CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The roar from outside burst through the open glass doors. Marion looked at the familiar row of figures on the balcony, backs toward her. The king looked frail but relieved in his admiral’s uniform with its heavy gold cuffs. Lilibet was wildly proud in her ATS khaki, buckle and buttons blazing. Beside them, the queen in one of her trademark big hats, curved brim thrusting triumphantly upward, waved at the carpet of people below. Margaret, in her frilly collar, looked like the demure schoolgirl she most certainly was not.

And in the middle of them all, a short, round figure in a wonky bow tie and watch chain. When he looked to the side, to catch something the king had said, Marion saw that tears were pouring unashamedly down Churchill’s jowly face.

They were pouring down hers too. No one had said anything, but it was surely unlikely that Lilibet would hang up the ATS uniform of which she was so proud and file meekly back into the schoolroom. Margaret, meanwhile, had been restless and inattentive for months. And now she was standing on a balcony looking at a cheering crowd surging round the palace and stretching down the Mall. A boiling sea of ecstatic people yelling, singing and waving flags. How could she return to algebra after this?

Marion turned back into the room. The magnificent gilt-framed mirrors reflected a scene of genteel devastation. Not bombs now, but champagne glasses. Gathered on the tables, along the mantelpieces and everywhere else those recently assembled had stood. She spotted Margaret’s abandoned handbag and went toward it. But someone else got there first, someone slight and delicate-featured in an RAF uniform. “Leave it with me,” he said. “I’ll give it to her.”

She watched him move to the balcony door. He stood there directly behind the younger princess, who seemed to sense him immediately. She turned and smiled dazzlingly. As he handed over the bag, their fingers touched, not briefly, but lingeringly.

It happened so fast Marion wondered if she had imagined it. But the princess’s glowing face, as she looked at Townsend, left her in no doubt. Something was afoot.

The festivities within the palace went on long after the balcony appearances. At one stage the king, queen and princesses were leading a conga line through the state apartments. Well-bred shouts of excitement rose into the gilded molding, while the stamping gently clinked the chandeliers. Tommy was there looking ill at ease and holding gingerly on to the queen, while Peter Townsend happily clasped Margaret. Footmen in war-issue battle dress looked on, clearly longing to join in, but not, even in this moment of national unity, quite daring to.

Huge violet eyes, fringed with impossibly long lashes, gazed excitedly into hers, suddenly. Delicate fingers plucked at her sleeve. Margaret’s voice was jerky with delight. “Crawfie! What do you think?”

“What?”

“Papa is to let us out tonight.”

“Us?”

“Lilibet and I.”

“Out? You mean . . . outside the palace?”

The vivid little face nodded. “Exactly. Properly out, into the crowds. To celebrate with everyone else.”

“How exciting!” Marion felt thrilled too. “What time are we going?”

Margaret’s smile vanished. “Not you, Crawfie. Just us. Oh, and a couple of equerries.”

She could guess exactly which ones, Marion thought, as Margaret danced off in the conga. She stood there, full of an agitation that was a mixture of hurt and genuine fear. How could Margaret speak to her that way? Would the girls be safe in the great victory crowd? With a very married man who had his eye on Margaret?

It occurred to her that perhaps it was not even true, that permission had not been granted. Margaret was more than capable of inventing it, taking advantage of the situation and having others take the blame afterward. She would make sure, Marion decided.

She watched for the king and eventually spotted him, looking somewhat incongruous in the conga line. She hurried alongside. “Your Majesty. Margaret tells me she and Lilibet are going out this evening . . .”

The king was coughing with the effort, which seemed a strain on his lungs. He nodded, eyes streaming, as he fought for breath. “Poor darlings,” he conceded. “They’ve never had any fun yet.” Then off he went.

Marion thought of all the things she and the girls had done together over the years. Had none of that been fun? She sat down on a chair in the corridor. The dancers continued past her, wild with joy.

Later, alone, she went out into the crowds herself. It seemed as if the whole world was rejoicing. She watched, as if through a thick glass pane, as soldiers, sailors, ATS and Wrens—anyone in uniform—were hugged and mobbed by grateful people in civvies.

“Roll out the barrel!” everyone yelled. The noise was earsplitting. It seemed that the whole of London was roaring, screaming and shouting its euphoria. People were laughing and crying. Perfect strangers were kissing and hugging. Years of darkness, privation, terror and sorrow had given way to a mighty mass expression of hysterical relief. For everyone but Marion, it seemed. She felt hollow inside, dull, out of step with the mood.

She dodged several vigorous Hokey Cokeys and a good number of Lambeth Walks until, by the lions in Trafalgar Square, a young man was shoved against her by a surge in the crowd. “So sorry,” he yelled over the noise.

She shrugged; there was no need to apologize.

“Come for a drink?”

She hesitated, then nodded. A drink might help. Give her some artificial cheer at least. Feeling so unhappy amid all this ecstasy was like being a creature from another planet.

He grabbed her arm. She allowed herself to be pulled through the sea of people. “I don’t even know your name!”

“George!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Major George Buthlay, at your service!”

In the pub it was crowded and almost too hot to breathe. The noise of drunken people was deafening. A pub piano was pounding out flat notes. The group nearest them was singing so loudly it was impossible to hear any conversation.

That he was a major was impressive. “Where’s your uniform?” she yelled. His reply was hard to hear. It sounded as if he had served in the Middle East but the unit had been disbanded early. She was ready with another question. “Where do you live?”

“The silver city with the golden sands.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Aberdeen.”

Her eyes widened. So he was a Scot, too. Amid the noise, it hadn’t been possible to distinguish. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”

He grinned. “Why should you? You’re a Sassenach.”

“I’m Scottish!” Marion gasped indignantly.

“Really?” The dark eyes had a mocking look. “You don’t sound it. What’s your name?” His brash manner should have annoyed her, but it didn’t. Not tonight, when all normal behavior was suspended.

She pretended not to hear. Where did he work?

“In a bank,” he shouted. “How about you?”

“I’m a teacher,” she yelled.

He looked her up and down. “I’ll teach you something.” He turned her toward him and kissed her deeply.