VE Day 80 special exhibition

Thomas was on leave from his posting on the Isle of Wight when he heard the news on the radio: the war in Europe was over. His mother quickly organised a street party in Bethnal Green - buns, cakes, lemonade, and a table bursting with joy. Children laughed, flags waved, and for a moment, the horror of war gave way to celebration.

The illustration captures that moment. Thomas, in his sailor’s uniform, stands on the left, smiling as neighbours crowd around a long table under bunting and Union Jacks. Signs reading Mansford Street VE Party and God Save the King hang proudly as the whole community comes together in jubilation.

But beneath the joy, there was grief. Thomas’s future wife lost her mother and sister in the Bethnal Green tube disaster. “She would have died too,” he said, “but I was on leave and took her to the cinema instead.”

When peace was declared, John was stationed at a remote airfield at the tip of Scotland. A navigator in the RAF, he had spent the war flying operations across Europe - but when the news came, his first thought was, “What do we do now?” The tension that had built up suddenly lifted, and that evening, the mess exploded into laughter and chaos. With few options for celebration, the men did what they knew best - drank as much beer as they could. One memory stands out clearly: the airfield’s commanding officer, Max, jumped into a fire-fighting pool in a water dinghy, prompting the men to soak him in a flurry of schoolboy glee.

The illustration captures the hilarity of that night: John, top left, grinning broadly with slicked-back hair, waves a Union Jack high above the chaos. Around him, his comrades cheer, splash, and laugh - beer bottles in hand. It was joy in its purest, most unruly form, a release after years of war.

Peter was just 17 and still in training as a radar mechanic on the Isle of Man when news of VE Day came through the local broadcast system. He was on shore patrol duty - “the Navy’s policemen” - tasked with keeping order in the streets of Douglas. “Quite a task on VE evening!” he laughed. Crowds spilled into the streets, strangers kissed sailors’ collars for luck, and the chip shop gave away food. “It was absolute mayhem,” Peter recalled, “and we were jolly - but sober!”

The illustration captures the wild joy of that night: Peter, foreground left, grins as a woman hugs him tight, lipstick marks scattered across his cheek. Around him, sailors and civilians cheer, embrace, and wave beneath bunting and Union Jacks, framed by a great “VICTORY” banner.

Just 18 when she was called up, Alice joined the Wrens and was assigned to the mysterious-sounding ‘Special Duties X Category’ - which turned out to be codebreaking work at Bletchley Park. She worked long, round-the-clock shifts operating the Bombe machines that helped crack enemy codes. The VE Day announcement came as a complete surprise - Alice was on her way to an evening watch when a friend came running down the corridor shouting, “The war’s over!” Laughter and tears erupted as the relief set in.  

The illustration captures this outpouring of emotion: Alice, on the right, is shown dancing hand-in-hand with a fellow Wren, her face lit with joy, while others spill out of the iconic Bletchley Park building behind them. The moment is full of movement, colour, and light - symbolising the release of tension after years of quiet, vital service.

While serving in Italy with the ATS as a Morse code operator, Joan was thrilled to hear the war had ended - though celebrations there were more subdued than in England. “You went on working” she recalled, still supporting Allied command at headquarters. There were parties and weddings, but duty continued. After two years abroad, Joan finally flew home in a converted Lancaster bomber for a long-awaited leave. When it came time to return, her plans changed: her mother had fallen ill, and her leave was extended. The plane she should have been on crashed into the sea, killing all 26 women on board - the single greatest loss of British servicewomen during the war. “I often think what could have been,” Joan said. “I was very lucky.”

The illustration reflects that quiet gravity: Joan stands solemnly in front of a greyed Lancaster, holding a Union Jack in a slightly deflated manner. Behind her, the shadows of the lost linger in remembrance.

