‘Yes, very good, Your Highness. Let’s return to the Palace now.’
Some people in the crowd were beginning to look twice at Margaret and talk urgently among themselves, but still no one spoke to them. Hugh began to walk back, and Margaret looked at him contemptuously.
‘I want to get a cab.’
Eight
Crash!
Mr Ware swept the empty glasses off the table with his left hand and lunged at Group Captain Brook with the broken Bass bottle that he clutched in his right.
‘Christ. Steady on.’
Brook dodged to one side, colliding with Colin who was staggering away from the table, towards the bar. The edge of the table impeded Mr Ware’s forward movement and the jagged edge of the bottle stopped well clear of where Brook’s head would have been.
‘Fucking nance. How dare you?’
‘Argh.’
Attempting to shove the table out of the way, Mr Ware banged it hard against the legs of Brook as he was taking evasive action. The impact evidently infuriated him, and he picked up a chair, intending to throw it at Mr Ware, but it slipped out of his damp and slippery grip, and hit Colin reasonably hard on his side as he was timidly scurrying along the bar, trying to find some opening to go through, and duck down and hide, as the barman was now already doing.
‘You filthy sod. How dare you?’
‘To hell with you.’
Brook flung the ashtray at Mr Ware; its powdery grey contents made a vapour trail, which then disintegrated and descended. The ashtray itself ricocheted off Mr Ware’s forehead, and this assault was clearly far more successful than the aggressor anticipated.
‘Ow! Argh! Cunt!’
Menacingly, his murderous indignation evidently redoubled, and holding one hand up to his injured head, Mr Ware advanced on Brook with his broken bottle in the other hand. Brook, though still defiant, backed away, unaware that he was being manoeuvred into a corner. His sneer was kept in place very materially due to something that Brook could see and that Mr Ware could not. Ginnie, the manageress, was advancing on him from behind in a stealthy manner very similar to that with which she had crept up on him just an hour before. But now her face was set like cement. She held a cricket bat. The men in the club looked on, awed by her imminent intervention.
With a mighty sweep, Ginnie brought the bat down, not on Mr Ware’s head, but on the hand holding the bottle. It dropped. In the same instant, and with practised expertise, Ginnie dropped her bat, grabbed Mr Ware’s right wrist with her left hand, twisted it sharply behind his back and with the other arm got him round his throat in a choke-hold.
Both dropped to their knees.
‘Now, darling, are you going to calm down, or must I break your arm?’
Mr Ware shook his head, his eyes on the floor.
‘Does that mean, no, you’re not going to calm down, or, no, you’ll not make any trouble?’
‘No trouble. Not make trouble.’
‘Well, all right then.’
Ginnie released him, standing and theatrically splaying out her palms as she stepped back. Mr Ware clutched his painful right shoulder. Group Captain Brook’s face was very white. His hair was tousled and his arms and shoulders were shaking. But he was still confident enough to be indignant.
‘Intolerable. Intolerable. Madman.’
‘What was, darling?’ Ginnie looked over to him. Everyone else in the bar was still looking at them. The broken bottle still lay on the floor at Ginnie’s feet.
‘One makes a joke. A simple joke. One never intended the smallest offence.’
‘That what it was?’
Ginnie was looking over at Colin who was looking away, at an angle, at the floor, his doughy face scrunched with anxiety. He shrugged.
‘Now, dearest,’ Ginnie directed this at Mr Ware himself. ‘I want you to pick up that bottle and put it in the bin behind the bar. Will you do that for me?’
Cowed, obedient, Mr Ware got up, gingerly picked up the bottle between finger and thumb and disposed of it as Ginnie had requested. He stood still, awaiting further orders. She went over to him and gently placed her hand on his tense, quivering shoulder.
‘Darling. I’d like you to go away from here and take a bit of a constitutional. No one’s throwing you out. We all can have a row now and then. It doesn’t matter. No one gets upset, not really. Everyone here’s got skin like elephant hide. You’re always welcome here, you know that, and I know how much you’ve done for the place. But really on tonight of all nights, everything has to be sweetness and light. Do you know what I mean?’
