“No, Hyde Park,” Reardon said. “Or St. Paul’s.”
“Where do you think people will be, Douglas?” Paige asked.
All of the above, she thought, plus Leicester Square and Parliament Square and Whitehall and every street in between. “Trafalgar Square is where one usually goes for that sort of thing,” she said, thinking of which place would have the easiest connection to her drop.
“What sort of thing?” Paige asked, and it was clear she thought nothing like this had ever happened before.
And she may be right, she thought. “I meant it’s where people have gathered in the past after military victories-the Battle of Trafalgar and the siege of Mafeking and all that.”
“This isn’t only a military victory,” Reardon said. “It’s our victory as well.”
“If it’s actually happened,” Paige said, peering out the window as they pulled into the next stop, which was deserted as well. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid it is a false alarm, Douglas.”
“No, it’s not,” she said firmly, though privately she was beginning to worry, too. Historical accounts had said the victory celebration had begun as soon as the news of the German surrender came over the wireless at three o’clock. Could they have got that wrong? Could everyone have doubted the news like Paige? There had been a number of false alarms, and everyone had been on tenterhooks for the last two weeks.
And it wouldn’t be the first time the historical record had been wrong or incomplete. But VE-Day was well documented. And the historical accounts said people should be pouring onto the train by now, waving Union Jacks and singing “When the Lights Go on Again All Over the World.”
“If the war’s over, then where is everyone?” asked Paige.
“At the next stop,” Reardon said imperturbably.
Reardon was right. When the doors opened, a veritable flood of people swept into their car. They were waving flags and rattling noisemakers, and two elderly gentlemen were singing “God Save the King” at the top of their lungs.
“Now do you believe the war’s over?” she and Reardon asked Paige, and she nodded excitedly.
More people pushed on. A little boy holding tightly to his mother’s hand asked, “Are we going to the shelter?”
“No,” his mother said, and then, as if she had just realized it, “We’re never going to the shelter again.”
People were still squeezing on. Many were in uniform, and some had red, white, and blue crepe paper draped around their necks, including two middle-aged men in Home Guard uniforms, brandishing a copy of the Evening News with the headline “IT IS OVER” and two bottles of champagne.
The train guard squeezed and pushed his way through the crush to them. “No alcoholic beverages allowed in the tube,” he said sternly.
“What do you mean, mate?” one of the men said. “’Aven’t you heard? The war’s over!”
“’Ere!” the other one said, handing his bottle to the guard. “Drink to the King’s ’ealth! And the Queen’s!” He snatched his friend’s bottle and shoved it into the guard’s other hand. He draped a chummy arm over the guard’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come to the palace with us and toast ’em to their face?”
“That’s where we should go,” Reardon said. “To Buckingham Palace.”
“Oh, yes,” Paige said excitedly. “Do you think we might actually be able to see Their Majesties, Douglas?”
Not till tomorrow, she thought, when the royal family will come out on the balcony no fewer than eight times and wave to the crowd.
“Do you think the Princesses will be with them?” Paige asked.
Not only will they be with them, she thought, but at one point they’ll be out in the crowd, mingling incognito with people and shouting gaily, “We want the King!” but she couldn’t say that. “I should imagine,” she said, looking at the doors, where people were still squeezing on. If it took this long to load the train at every stop, it would take all night to get there.
I’ve already missed the beginning, she thought, the RAF planes doing victory rolls over London and the lights being turned on. And if there was going to be this much delay on the trains going back, she’d have to leave early to reach the drop on time, and she’d miss the end as well.
The train finally pulled out. Paige was still chattering on about the Princesses. “I’ve always wanted to see them. Do you think they’ll be wearing their uniforms?”
“It may not matter what they’re wearing,” Reardon said as the train stopped again and more people squeezed on. “We may be trapped in here forever. Which may not be all that bad. Douglas, look at that lieutenant who just got on! Isn’t he handsome?”
“Where?” Paige said, standing on tiptoe to see.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Reardon demanded. “You’ve already bagged one. Don’t be greedy.”
“I was only looking,” Paige said.
“You’re not allowed to look. You’re engaged,” Reardon said. “Will he be here tonight?”
“No, he rang up night before last and said he wouldn’t be back for a week at the least,” Paige said.
“But that was before,” Reardon said. “Now that the war’s over-oh, Lord, there are more people boarding! We’ll pop!”
“We must try to get off at the next stop,” Paige said. “I can’t breathe.”
They nodded and when the train stopped again and a large man wearing a tin hat and an ARP armband began pushing toward the doors, they followed in his wake, squeezing between sailors and Wrens and navvies and teenaged girls.
“I can’t see what station it is,” Reardon said as the train slowed.
“It doesn’t matter,” Paige said. “Only get off. I’m being squished. I feel like a pilchard in a tin.”
Reardon nodded and bent down to look out the window. “Oh, good, it’s Charing Cross,” she said. “It looks like we’re going to Trafalgar Square after all, Douglas.”
The doors opened. “Follow me, girls!” Reardon shouted gaily. “Mind the gap!”
She scrambled off, and Paige did, too, calling, “Coming, Douglas?”
“Yes,” she said, attempting to squeeze past the Home Guard, who for some reason had launched into “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” “Sorry, this is my stop. I must get off here,” she said, but they didn’t budge.
“Douglas! Hurry!” Reardon and Paige were shouting from the platform. “The train’s going to leave.”
“Please,” she shouted, trying to make herself heard over their singing. “I must get through.”
The door began to close.
I am ashamed to say I told him it was the fault of the Germans.
Backbury, Warwickshire-May 1940
BINNIE AND THE REST OF THE EVACUEES GREETED THE news that they were quarantined with an outburst of wild behavior that made Eileen want to flee for the drop before the children’s supper was half over.
“I was corn-teened for a month,” Alice announced. “Rose n’me couldn’t play outside or nothin’.”
“We ain’t gonna be quarantined for a month, are we, Eileen?” Binnie asked.
“No, of course not.” Measles only lasted a few days, didn’t they? That’s why they called them the three-day measles. Alice must be mistaken.
When Dr. Stuart came back that night, Eileen asked him how long the quarantine was likely to last. “It depends on how many of the children catch them,” he said. “If Alf were to be the only case, which is unlikely, it will end a fortnight after his rash disappears, so three or four weeks.”
“Three or four weeks? But they only last three days.”
“You’re thinking of German measles. These are red measles, which last a week or longer after the rash first appears.”