their drinks arrived. Colin offered Mr Ware a cigarette; this he took without a word of thanks, but rather as if it were a peace offering, which he would accept in an opaque spirit of diplomacy, without being in any way deflected from his main purpose.
‘Now, Colin,’ said Mr Ware, crushing his cigarette wastefully in the ashtray after one single puff. ‘Do you have that money you owe me?’
‘What money?’ asked Colin in a quiet voice. The other men at the bar began to move away, to the tables, or to the exit.
‘Half of what you got from selling the doings, Colin, the doings which I allowed you to procure from Bruton Street. That was a goldmine, Bruton Street, wasn’t it? You must admit that.’
‘Not quite as good as all that, old chap ...’
‘I think there must have been some earrings Colin, in fact I think you’re wearing one of them now ...’
With a circular swipe of his right hand, Mr Ware brought in the nails of his forefinger and thumb and pincered Colin’s left earlobe with them, pulling the side of his head down towards the bar. The barman turned his back and busied himself washing out a glass.
‘Ah-ah-ah-ah,’ said Colin, suppressing his pain and fear, and trying to make this the kind of ‘steady on’ reproach one might use with a wayward child or puppy.
‘Wearing them ...’
‘Ah ...’
‘Oh no! My mistake. You’re not.’
He released Colin’s now red-hot ear.
‘Just my mistake. Whoops! Ha! Just my joke.’ Mr Ware now considered it expedient to clown around a little. ‘Just my joke, Colin, you’re all right. Another gin? Another gin!’
They got more drinks, and this time the cigarettes were on Mr Ware. Resentful and emboldened, Colin now ventured a note of complaint. ‘There really wasn’t that much there, you know. Nothing much. Really nothing. Furniture’s no bloody use at all.’
‘Well, how about the cigarette case?’
‘Tried selling that to a chap earlier today. Nothing doing. I say, are you sure it’s solid silver? Shouldn’t it have a hallmark? Mightn’t it be just plate?’
But Mr Ware was now distracted by another matter entirely. A large woman with fierce blonde hair had come up behind him with an exaggerated hip-rolling gait, knees slightly bent. She gave Colin a wink and then playfully pounced on Mr Ware, putting claw-like hands over his eyes, and then whisked him round. From his wide, immediate grin, it was clear that Mr Ware did not at all mind this assault. He knew who this was from the beginning.
‘Darling!’ she croaked.
‘My own one!’ he replied smoothly, placing his cigarette in the ashtray.
The woman took Mr Ware’s head in both hands and placed his face in her cleavage. To Colin, it seemed as though he was there for quite some time, making tiny mewing sounds. Some of the customers who had nervously left the bar a few minutes ago were beginning to return, to make fresh orders and stay at the bar.
At last, Mr Ware was freed. He wore the expression of a man who had been gazing at a sunset until the moment of nightfall.
‘How are you, dearest?’
‘Oh, I’m all right, you know,’ he said, with a kind of post-coital tenderness.
The woman looked over at Colin. ‘I look forward to seeing your act tonight, ducks,’ she said, and added, ‘Tonight is special.’
&nbs
p; ‘It is special.’ Both men agreed.
‘It’s a wonderful moment in our history,’ she said. ‘And Christ, loves, what a blessed relief not to have rationing any more.’
They both nodded.
‘Mind you. We have to think about our boys out in the Far East. The job isn’t over yet,’ she said sternly. ‘Out there, our boys battle on. We must never forget that. Never.’
They nodded again, and Colin was slightly relieved that there was someone of whom Mr Ware might be very slightly afraid.
‘When I think about the Japanese ...’ said Ginnie, her voice quietening and decelerating. There was a moment’s quiet.
‘Anyway,’ said Mr Ware, ‘we’re all really looking forward to the party tonight.’
‘Jolly good!’
‘And talking of which,’ said Mr Ware, ‘I wonder if young Colin and I could be permitted to pop behind the bar, down the stairs, and have a look at the various important things we have stored there?’
‘Oh yes, oh yes, my dear,’ said Ginnie genially. ‘You bowl along. We have to make sure everything’s present and correct, don’t we?’