Mr Ware nodded, his lips compressed tightly. Colin thought he might be about to cry.
‘Now, why don’t you get a breath of fresh air?’
Mr Ware duly made his way to the exit, and caught a glimpse of Group Captain Brook incautiously smiling with relief and triumph, a smile which was smartly wiped from his face, as Mr Ware glared directly at him.
None of the men on the door looked Mr Ware in the eye as he left, lighting another cigarette.
It really was dark outside now, though there was an electric light on, and the metal-grille door-hatch was now securely bolted back as he climbed back up the metal stairs and up to pavement level.
Mr Ware fancied that the darkness was intensified by the crush of people in the Soho streets. There was a whooping and cheering as the crowd saluted a foursome which paraded along Great Windmill Street: dressed up as Churchill, Stalin and then another white man and then a Chinaman. It was only once they had passed him that Mr Ware could identify this last two from the names they had written on their backs: General Smuts and General Chiang Kai-Shek. There were Poles, French. He heard a babble of non-English voices. Very pretty women were walking along on the arms of Americans.
One was saying, ‘The extraordinary thing is that I was at the Berlin Games in ’36. I had tea with the Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha at his villa, on the day of the opening ceremony. My brother was at school with him. The very day. It was less than ten years ago. Think of that.’
Everyone was very far gone. Mr Ware, who could drink a fair bit without it affecting him physically, couldn’t help feeling intoxicated in the way he always did at the sight of other people becoming vulnerable. He wondered if he might try taking someone’s wallet. Maybe. Lot of uniforms about. Not as easy as civvy gear: suits, topcoats.
Mr Ware walked and, as he did so, indulged in his mannerism of grinning and winking at every third or fourth person his eyes met. The posher they were, the better bred, the more readily and politely they attempted to return his smile, thinking that they had met at some stage. It was his way of determining the social class of complete strangers, determining how much cash they were likely to have on them.
He was still angry – or rather, his anger was still there, but being converted into something else. Into energy and determination. And he was talking rapidly to himself, another habit that he had had since childhood, and which showed no sign of fading. That Brook fellow. How dare he make those remarks? As if they were friends. As if they were intimates, business associates. Something strange about him. Group Captain? Group Captain my aching tootsie. If Brook was a Group Captain in the RAF, then Mr Ware was a member of the Sadler’s Wells ballet. His arm hurt where Ginnie had beat it down with the bat; his other arm hurt where she had twisted it up behind his back, and his throat hurt from where she’d all but throttled him. Mr Ware supposed that he should have known Ginnie would do something like that to him. He had seen her do it to other men in the club often enough. Never at the start of the evening, though.
In Brewer Street, two drunk Welshmen were playing leapfrog on the pavement, like schoolboys, one over the other, all the way down the street. A boisterous crowd swarmed by them, cheering. In the window of a bookshop, a tattered notice read, ‘Second Front Now’ with a picture of Stalin. In the alley that ran alongside it, Mr Ware could see a prostitute giving hand-relief to someone in uniform. This fellow out on the town spoiling himself, was he? Or perhaps he
was down from the provinces for the day to get his British Empire Medal. Or perhaps it wasn’t a prostitute – who could tell? – perhaps it was his sweetheart, perhaps it was someone he’d met for the first time on this magical night of all nights. This was a lovely little anecdote to tell their grandchildren. A pool of light revealed them only partially, but Mr Ware could see his kitbag and coat bundled on the ground; the woman had her back to Mr Ware, murmuring into the chap’s ear and he of course had his eyes shut. Instinctively, Mr Ware wondered if he could pinch the man’s gear, and began to creep up; her wrist was going like the clappers, the fellow’s knees were sagging and there would never be a better time than now, but he wouldn’t have more than half a minute at the outside. He stepped further into the alley and looked around – no one there. Stealthily, he approached, close enough to hear what she was saying.
‘There. There. There.’
He came in closer. The woman had her free hand splayed up against the brickwork to her right; her customer’s back was up against the wall. Mr Ware was close enough to see the man was chewing on the corner of a handkerchief.
Whump.
