Margot took off her coat and shoes and looked in the hall mirror. Her hair was dry, her eyes dull, and her complexion sallow. She leaned forward and pulled at her eyelids. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot. Her tongue felt furry. She studied it in the mirror. It was coated in a white film. She was out of sorts.
Singing in Trafalgar Square on VE Day had been an honour. It was the day Germany’s planned domination of Europe officially ended. The day Britain and her allies defeated Germany and brought peace to Europe after six years of bloodshed. And with a bit of luck the name Margot Dudley would go down in history after singing on such an historic day. But that wasn’t important. Being in Trafalgar Square on the day the war ended with George and Betsy – and with people from all over London, as well as soldiers, sailors and airmen, from Britain, America and all the Empire countries – that was important.
Margot ran a bath, dropping in a rose-scented bath cube. Bill wasn’t back from the MoD. He would have celebrated in Whitehall while she was a stone’s throw away in Trafalgar Square. Margot wondered if he’d heard her on the wireless. She hoped he had. There was still three hours before the taxi was due to pick her up to take her to The Talk of London for another Victory celebration. Plenty of time for a long soak.
‘You’ll turn into a mermaid if you stay in there much longer.’
‘Bill?’ Margot looked up to see her handsome husband standing beside the bath. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been home?’
‘Half an hour. Come on,’ he said, holding up a large towel. As Margot stood up, Bill folded the towel around her and lifted her out of the bath. After kissing her, he rubbed her dry playfully, as if she was a child, before helping her into a bathrobe and leading her by the hand into the sitting room.
Margot stood open mouthed as she looked at the spread on the table. ‘What on earth--?’ She caught her breath. ‘Are these real eggs?’ She touched one and squealed. ‘Oh my God, they are real! Where did all this food come from?’
‘The MoD. I wasn’t the only one called in before dawn. Everyone was. And because we knew we wouldn’t get out until after Churchill’s speech, we each took something to eat. I took the tin of salmon you were saving for a special occasion.’
Margot laughed. ‘I can’t think of a more special occasion than the end of the war. But eggs?’ she said again. ‘I haven’t seen an egg since Foxden.’
One of the ladies lives on a farm in Surrey. She keeps chickens, so she brought a dozen in – boiled, of course. There was a lot of food left over, so she gave a couple of us blokes bags to bring home. I think she feels sorry for me because you’re always working.’
The excitement drained from Margot’s face and she gave Bill a hurt look. ‘She doesn’t, does she? Please say that’s not true. I couldn’t bear it if anyone thought I didn’t look after you.’
‘I’m joking, you silly goose. Come on, sit down and tuck in. I don’t expect you’ve had time to eat with all the singing you did in Trafalgar Square.’
‘You heard me?’ Margot jumped up and threw her arms around Bill’s neck.
‘I wish I had. One of the chaps told me.’ Margot put on a frown and pushed out her bottom lip in a pout. ‘I’m on the lowest branch of the MoD tree. I wasn’t privy to a wireless, except to hear Churchill’s speech.’ Bill walked round the table and pulled out Margot’s chair. ‘I’ll hear you sing tonight at The Talk of London. They won’t!’ As she sat down Bill kissed her. ‘Now eat!’
Entering through the double doors of The Talk of London always took Margot’s breath away. The floor of the foyer was marble, the ceiling a mirror and the walls were adorned with framed posters by Frederick Charles Herrick, prints from the Paris Exhibition in 1925, and portraits and illustrations of beautiful women in elegant evening gowns by Erté and Georges Barbier. A reminder that there was glamour before utility clothing – and hopefully would be again, now the war was over.
The Talk of London was the biggest night club and restaurant in London and VE night was the biggest occasion. It was no surprise to Margot that every table in the fashionable club had been reserved. She walked slowly round the room and marvelled, as she always did, at the gilt framed signed photographs of Ivor Novello, Joyce Grenfell and Noel Coward. A smile crept across her face, making her eyes sparkle, as she passed her own photograph, which was next to Tommy Trinder. She liked that; she liked Tommy. Vera Lynn and Gracie Fields were separated by George Formby.
She looked up. A net above the dance floor held dozens of red, white and blue balloons. This was going to be a night to remember.
Bill sat at the bar with their friend Salvatore and the Talk’s owner, Bernard Rudman. Salvatore had popped in to ask Margot if she would do an hour at the Prince Albert Club the following night. Margot said she’d love to, and after kissing him goodbye she dashed off to change into her evening dress.
The dress she had bought for this, the most important night of the last six years, was stunning. And so it should be. She had spent her and Bill’s entire clothes ration, plus dozens of clothes coupons that she’d bought on the black market for 2/6d each. She slipped the dress over her head and knew immediately that it was worth every coupon and every penny she had