Ray, behind the bar, opened up the flap and Mr Ware motioned for Colin to come through and then lead the way round past the wall of drinks and spirit measures, and through a door at the other side. This passageway was very dark, lit only by a glimmer of light from an office at the far end. Colin knew the way; so did Mr Ware. There was no reason for them not to walk two abreast down this passageway and make conversation while they did so. But somehow Colin was made to walk ahead with Mr Ware behind, as if under arrest.
Turning right, Colin and Mr Ware found another door, which could only be fully opened after shoving and kicking some obstructions on the floor out of the way, and Colin reached around and turned on a light switch.
It was a storeroom. There were boxes, and files of discarded paperwork. These had to be heaved out of the way by Colin.
Presently, the men found what they were looking for: a dusty old hanger-rail, running on castors at either end, of the sort that you might find in a dry cleaner’s, or a tailor’s, or anyone in the rag trade. It had two coat-hangers, of which one had a set of blue overalls, and an ARP helmet hanging by its chinstrap: white with a single diamond. Mr Ware took his uniform down, rolled it up, and thoughtfully put it in a bag. He wasn’t sure exactly when he was going to need this.
The other hanger held something longer and fuller, something concealed under a paper cover which was intended to protect it from dust. It was Colin who peeled this back to check that everything was all right under there.
‘Your gown, madame?’ said Mr Ware.
‘Yes,’ said Colin quietly. Something about this rich and exotic garment restored some of Colin’s confidence, and in fact Mr Ware became more respectful as well, standing back.
‘Everything ship-shape about it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, perfectly.’
‘I had it taken in, just as you asked.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Not that you needed it. It’s not as if you’ve gained weight.’
‘Well,’ said Colin judiciously, with a you-can’t-be-too-careful tone.
‘Did you want to try it on?’ asked Mr Ware, now almost humble.
‘No,’ said Colin, ‘that’s all right. We’ll wait until later.’
‘Right-o.’
‘I suppose I could sketch out some of the dance steps.’
Forty-five minutes later, both men reappeared in the bar, dusty and subdued. Ginnie beamed over at them; she was now helping out with the serving of drinks. The place was a bit more crowded.
‘Everything all right?’ she called out.
Mr Ware did not reply. His sour mood had evidently returned. It was for Colin to say that, yes, yes, everything was present and correct. Mr Ware had his ARP bundle under his arm. Colin’s earlobe still throbbed red.
‘I suppose you chaps know Rupert?’
They saw a handsome, younger man sitting at the bar, a double whisky in front of him. He looked up and smiled coolly. They had not been introduced.
‘This is Rupert,’ said Ginnie, unconsciously patting the back of her hair, pushing it springily into the scalp behind both ears in turn. ‘He’s one of my most loyal customers in the Brown Bomber.’ This was Ginnie’s other Soho club.
Rupert stood up and put out his hand to Mr Ware to shake, and then to Colin.
‘Delighted,’ he said. ‘Brook. Rupert Brook.’
‘With – out the ‘e’, chaps,’ said Ginnie. ‘And Rupert is being too modest. He’s not in uniform tonight, but he is in fact Group Captain Rupert Brook. Of the RAF.’
Rupert smiled tolerantly, as if he really couldn’t approve of Ginnie’s extravagant praise.
‘The Few,’ said Ginnie reverently. ‘One of The Few.’
Brook was a handsome man with a fleshy, placid face, which appeared to crease easily into a beaming smile – as it did now. He wore a chalkstripe suit whose shoulders were dusted with dandruff; his tie bore some crest or other.
‘Ginnie,’ he said, in a voice slower and more languid than the others’, ‘I was wondering if I couldn’t possibly get something to eat from that kitchen of yours?’
‘Right you are, Group Captain!’
Brook made a small moue of exasperation at her flattery.
‘And perhaps these gentlemen would like to join me in some snack or other ...?’ he ventured.
‘I could do you all a jolly filling sausage sandwich each.’
‘Marvellous. Does that sound up to the mark, chaps?’ he asked.
