Night of Triumph Read Online Free

opened the door again and appeared in a damp burgundy dressing gown.
    ‘It is not mine. It’s a friend’s,’ he said, shortly. ‘I didn’t know what was inside. I wouldn’t dream of making free with someone else’s
property.’
    Back on the defensive, Peter made a grimace of concession, walked back into the sitting room and resumed his survey of the crowds as they surged through into Leicester Square. Trying to rejoin
the celebratory mood, he hummed along to the song they were all singing.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ said Hugh at his shoulder, his dyspeptic humour apparently dispelled and thoughts of a bath apparently delayed. ‘I call that disloyalty to the human race. If the
bloody thing did manage to run away, and the farmer didn’t get his wretched rabbit pie, we would all bloody well starve. Here.’
    Hugh passed Peter a copy of the
Daily Express
, unfolded at an inside page.
    ‘There you are.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Take a look.’
    Hugh looked, but all he could see was a photograph of the Royal Family.
    ‘What is it?’ he asked, mystified.
    ‘Our target for tonight, old boy,’ said Hugh. ‘Our mission. There are the two girls we’re taking out.’
    Uncomprehending, Peter looked back at the photograph, and then around the margins of the page, searching for details that could possibly apply to him, then looked back at the picture. He looked
back suddenly at Hugh, who laughed shrilly.
    ‘I see the penny has dropped, like a manhole cover released from an upstairs window.’
    ‘You don’t mean?’
    ‘I do mean.’
    ‘How ...?’
    ‘Mother. She had the call from St James’s. This is a great honour for us, old thing. This is something to tell our grandchildren about. Authorised version, naturally. Should I top
that up, before we venture out?’
    Both resplendent in the uniform of the Scots Guards, Peter and Hugh were soon walking down the street, bestowing beaming smiles on everyone they saw. They were moving far more quickly than in
the car. The crowds parted for them. They were actually being cheered. It was the way they were dressed, naturally, and something to do with their ferociously brushed hair, each in a razor-sharp
side-parting: Peter’s dark, Hugh’s sandy-blond.
    Hugh had it in mind to stop for a pint at a pub, but they made time for an American newsreel camera crew, and a woman with chic cropped hair, interviewing passers-by.
    ‘Do you think the war changed the British view of America?’ she asked.
    ‘I think it has very much reinforced it,’ replied Hugh, with a perfectly courteous smile.
    ‘Do you think the war has changed the British relationship with America?’
    ‘Oh, we are as close as cousins.’
    ‘And who is your favourite American motion picture star?’
    ‘I would say Lou Cost–’
    Hugh was interrupted by a football from an impromptu game outside a café, which struck him unpleasantly on the back of the neck. Livid, he turned around to see that the majority of the
players were policemen, the first he had seen on duty that day. They cheered and motioned for him to throw it back. Mastering his anger, aware that the cameras were still rolling and that the
American interviewer’s amused gaze was still on him, Hugh affected a hearty, tolerant laugh and threw the ball back to them, swinging his arms from the side, however, as if making a rugby
pass.
    ‘There.’
    Five minutes later, they had come back to a pub quite near Piccadilly Circus: the Captain’s Cabin. They both ordered pints of warm, brimming Bass and these, as well as the warm cheers
their uniforms elicited, restored their good humour.
    ‘I say, I’m rather looking forward to tonight. When should we arrive at the Palace?’ asked Peter, but this last word showed a want of discretion and Hugh frowned. His eyes
flickered around the bar in which they were the centre of attention and he shook his head minutely.
    ‘Soon. Soon.’
    Peter looked at his watch. The frosted glass of the pub, chased with Edwardian