The Silent War (14 page)

‘This is your stop, young lady.’

Sunday’s attention was miles away, and she hadn’t even noticed that the village bus had drawn to a halt outside a country pub called the Waggon and Horses.

‘Cloy’s Farm is up that way,’ said the elderly country man sitting next to her. As soon as Sunday had got on the bus outside Braintree Station, the old boy had realised that the girl was deaf, so, being a little hard of hearing himself, he had made quite sure she could see his lips as he spoke. ‘About ’alf a mile up the road,’ he said, standing up to let her pass. ‘Five or ten minutes’ walk at the most,’ he added with a rascally smile, raising his checked flat cap.

By the time Sunday had got off the bus, the driver had already retrieved her suitcase from the baggage hold and left it for her on the pavement. As soon as she had picked it up, the bus was on its way, and quickly disappeared with a grunt and a rattle off the main road, narrowly missing what seemed to be a huge old oak tree.

It took only a few minutes for Sunday to realise that the length of a road in the country was clearly quite different to that of Holloway or Seven Sisters Road, for after walking uphill with her suitcase for over ten minutes, there was no sign of the Cloy’s Farm Hostel she was expected at.

‘Oh no, dear,’ said the first passer-by she came across, who was walking her bicycle down the hill in the opposite direction. ‘Cloy’s is Ridgewell. This is Yeldham, Great Yeldham.’

As the ruddy-faced woman was not looking straight at her, Sunday could only guess that she was miles from the place she was looking for. From the way the woman was wrapped up in a heavy winter coat and headscarf, it was quite apparent that the locals knew how to protect themselves against the biting cold of the countryside far better than Sunday herself.

Continuing in the direction the woman had pointed, Sunday slowly made her way up the hill towards the village of Ridgewell. The only signs of life she saw on the way were an old man with a small boy, both struggling up the hill on rusty-framed bicycles, a pre-war Morris Minor belching out thick black exhaust fumes, and a US Army truck racing down the hill in the opposite direction.

After half an hour, Sunday began to regret what she had let herself in for. As it was, it had taken all her energy to persuade the recruiting officers at the Women’s Land Army Committee back at Islington Town Hall to let her take up a job on a farm. The idea of a young deaf girl working on or near dangerous farm machinery concerned them enough to delay their decision for several weeks. But, mindful that farm labour was in desperately short supply, and after a strong letter of support from the Ear, Nose, and Throat therapists at the Royal Northern Hospital, the Committee had decided to give Sunday the chance of a three-month probationary period at a WLA Farm Hostel, where she would work alongside one or two other disabled girls of her own age.

After walking a short distance further, Sunday found herself at the top of the hill. From there she could see for miles, for it was now early afternoon, and the mist was slowly releasing its grip on the horizon. Out of breath, she put her suitcase down on to the grass verge beside the roadside path, and sat on it. Her ears were numb from the
cold
, so she cupped her hands together, blew warm breath into them, then covered them over her ears. And as she sat there, she felt as though she was in another world. No cars, trams, or trolleybuses, no crowds of people out shopping with their kids, and no terraced houses and towering blocks of flats for as far as the eye could see. And no flying bombs, nor murderous V-2 rockets which the Germans were now targeting on London each day, bringing death and destruction without a moment’s warning. Yes, out here in Essex it was another world, a place where there was only peace of mind. And for the first time in her life, she felt close to all the things her mum believed in – fields and hedgerows and trees and grass and birds – all the things that were such an essential part of life.

But after sitting there for a moment or so, she had a premonition. It was as though something was creeping up on her from behind, trying to touch her. As she slowly turned to look over her shoulder, a giant shadow quite suddenly engulfed her, and when she stood up in panic, the glistening silver shape of a huge warplane tore across the sky just above the trees. By the time she had thrown herself to the ground, the great monster, with wheels already down, had disappeared behind a group of thatched cottages and appeared to land in the field beyond.

For several moments she lay stretched out on her stomach on the cold path, shielding the back of her head and ears with her hands. She was shivering with fear, partly because her premonition had come true, and also because she hadn’t been able to hear the roar of the plane’s giant engines.

The next thing she felt was a pair of hands trying to lift her up from the path. As she turned to look, she found that she was being helped by a girl of about her own age, who was wearing the belted overall coat of the Women’s Land Army.

‘Are you all right, girl?’

Although Sunday was staring directly at the Land Army girl, she was too unnerved to be able to read her lips, and couldn’t know that the accent was Welsh. All she could do was shake her head.

‘No need to be scared, you know,’ said the girl in uniform. ‘It was only a Yank. One of ours, believe it or not.’

Sunday, nonplussed, again shook her head. But this time she grunted a few unintelligible words. ‘Terrible. Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t . . .’

The girl in uniform understood immediately. ‘You’ve got to be Sunday,’ she said. Then, positioning herself so that Sunday could read her lips, she repeated, ‘Sunday. You’re Sunday Collins, aren’t you, girl?’ Then, giving her a huge smile which revealed two rows of dazzling white teeth, she added, ‘We’ve been waitin’ for you.’