Colin thanked him heartily, but Mr Ware, though unwilling to pass the offer up, was reluctant to put himself in this man’s debt.
‘Now, remind me,’ said Group Captain Brook, ‘what is it you do, again?’
‘I am – I was – an ARP warden,’ said Mr Ware stoutly.
‘Ah, yes. But in civilian life?’
‘I was a builder.’
‘Ah. Jolly good. And what about you, Colin?’
‘I’m in the wine trade. Was before the War, anyway. Now I really don’t know.’
‘Well, Ginnie tells me that you have theatrical interests. I expect they’ll be keeping you busy, won’t they?’
‘Oh yes.’
Presently, their sausage sandwiches arrived and all three men started chomping away. Group Captain Brook did not remove his jacket, but contrived to keep his sleeves entirely free of grease.
‘I myself had interests in a couple of West End shows in ’38. They did remarkably well. I turned a pretty penny without lifting a finger. And people want entertainment now more than ever. There’s a nice little theatrical pie I’ve got my finger into now, actually. Of course, there’s room for investors of the right sort.’
Brook let that remark hang in the air. Mr Ware was too suspicious to follow it up, and Colin Erskine-Jones too gloomy and too poor.
‘Well, cheer-o,’ said Brook, lifting his whisky, draining it, and then with a tap of his finger on the glass, followed by a circular teaspoon-stirring movement in the air, indicated that he would like another and intended to buy the others theirs as well. A raised eyebrow in their direction solicited the information that they would like whiskies. Brook mouthed the word ‘whiskies’ in the direction of the bar.
‘Jolly good work you’re doing in the ARP, Ware,’ Brook now said thoughtfully. ‘Jolly hard work, too, come to that.’
‘Well, it was difficult work, but somebody had to do it,’ said Ware. Colin remained silent, although Ware’s observation could as well have applied to him.
‘Really thankless stuff,’ continued Brook, as if the subject was so extraordinary, so riveting, he simply couldn’t leave it alone. ‘Badly paid. Unpaid, actually. And of course as there are still bombsites and unsafe areas ...?’
Mr Ware’s eyes, as he now looked at Group Captain Brook, had the shuttered, opaque quality of a guard dog at heel. He was silent in a way that made Colin squirm with discomfiture, but Brook remained ent
irely open, candid and cheerful.
‘Ginnie’s been telling me all about the hard work you’ve been doing – and the risks you’ve been taking.’
Both Ware and Colin, entirely independently, turned around to see where Ginnie was. But she had evidently disappeared.
‘Because it’s a risky business. Unlike my business. Did Ginnie tell you what my business is?’
Mr Ware turned back to Brook and neither nodded nor shook his head.
‘It’s antiques. Furniture. And jewellery,’ Brook prattled on. ‘I deal with all sorts of valuables. Large and small. Commonplace and rare. I buy and I sell. And I can act as an agent. I can handle a lot of material and I can place it with buyers who are not burdened with – how shall I say? – a neurotic insistence on knowing the provenance of each piece. Do you understand what I mean?’
Ginnie chose this moment to reappear with the whiskies. She set the tray down, and just as Group Captain Brook was reaching into his pocket, Mr Ware forestalled him with a downward-palm gesture, and produced a ten-shilling note himself. He was smiling.
Six
Running had been, on this second occasion, easier but less fun; the novelty had dwindled and Elizabeth had been relieved when they all decided they had eluded the pursuer, who was probably not in the slightest bit serious about the chase. The four were now much further up, in the crowds near Trafalgar Square.
In her heart, Elizabeth considered that it was high time they returned to the Palace. This had, surely, been quite enough. She was secretly amazed at the extraordinary things that they had done – that she had done! Not only stealing a policeman’s helmet – well, Margaret had done that – but wearing it and leading an impromptu sing-song. Incredible! Elizabeth was almost overcome with euphoria thinking about this wonderful coup, but knew that it would not entirely overwhelm her until she was back inside, safe, chattering about it with her sister, with Bobo, even with her father!
Night of Triumph Page 5