For Neena, the war years were the happiest of her life. She volunteered for the ATS at just 16 and became one of only nine women attached to the Parachute Regiment, serving as secretary to the officer in charge. Stationed in Yorkshire, she found purpose, friendship, and deep respect from the men she worked alongside. “We couldn’t have been looked after better,” she said. “We didn’t want to leave.” When peace came, it brought relief - but also a sense of loss. The regiment disbanded quickly, and life shifted. “Of course we were pleased the war had ended,” she said, “but the only thing was all the friends…”

The illustration captures that joy and unity: Neena, pictured in the foreground, second from the left, beams as she links arms with the other ATS girls beneath a sky of bunting and flags. A number 9 hangs proudly among the decorations - honouring the nine ATS girls who served together. After the war, everything changed, many women, including Neena, found themselves in factory jobs, missing the respect, pay, and purpose they’d gained in wartime.

When news of victory came, ATS girl Joan was at work - until they were told simply, “You can all go home.” Her husband, on leave from the London Rifle Brigade, met her at her parents’ house, where they wept with joy: “There’s no more killing!” They headed to the village pub, a place they’d promised to reunite if the village was ever bombed. Cycling the half-hour route, Joan was overcome. “I was crying my eyes out,” she said, “and people just kept handing me drinks!” The joy was infectious - everyone smiling, singing Churchill’s praises, celebrating the end of six long, difficult years.

The illustration captures Joan riding through jubilant village streets, arm raised high with a Union Jack, her face full of emotion. Just behind her, her husband follows on his bike. Around them, bonfires blaze and people celebrate in the rubble-lined streets. It was a moment of overwhelming relief and happiness - the war was finally over.

Ruth was just 19 when, on the very day peace was declared in Europe, she received her letter of acceptance into the Wrens. “I was in shock” she recalled. Surrounded by RAF bombers in Lincolnshire and dating a Squadron Leader, she sensed the end was near. Bonfires and haystacks were already alight before the announcement even came - “the sky was lit up.” After hearing the news on the radio, Ruth and a small group, including her sister and boyfriend, went on a celebratory picnic. Flags flew and relief swept through the country.

The illustration captures that gentle, joyful moment: Ruth sits on a picnic blanket, sharing tea with others in uniform, as bonfires blaze in the distance and friends raise flags and arms in celebration. But not all was easy. With the war in the Pacific still raging and comrades lost at Arnhem, the mood was mixed. “VE Day was wonderful,” Ruth said, “but it was still very mixed."

Ken was a young stoker in the Royal Navy when the war came to an end. He had spent his service keeping vital shipping lanes clear and remembered the moment peace was declared as one of sheer jubilation. Stationed in Aberdeen, he joined the street celebrations with unrestrained joy. “All I remember was hanging out the window waving the flag about, probably with a drink in my hand,” he said. “There was a general feeling of relief. Relief and jubilation.”

The illustration captures that outburst of happiness: Ken, front and centre at the window, waves with a wide grin and joyful energy, flanked by shipmates flashing V-signs and raising bottles in triumph. Union Jacks flutter below, painting a picture of carefree, youthful celebration.

Les found himself in Gibraltar on VE Day - on solid ground, and in high spirits. “We’d just come in from a convoy, so we went out and had a few drinks,” he recalled. Spirits were high, voices louder, and then: “A stoker from the next ship climbed a massive crane and stripped right off!” Spotlights from nearby ships lit him up as he wobbled at the top, saluting the end of the war in his own unforgettable way. “He wasn’t supposed to be up there, and a punishment was waiting when he came down - but I don’t think he cared.”

The illustration brings that surreal scene to life: sailors cheer and throw their caps as the figure stands lit at the top of the crane, waving his hat in defiance and delight. It was a wild, hilarious moment of catharsis -pure relief after years of fear, danger, and survival.

There was no grand announcement, no parades for Matt on VE Day. Serving with the SAS, he was behind enemy lines in the Italian mountains, dropped by parachute into rugged terrain near the village of Castino. “There was no Colonel gathering us to say it was over,” he recalled. “It came through in dribs and drabs - someone had a radio, and word just filtered down.” Around that time, Matt found himself riding alone for miles through the hills on horseback, making his way toward the coast - a solitary, surreal journey after years of danger, including the brutal battle of Monte Cassino, injury, and recovery before joining the newly formed special forces.

The illustration captures that memory: Matt astride a grey horse on a dusty mountain path, looking back toward the village. Above him, a cluster of paratroopers drifts through the pastel sky, the fading light casting a quiet stillness over the rugged Italian landscape.

From £5 (including P&P)