Diana and Wendelien had become very close; Diana often stayed with Wendelien, and wondered sometimes what Johnathan would say if he had known that forbidding her to join the WVS or work in a munitions factory had led her into arguably far greater danger. She decided she didn’t care.
She had even been at the little house in Knightsbridge through some at least of the Little Blitz. ‘Not so little, darling,’ Wendelien said, as they took shelter under her heavy dining table one night when St James’s came under fire. ‘Honestly, to have survived for so long, so annoying to get done for now. Here, pass me the brandy. God, if we survive we’ll have hangovers in the morning.’ They did survive; and the hangovers were predictably bad.
And then it was over officially: 8 May took off. Perhaps the greatest moment, one Diana would have loved to have experienced, was when Mr Churchill had stood on a balcony in Whitehall. ‘This is your victory,’ he said to the crowds below. His car was then pushed by them all the way to Buckingham Palace. They had listened to him on the wireless; then contemplated going to the Mall to see him and the Royal Family on the balcony and decided they couldn’t face the crowds.
Wendelien gave a party at her house instead. They drank the last of Ian Bellinger’s claret, and a magnum of vintage champagne (he had had two, one being kept for his return), and as darkness fell, they all went on to the Ritz, fighting their way through the crowds, clinging to one another, terrified of becoming separated. It was an extraordinary night. London was quite literally heaving, and every so often the women were lifted off their feet. People were singing, dancing, climbing anything there was to climb – lamp posts, pub signs, statues – sitting on upper-storey windowsills, kissing complete strangers. The pubs had run dry by eight p.m. but the Ritz did better.
Now, Diana thought as she fell, swirling headed, into bed in Wendelien’s house, now she had to face real life again, make a marriage, be a good wife. And even mother. Which would be wonderful. Wouldn’t it?
Alice had won. Just as the British and Mr Churchill had won. In much the same way, really, just doggedly refusing to be beaten. What she’d actually done had been quite clever actually, Alice thought – she’d just threatened to run away, which would mean she’d be expelled anyway, and that would have completely destroyed her parents. And so they’d relented, and she was home in Sunningdale, back at her day school, and today was VE Day and the war was over and she was celebrating with her family at a bonfire party. It was terribly exciting.
There were a lot of bonfires, she’d heard, a symbol of the country’s release from the darkness of war. Alice had a strong sense of living in history that day; she could see it was something that would be wonderful to tell her children and her grandchildren about.
They’d all been in lessons in the early afternoon and they’d been summoned into the hall and Miss Thompson, the headmistress, had stood on the platform at her lectern and said, ‘Girls, this is a wonderful day and one none of us must ever forget. Mr Churchill has announced on the wireless that there is at last victory in Europe; this long terrible war is over. Against all the odds of the first years, when we stood alone and refused to surrender, we have won. Many sacrifices have been made, many lives have been lost, and I would remind you, even in our joy, that there is scarcely a family in the land, and indeed in this school, that has not lost a member, often several. But right has conquered, with God’s help, and I would ask you now to put your hands together in prayer and offer our thanks for the great victory that has been granted us today.’
Silly old bat, Alice thought, she obviously feels she’s made some huge contribution herself; but even so, as they all sang the school hymn, she did find a sentiment approaching pride herself. It was awfully special to be British today.
After that they were sent home, Alice accompanied by her best friend, Jillie Curtis, a friendship formed at boarding school, and cemented by their common hatred of the place. ‘My parents are raving socialists, I don’t know what they’re doing sending me here,’ Jillie had said.
Alice had looked at her in awe; she’d never met a socialist or anyone related to one before.
Jillie was very clever, and not conventionally pretty, but extremely attractive, tall and very slim, with long straight brown hair and green eyes. She lived in London; her father was at Sotheby’s and her mother worked as an art critic, whatever that might mean. ‘She goes to endless exhibitions and writes books and articles about art.’
‘So who looked after you, when you were little?’
‘Oh, a nanny, and now we have a housekeeper who’s there and gives me lunch and stuff. Mummy works at home a lot but I get left to my own devices most of the time, don’t really mind at all.’
It sounded wonderful to Alice.
‘And now,’ she said, smiling at Jillie in the darkness, looking at the sparks flying through the air, past the big apple tree, up towards the stars, ‘now we can take our Higher Cert and leave school and get on with our lives.’
‘What are you going to do, do you think?’ asked Jillie.
‘I’m going to be a nurse – a really, really good nurse. In a really, really good hospital in London. Probably even become a matron. And nobody is ever going to dare to suggest I’ve got to marry some stupid rich, important man. In fact, if I do ever get married, I’ll be the most important person in the family. How about you?’
‘I thought I might be a doctor,’ said Jillie.
It was over. Over. All that agony. All over. Ned found it hard even to begin to know what he felt.
He was in Malta on the day itself. The war had been crumbling to an end for months, in the Med at least. He sat in the mess, staring out to sea, listening to his fellow officers whooping, trying to share their excitement – and completely failing. It was the biggest anticlimax of his life. He had seen death and fear and courage and the loss of so much – millions of lives, undreamed-of horrors. And for what? Victory. It should have been enough. But for him at least, it wasn’t.
Now he had the peacetime world to face, not the easy escape of war.
He had actually had a successful war, personally. He’d been given command of three vessels, he’d been mentioned in dispatches, he’d fought bravely. But he’d made mistakes. They were what he remembered now, even as he downed one whisky, and then another. Hitting a mine one night, the boat blown up, losing half the crew. Men he’d lived with for over a year, his friends, some of them still alive, wounded in the water. He knew he’d hear their cries for the rest of his life, knowing there was nothing he could do. If there was a hell, he had thought, he had entered it then.