The Silent War (13 page)

A few minutes later, Sunday found herself in the consultant’s room, being examined by the redoubtable Mr Callow, who despite a heavy frame, bushy eyebrows, metal-rimmed spectacles, and a starched collar that was cutting into his neck, touched her ears with the sensitivity of an artist.

‘Excellent,’ he finally proclaimed. ‘No more discharge.’ Madge beamed, and communicated the good news to Sunday.

Mr Callow returned to his seat by a small table, and started to write endless notes. But it was his face that Sunday was interested in; she was watching for any possible expression that would give her a clue to the news she was really waiting for.

‘And so, young lady.’ The bushy eyebrows flicked up,
and
the eyes beneath them stared directly at Sunday’s face. ‘Now we have to plan for the future.’

Sunday was so tense, she couldn’t make out his words. But when she swung around to her mum for explanation, Mr Callow took hold of her hands, which immediately brought her gaze back to him.

‘From now on,’ he said gently, and using his tongue and lips slowly and with precision, ‘you start all over again.’ Before continuing, he paused and waited for her reaction. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Sunday?’

‘When will I hear again?’

Even though he was used to these tragic moments, Mr Callow found it difficult to keep looking into Sunday’s eyes. All he could do was to shake his head slowly.

Sunday panicked, and immediately pulled her hands out of his. ‘Operation!’ she demanded.

Mr Callow again shook his head.

‘You promised!’ Sunday’s whole body was tensing.

Madge quickly rose from her seat, put her arms around Sunday’s shoulders, and hugged her.

‘Watch me, Sunday. Watch me carefully.’ There was now a stern look on Mr Callow’s face. Using his fingers to illustrate what he was saying, he continued. ‘The explosion has severely damaged what we call the
labyrinth
, the inner part of your ear. There is no operation available that would repair that damage, no operation that would restore your ability to hear.’ He leaned as close to Sunday as she would allow. ‘Do you understand what I am saying, Sunday?’ he asked, slowly and very deliberately. ‘Do – you – understand?’

Sunday’s eyes were suddenly watery, a sign of her intense fear.

Mr Callow looked past her, first to Madge, and then to someone who was sitting in the corner behind her. ‘Mrs Davies,’ he said.

The woman he was addressing rose quietly from her seat, came across to Sunday and crouched in front of her. ‘Hallo, Sunday,’ she said with a smile. ‘My name
is
Jennifer. We’re going to be working together.’ As she spoke, her hands were very animated. ‘I’m going to show you how to listen with your eyes, with your hands, and with your fingers.’

Madge hugged Sunday tighter.

The woman, still crouched in front of Sunday, looked up directly into the girl’s eyes. ‘It’s going to be like learning to walk all over again.’

Watched carefully by both Mr Callow and Madge, the woman gently took hold of the girl’s hands. But Sunday, almost mesmerised as she struggled to read the woman’s lips, shrank back into her chair.

Jennifer Davies then made the mistake of turning to address her next remark to Madge. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, with a well-meaning smile. ‘In a few years’ time she’ll have forgotten all about what it was like to listen with her ears.’

The words were hardly out on the woman’s lips, when, quite unexpectedly, Sunday pulled her hands away and sprang up from the chair. ‘Operation!’ she spluttered, in deep distress, addressing her remark directly to Mr Callow. ‘You promised me! Operation!’

By the time the consultant had come back to her, Sunday had broken away from her mum and made a wild dash for the door.

‘Sunday!’ called Madge, rushing out of the room to chase after her daughter. ‘Come back, child! Come back!’

But it was too late. Within seconds Sunday had disappeared from the clinic, and dashed straight out into the August sunshine.

Sunday had no idea in which direction she was running. All she knew was that she was winding her way in and out of the afternoon shoppers, knocking into them in her rush to get away from everything that was connected with clinics and hospitals, and people who lied to her and didn’t keep their promises. As she ran, life all around
her
seemed to blur. She knew that cars and lorries and buses and trams were streaming past her on the road alongside, but how could they be real when she couldn’t even hear them? So many images were flashing through her mind: cold, metal instruments being poked into her ears, hypodermic needles being shoved into her arms, tablets resting on her tongue before starting the long voyage down into the depths of her stomach, X-rays, and tests, tests, and more tests. And Mr Callow scribbling down notes, horrible endless notes that would tell how Sunday Collins would never hear again.

