Night of Triumph (5 page)

‘Yes. Yes! Why on earth not? Lilibet!’

‘Yes, Papa?’

‘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:

Elizabeth had been conducting with two forefingers and, with a knee-bend, gamely contributed the final bass drone:

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.