There were two people that she knew she couldn’t regale with these stories. One was the Queen who, although by no means humourless, could never countenance these shenanigans. The other was Philip. With absolute clarity, Elizabeth foresaw in detail the puzzlement and irritated resentment with which he would react. A piece of mannish daring and high-jinks in which he had not been present – which, indeed, could never have happened had he been present? Oh dear, no. He would not laugh and clap his hands delightedly, as Elizabeth imagined the King doing. On the contrary. He would be furious. It might well colour the vital first months of their married life together. And this was not even taking into account the presence of two unmarried young Guards officers, squiring the Princesses around. There was of course no question of impropriety, but shrewdly, anxiously, Elizabeth assessed this as a matter of status and amour propre. She wondered if Philip would take offence, and refuse to forgive these two officers for giving his fiancée such an unforgettable night on the tiles. Should she refuse to give their names, if he pressed her? Should she claim that she and Margaret had been out on their own? Or with other people entirely?
No. That wouldn’t do. The only thing was simply not to tell him at all. But wouldn’t he find out from the King?
‘Do come along, Lilibet,’ said Margaret. ‘What shall we do now? I say, shall we go for a drink somewhere?’
Elizabeth knew that this insouciant pose, this casual talk of going for a drink, was all nonsense. Margaret had of course never gone for a drink anywhere in her life. She had only this Christmas been permitted wine. Elizabeth herself did not like the taste, all that much.
Suddenly, from nowhere, Elizabeth conceived an overwhelming irritation with Margaret and these two gallants who were dancing attendance on her sister and making her feel excluded and unwanted; for a second, a profound and contemptuous uninterest in the two men’s lives swept over her and she wished all three would just go anywhere, go away.
‘We might go to the Ritz, Your Royal Highness,’ murmured Hugh. He was talking to Margaret.
‘Oh, do let’s!’ said Margaret.
The three of them turned questioningly to Elizabeth, and she was wasp-stung with irritation to realise that they were not asking for her opinion, but merely her permission.
‘It really is getting awfully crowded,’ Hugh presumed to add, as if to hurry her.
It was. The crowd, though still entirely cheerful, was densely packed, and moving anywhere required turning sideways and presenting one’s shoulder. Conversations had to be conducted at a shout. To Margaret’s obvious exasperation, Elizabeth still did not say anything. Standing there was becoming uncomfortable. But then something happened which made their minds up for them. From a distance, she could a hear a crowd beginning to sing ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’, and the raucous song appeared to be taken up by people nearer and nearer to them. And the crowd seemed to be reforming, quite oddly, lining up like iron filings when a magnet is brought close. An old man quite near Elizabeth put his hands – rather lasciviously, Elizabeth thought – on the hips of a pretty young woman in front of him, and didn’t appear to react when a middle-aged woman put her hands on his hips. They were singing ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’, too.
‘A conga line!’ squealed Margaret. ‘Come on, Lilibet!’
Reluctantly, Elizabeth placed her hands very lightly on the hips of the young man in front who had joined this uproarious musical queue – or rather, higher, nearer the small of his back. Margaret put her hands on her hips. Glancing back, she noticed that Hugh had put his hands on Margaret’s hips, and supposed that Peter had placed his hands on Hugh’s. They started moving off, part of the long ungainly human snake that had started to jog towards Admiralty Arch, and was perhaps at this moment going round and round Nelson’s Column.
If I catch you bending
I’ll saw your legs right off
Knees up, knees up,
Don’t get the breeze up,
Knees up, Mother Brown.
As quickly as it had arisen, Elizabeth’s silent bad temper vanished. Actually, this was fun! The dancing aspect of the whole thing was just a matter of rocking from side to side and kicking out one’s feet occasionally. Much less demanding than the reels at Balmoral over Christmas, but just as vigorous. Under the table you will go!
When they reached the end of the song, everyone just seemed happy to go back to the beginning again. After a while, they changed to ‘We’ll Hang Out Our Washing on the Siegfried Line’. Elizabeth was getting rather puffed, but was still perfectly happy. She looked ahead, and wondered if the conga line was going all the way up Whitehall. And behind her, did it stretch all the way down to the Palace and back to Victoria? Was there some fleeting, ecstatic moment in which everyone in London was connected up in one vast conga line? Black-cab drivers, after studying The Knowledge, were supposed to be vouchsafed a vision in which they could ‘see it’, see the entirety of London’s streets in their heads, all at once. Elizabeth wondered if she was experiencing something similar.
It was odd, though, this conga line business. When was it going to end? And wasn’t it strange not facing the person you were dancing with? That was what happened with normal dances. And with all other group things, such as a reel, or a Dashing White Sergeant, there were boundaries, conventions, regulations.
‘Margo!’ Elizabeth called experimentally over her shoulder, and then thought to disguise her voice. ‘Margo!’ she growled in an absurdly low Scottish accent, and giggled. It was a pointless precaution. Nobody could hear a word in this crush and din. So she turned around to talk to her.
But Margaret wasn’t there. The person behind her was a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a porridgey overcoat that bulged and split at three points down the front where she had done up the buttons. This woman winked and grinned at Elizabeth, who did her best to grin back, but then instantly turned round to face front, pale. Where on earth were Margaret, Hugh and Peter? And where was she now, anyway? Fortunately, the looming landmark of Admiralty Arch gave the answer to that question. But where on earth were the others? Elizabeth wondered if she dared turn around again or call out for them, and risk being recognised.
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 s
he 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 Kathar
ine 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.
Night of Triumph Page 6