Mr Ware’s jaw slackened as he felt a hand on his shoulder, still painful anyway. The police?
‘Hello!’
It was Colin, smiling shyly. His greeting, absurdly loud, coincided with a strangled yelp from the man in the alley; the woman had retreated. Neither had noticed Mr Ware, who now stepped back out into the street.
‘Colin. What the bloody hell do you want?’
Mr Ware was unsettled enough to give Colin a fourpenny one, right then and there.
‘You forgot these.’ Colin’s voice was gentle, reproachful. He held up Mr Ware’s bag, with his ARP overalls and helmet. He had forgotten them; left them behind in the club. Colin had followed him all the way out here, to give it back to him. He really ought to be grateful.
‘Oh. Well, thank you very much Colin.’
‘Not at all, old thing. Evening!’
Colin was politely greeting the woman emerging from the alley, who was making a brisk exit, having told her mark to wait behind for a moment, for all the world as if she was an office worker heading for the Underground at the end of a long day.
‘Devil of a job finding you, old boy.’
‘Mm.’
‘But I just about knew your haunts. They’re my haunts as well!’
‘Yes.’
‘Evening!’
Now the customer was coming out. Mr Ware could see his handkerchief coming out of his right hip pocket. Didn’t know what a close shave he’d had. He looked refreshed, calm.
‘Bad business back there in the Club, old thing.’
‘Well yes, I suppose so.’
‘You know what a temper you’ve got. If you’re thinking of looking in again, you’d better stay amicable.’
‘Yes.’
‘Group Captain Brook was only trying to make a joke, to be pleasant.’
Mr Ware was silent.
‘I say, let’s go to the Blue Post for a drink.’
Of course, that place was packed, but some men had dragged the upright piano out into the street for a singsong; many patrons had excitedly followed and so it wasn’t as crowded as it might have been.
Colin bought Mr Ware another pint of Bass and a packet of cigarettes, assuming that these would have a temporarily calming effect, and they did. He had also got them half of a pork pie. They made short work of that.
‘You know ...’
‘Yes?’
‘You know, I don’t think we should go out on a job tonight, old thing.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, frankly I don’t want to work. I just want to relax. I want to relax the way everyone else is relaxing.’ Colin gestured around at all the drunk people, singing. ‘I’m sitting here, drinking beer, but it’s having no effect on me, because I can’t stop thinking about it. And I rather think tonight might be my last opportunity in a while to, er, socialise.’
‘Well don’t then,’ said Mr Ware shortly. ‘Don’t come. You’re not much use in civvies anyway. I’d rather have someone in uniform. That would make it look better.’
‘But, look, it’s just getting dangerous. I worry about you.’
‘Worry?’ Mr Ware snorted. ‘Don’t worry.’ As if weighing in on his side, the drinkers sang:
What’s the point of worrying?
It never was worthwhile.
Glumly, Colin pressed a damp forefinger to his greasy plate and transferred fragments of pork pie to his tongue. Mr Ware lit them both cigarettes and passed one to him. They smoked, and Colin started worrying again about the wine business and how on earth he was going to make a go of that. Would the end of rationing make a difference? Mr Ware was talking to two young women, betting them that he could arrange five matches so as to make two triangles. Having won that bet, and sportingly declined to take any money, he bet them he could rearrange the order of three coins while touching them only five times. The wager he now playfully suggested was a kiss. The two women giggled while Colin looked dispirited. Mr Ware stabbed adroitly at the coins with his thumb a number of times; he appeared to win his bet on a technicality, but again did not insist on his winnings.
Instead, he leant over to the first girl and told her, ‘You know, I have this remarkable gift. I can tell what someone’s star sign is, just by gazing deeply into their eyes.’
‘Go on!’
‘I can. It’s the truth.’
They both giggled, and the first allowed Mr Ware to lean forwards and look directly at her. ‘You mustn’t blink, or this isn’t going to work.’
With calm candour, Mr Ware placed his face close to hers, and despite his instruction she blinked and flinched and tittered while he kept his gaze commandingly steady.
‘I think ... you’re an Aries.’
‘Oh my Gawd! You’re right!
