Night of Triumph by Peter Bradshaw Read Free Book Online

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,