Night of Triumph by Peter Bradshaw Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    ‘Are all these people
married
, d’you suppose? Or engaged?’ she asked him.
    ‘Oh, of course, Your Royal Highness. Just not to each other.’
    Hugh’s sally got a gratifying, scandalised squeal from Margaret and an indulgent laugh from Elizabeth.
    A little boy, lost, wandered into their path, blubbering and looking frantically round.
    ‘Dad? Dad! Where are you, Dad?’
    Elizabeth instantly went down on one knee with a concerned frown, but before she could ask him anything, a man appeared out of nowhere, grasped the child under the armpits, put him on his
shoulders and capered away. Elizabeth couldn’t see how the boy reacted; she couldn’t be sure if this man actually was the father or not.
    The unmistakable sound of a slapped face came from behind them.
    ‘There’s no need for that.’
    ‘Well. Sauce.’
    ‘You know what we agreed.’
    ‘I agreed to no such thing.’
    ‘Thief!’
    The four of them whirled around again, to see two boys, one with a handbag under his arm running at full tilt in the direction of the Mall. A woman was giving ineffective chase, hobbled by heels
which would have made even walking difficult. Her beau, clearly incapable with drink, was merely waving his fist.
    ‘Oh lor,’ commented Peter, weakly.
    ‘Oh dear,’ agreed Hugh.
    ‘One hopes that this sort of thing is not going to be a feature of the evening.’
    The crowd now became agitated at something. The mass rippled and parted. A figure was approaching; his presence was apparently not welcome, judging from the frowns, jeers and cat-calls. Someone
started humming Gilbert and Sullivan again. It was their policeman, minus his helmet, walking quickly and purposefully in their direction.
    ‘Corks!’ said Margaret quaintly, and then, for the second time, ‘Run!’

Five
    Mr Ware grinned. He had just thrown a firework, a penny banger, into a shopfront doorway and it had made an almighty loud noise. Everyone had jumped, especially the two swell
chaps in Guards uniforms he’d seen coming out of The Captain’s Cabin. They had stared at him; he had stared back and someone shouted ‘That’s got the festivities
started’ and there was a huge laugh.
    The evening was back the way he wanted it. Mr Ware was grateful for the laugh. He liked a bit of a pat on the back, metaphorical or otherwise. He’d actually had the most awful row with his
wife before he’d left the flat – about their plans for the evening, and how exactly they were to get what he had decided they both wanted. There were rich pickings to be had, he told
her. She said it was too dangerous. Too dangerous! As if they hadn’t done dangerous things before now, and had dangerous things done to them!
    At that moment, a very intoxicated Canadian in uniform literally attempted to pat him on the back, and Mr Ware instinctively pretended to be drunk too, slumping against him with a grin; he
allowed himself to be helped up, while the man’s girlfriends looked on, chattering and laughing.
    ‘Y’okay?’ the man laughed.
    ‘Oh, yes, sorry, sorry, thanks very much!’
    ‘B’bye now!’
    ‘Cheer-o!’
    The Canadian sauntered away, a lady friend on each arm if you please, and Mr Ware ducked round the corner, removed the Canadian’s wallet from his inside jacket pocket and began to extract
the cash. Ten pounds and ten shillings! And a French letter. He put the money and the rest of the doings down into his trouser pocket. The wallet went flapping down into a dustbin, like a dead
bird.
    You see? Windows of opportunity had to be scrambled through. Chances had to be grasped. But Mrs Ware, that shiftless and ungrateful slattern, did not see. She did not appreciate that this night
offered