‘’Allo, Sun.’

Sunday stopped running. Someone was standing right in front of her. Until her vision had cleared, all she could see was a blurred outline.

‘You all right, mate?’ It was Jack Popwell from ‘the Buildings’.

Sunday, fighting for breath, didn’t answer. For a brief moment she just stood there, gradually bringing him into focus.

‘’Ow d’yer get on down the ’ospital then?’ he asked.

But before there was any chance of a response, Sunday had dashed off again.

Jack watched her go. It had scared the life out of him to see the state she was in, with her face drained of all blood, her hair all over the place, and sweat streaming through her clean white blouse. ‘Sun!’ he called, knowing only too well that there was no way the poor girl could hear him.

Sunday hurried on her way, refusing to look back over her shoulder. And as she passed the Savoy Cinema, her mind was flooded with happier days when, only a year before, she had queued up with the crowds to watch
Gone with the Wind
.

By the time she was passing under the railway bridge which crossed Holloway Road opposite the Tube Station, she was completely out of breath.

The first thing she noticed was the smell of urine
coming
from the men’s lavatories beneath the bridge, so she held her nose and hurried on. On the other side of the bridge, she decided to cross over the main road, and without a moment’s thought just dashed across, not looking to see if the road was clear. There was an immediate cacophony of motor-car horns, and an angry bus-driver shouting out, ‘Yer silly cow!’ from his cabin window. Even if Sunday could have heard him, it would have made no difference, for at that moment, all she could see was the other side of the road.

Without considering what she was doing, Sunday rushed straight into the dingy interior of Holloway Road Tube Station. She had always hated the place, with its grubby, stifling atmosphere and depressing brown wall tiles, and as she had always tended to suffer from claustrophobia she kept well away from the antiquated lift, ignored buying a ticket at the tiny booking office, and made her way straight to the spiral staircase.

When she was a child, Sunday loved to count out loud to her mum every step of this staircase from top to bottom, and as she did so she could hear the sound her feet were making on the heavy wrought iron, which echoed down into the very depths of the station. Now she could hear nothing, and she felt as though she was descending towards the gates of Hell. With each step she took, the steep staircase seemed as though it was trying to swallow her up and drag her down. And once again there was the smell of urine, the usual leftover from some drunk’s night out at the boozer. The journey down seemed to take forever, and Sunday was feeling giddy, her ears were throbbing, and because she was having difficulty in keeping her balance she had to hold on tightly to the long, cold, curving metal rail.

When Sunday finally reached the bottom of the staircase, the lift doors were just opening to deposit the few passengers who had left at the same time as herself. None of them even noticed her, for their main preoccupation was to get to the train that was due any moment. She
was
now streaming with sweat, and after her ordeal on the spiral staircase, her legs felt as though they couldn’t carry her any further. But gradually she made her way towards the platforms, oblivious to the vast array of posters along the curved walls. By the time she reached the first platform, the rush of air from an approaching train was already pounding against her body.

Although there were very few people along the platform, there was already that odd feeling of panic and anticipation which prompted everyone to take up their rightful ground at the very edge of the platform. Sunday was no exception. But, although no one had even registered her existence, her feet were much closer to the painted white line of the platform edge than theirs. In fact, her toes were suspended over the railtrack itself.

The train was now only seconds away, and all the passengers had to brace themselves against the strong rush of air that was roaring through the darkened tunnel ahead of that train.

As Sunday waited, her eyes became transfixed on the track beneath her, and in particular on the deadly live rail which had powered the London Underground tube-trains for so many years. Gradually, the lethal rail became blurred, and in its place she could see a succession of images: Pearl’s chubby cheeks, with those sparkling emerald eyes staring up at her; kids in the backyard of ‘the Buildings’, kicking their football against the wall; the flame burning at the rear of the flying bomb as it chugged menacingly over Finsbury Park at night; and the kind, familiar faces of her mum, Bess Butler, Jack Popwell, the Mooneys, and poor Harry Smike – all stretching out their hands as if trying to help her. But it was only their faces she could see. She couldn’t hear what they were trying to tell her, what they were begging her not to do.