‘Is he, Jane?’
‘He is. Eileen, he is. He’s dead on.’
Without them noticing, Mr Ware silently placed Jane’s identity card, with her date of birth, back into her bag.
‘I can see the Zodiacal constellations in your irises, Jane, you see. But there’s something else. I can tell straight away that you’re a passionate, loving person but that you haven’t been treated as you deserve by a certain man. Is that right? Oh, dear. I can’t read your star sign if we’re going to get the waterworks, you know.’
Jane looked down and a single tear fell like a raindrop, splat, onto a beermat. Soon she was quietly sniffling, while he stroked her hand.
‘You attract men who are not worthy of you,’ Mr Ware continued while she nodded miserably. ‘And you have family worries which you are too proud to share with your friends.
‘That means my mum,’ she said to Eileen.
She was clearly awed by this insight, and Mr Ware changed the subject, sensing that it was becoming too tragic. He now said, ‘But there’s an older man who’s a bit besotted with you.’
Her friend yelped with laughter. ‘Mr Ainsworth!’
They both shrieked. Mr Ware took out a cigarette packet and offered it to Jane and Eileen and they both accepted. This too appeared to be an indulgence they were permitting themselves on this special night. Eileen was evidently an accomplished smoker; Jane was however soon coughing alarmingly and Mr Ware thumped her on the back as she bent over.
‘Ha! Now you’re getting it. We’ll have you smoking like a chimney in no time. With a bit of practice, you’ll be doing this. Look.’ Mr Ware took her cigarette and blew three perfect smoke rings. ‘Ooo!’ he spelled them out, insidiously.
‘What lovely hands you have,’ he then said, turning to Eileen. ‘I can tell a lot about you from your hands.’
‘Like what, indeed?’
‘Lovely smooth hands. But do you see the way your lifeline is broken here and here?’
‘Yes?’
‘It means family difficulties. That means you’re worried about someone close to you.’
‘Well,’
she said tartly, ‘I can tell a lot about you from your hands.’
‘Ho yes? Like what?’
‘You’re divorced. Or you’re separated. Terribly unhappy, anyway.’
Mr Ware looked at her sharply, suspiciously.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve taken your wedding ring off. Recently. Look.’
Mr Ware’s puffy ringer bore a red-looking ridge where the ring had been.
Icily, suddenly, Mr Ware got up, scraping his chair back. It was enough to make a few people look over, despite the din and the gloom and the music. He plunged his hand into his pocket and jingled the change.
‘Checking that you’ve still got it?’ asked Eileen, shrewdly. This was evidently more than Mr Ware could take.
‘Well, it’s been very nice talking to you,’ he choked, his playful teasing now utterly abandoned.
‘Off home to your wife, perhaps?’ said Eileen, cruelly pursuing her advantage. ‘Do give her our best.’
Without another word, Mr Ware turned on his heel and walked out. Colin gulped down the rest of his drink and followed.
*
In Broadwick Street, a mixed group of servicemen and civilians were attempting a human pyramid. Three strong-looking men along the base and two more on their quivering shoulders. Then, to form the apex, a woman in WAAF uniform was hitching up her skirts and trying to leap onto the middle pair, who were each holding one of her hands. She herself had been standing on a car roof, which had begun to dent. With a final leap, she was up, to a huge cheer. But then, wobble, wobble, wobble, and the whole formation collapsed and the WAAF fell, and looked as if she had hurt herself really quite badly. Somehow even this couldn’t cheer Mr Ware up.
Nine
Margaret sat up in bed, drinking cocoa. Bliss. She was reading the latest Picturegoer. Everything was calm now. It turned out that Elizabeth had not in fact returned to the Palace quite yet. When they discovered this, some of the staff had got in a fearful bate with Hugh. Some of them were even saying that he should report to Their Majesties himself. Poor Hugh had gone quite pale and said nothing. But then she, Margaret, had had a brainwave. She told everyone not to worry, it was just that she herself wanted to come home early but Elizabeth wanted to stop out half an hour longer, and that Peter was naturally with her, and it was all perfectly in order.
Night of Triumph Page 8