As the headlights of the approaching train started to snake along the tunnel walls, Sunday’s feet began to move further across the painted white line along the edge of the platform. For those few reckless moments,
it
was only that stark narrow line that held her between life and death.

Sunday was now crazed with desperation. One more image joined the others. It was Mr Callow, the ear specialist, slowly shaking his head. Sunday couldn’t bear it. Her own head started to do the same, shaking violently back and forth. There was only one thing to do, only one way to end the nightmare. As the images started to fall away into a large black pit, her body slumped forward.

With a mighty roar and a powerful gush of stale air, the tube-train suddenly burst out of the tunnel and raced along the track.

On the platform, a woman screamed out loud.

Sunday heard nothing. All she felt was a strong pair of arms around her waist, and the next moment she was stretched out on the cold stone floor.

The train screeched to a halt along the platform.

‘Come on little lady!’ gasped the posh voice of a middle-aged man who was pinning Sunday down on the platform floor. ‘It’s not worth it!’

Within seconds, a crowd had gathered around Sunday, including both the train-driver and guard. Although Sunday couldn’t hear one word of the rumpus she had caused, she knew only too well what everyone must have been saying.

Quite suddenly, she started to sob. She couldn’t hear any of it, of course, but her stomach was lurching up and down in distress, and soon tears were streaming down her cheeks. She hadn’t cried since she had heard about Pearl. She hated crying. She had always hated crying. But at this precise moment, it was the only thing her body could do.

An elderly Cockney lady, still wearing her working apron and grimy flat cap, knelt beside Sunday and tried to comfort her by cradling the young girl’s head in her lap. ‘It’s all right, darlin’,’ she said soothingly. ‘It’s all right.’

Sunday’s eyes slowly opened. Towering all above
her
were faces, anxious, blood-drained faces, caring, concerned, perplexed. But as she lay there, flat on her back on the cold stone platform floor, her eyes gradually focused on something spread out on the curved platform wall behind them. It was a large coloured poster showing a farmer talking to a young girl who was wearing a green sweater and fawn-coloured breeches. Her hands were holding on to the bridle of a horse.

‘
We could do with thousands more like you
,’ the farmer was saying. ‘
JOIN THE WOMEN’S LAND ARMY
.’

At the start of winter, the wide, open fields of North Essex were bare and wet with thick, muddy clay. After a prolonged early drought, the summer of 1944 had been difficult for the local farmers, with hay and stover crops well below normal, a shortage of agricultural labour to lift the potatoes, and a great deal of the new season’s wheat still not planted. October had brought quite a lot of rain, which had left many gardens and allotments soggy and tough to dig, and now the early November mists were clinging to the horizon, defying the sun to break their hold on the bleak rural landscape. Before she left ‘the Buildings’, Sunday had been told that the Essex countryside was very flat, but as she peered out through the charabanc window she could see quite a few gentle, undulating hills, many of them dotted with trees that had now shed their dead leaves.

It hadn’t been an easy decision for her to leave home. But even though everyone thought the idea of a deaf girl taking a job in the Women’s Land Army was crazy, Sunday knew it was at least an opportunity to learn how to survive on her own terms in her new silent world. The greatest obstacle, of course, had been her mum. Ever since Sunday was a baby, Madge had never parted with her, and the idea of her own daughter living in a billet with a whole lot of other girls horrified her. But Sunday was determined to have her own way. During the early part of October she had had her eighteenth birthday, and this had given her a new sense of purpose and independence. To her surprise, Mr Callow, her ear specialist, and Jennifer
Davies
, her therapist, had both supported her idea, but only on condition that she make a concerted effort to perfect her lip-reading technique and to start learning basic sign language. The greatest support, however, had come from Bess Butler, who was shrewd enough to know that if Sunday was going to come to terms with the trauma of going deaf, she had to get away from the pressures of an over-protective home life. But as Sunday rested her head back on the seat, and stared out aimlessly through the misted-up charabanc window at the passing grey countryside, in her mind’s eye she could still see the tiny forlorn figure of her poor old mum, standing on that friendless platform back at Liverpool Street Station, with red, tear-stained eyes, waving to her, bewildered, lost, and wondering whether she would ever see her child again.