A few minutes later, Sunday found herself sharing a horse-drawn cart with the Welsh girl and a loadful of muddy potatoes.

‘The name’s Jinx,’ said the girl. ‘Jinx Hughes.’ She had to turn from holding the horse’s reins to face Sunday every time she wanted to talk to her. ‘It was me old man’s fault, see. All ’cos he reckoned me mam had put a curse on him for not ’avin’ a rugby-playin’ son!’

When Sunday saw the girl roaring with laughter, she immediately felt at ease. ‘I like the name,’ she said. ‘It’s different.’

Jinx didn’t answer, because the horse who was pulling them started to slow down. ‘Come on, ’Oratio!’ she yelled, impatiently. ‘We ’aven’t got all day!’ Then she turned to Sunday. ‘Got a will of ’is own, this one.’

This time it was Sunday who laughed.

It was something she hadn’t done for quite a long time.

Cloy’s Farm was set in the middle of flat, arable land that had been ploughed and tilled for over three hundred years. The farmhouse itself was quite large and built around a
cobbled
yard, which contained stables for three working horses. The few cows still remaining on the farm were kept in their own shed, as were other livestock such as pigs and hens. Apart from the Land Girls, who were billeted in a converted barn well away from the main house, there were no agricultural labourers working the land there any more, for all of them had long ago decided to forego their right to exemption from military service. Their reason for doing so was perfectly clear to anyone who knew the farmer who ran the place, Arnold Cloy.

‘A real mean old sod!’

Jinx was never known to mince her words, and as she watched Sunday unpacking her suitcase in the Land Girls’ billet, she certainly wasn’t doing so.

‘D’you know, when we first moved in ’ere, those beams up there were riddled with woodworm, and the place was full of mildew from top to bottom. An’ if they ’adn’t come down from Lond’n and made ’im put in some windows, we’d ’ave been livin’ in a bleedin’ cellar!’ Sunday had been too busy hanging her clothes in a narrow bedside locker to pick up everything Jinx had been telling her. But as she looked around at the bleak interior of the thatched seventeenth-century barn, she had a rough idea of what she was going on about.

‘I tell you, girl,’ Jinx continued, arms crossed as if in a perpetual rage, ‘the reason this place is so cold is because the old sod won’t let us light up the paraffin stove ’til we get back from the fields. An’ durin’ the winter months, ’e keeps the electric turned off ’til four in the afternoon. Sometimes longer. An’ as for the bog – ha! A bucket in a freezin’-cold shed out back! If ’Eadquarters knew ’alf what ’e gets up to, they’d cut off ’is goolies an’ feed ’em to the pigs!’

Jinx suddenly noticed the anxious look on Sunday’s face. So she went and stood in front of her. ‘Take no notice of me, girl,’ she said reassuringly. ‘’Round ’ere they all call me the old moaner. Complain about
everythin
’ I do. But if you don’t, you don’t get nothin’ in this world. In’t that right?’

Sunday nodded, and smiled. As she watched Jinx’s lips moving, she tried to imagine what the voice sounded like, and if it matched her tall, lanky figure, pointed nose, bony face, and slightly slanted eyes.

‘Even so,’ said Jinx, adjusting the turban around her short, bobbed brown hair. ‘Don’t ever be tempted to rub the old sod up the wrong way. Unfortunately, ’e’s the one in charge ’round ’ere. ’E’s the one we ’ave to answer to.’

Again Sunday nodded that she understood, then looked around the room at the other beds. ‘How many are we?’ she asked.

Jinx only just heard what she was saying, for Sunday had been told so many times how loud she was speaking that she had now lowered her voice more than was necessary.

‘Six includin’ you,’ replied Jinx. ‘We’re all very different, but we get on ever so well together.’ She moved to the bed next to Sunday. ‘This is me here. An’ on the other side of you is Ruthie. Comes from a posh place she does – somewhere down south. She’s an epileptic, but you’d never know. ’Asn’t ’ad an attack for more than six months.’ She moved on to the beds opposite. ‘An’ this is Sue,’ she said, stopping at the first bed. ‘She’s from just outside Birmingham. Bit of a snoot, but means well.’

Sunday strolled across to the next bed Jinx was approaching, where she picked up a small teddy bear which had been propped up on the pillow. She looked up at Jinx for an explanation.

‘Ah yes,’ said Jinx, with a bit of a smirk. ‘That’s Algie. Belongs to our Sheil. It’s her baby really. Poor girl, she’s a bit round the bend. But we can cope.’ She took Algie from Sunday, and replaced him on the pillow. ‘Lost all her family in the Blitz. Round your way somewhere. Well – Lond’n anyway.’

The two girls moved on to the third bed. But Sunday’s
expression
changed immediately when she noticed a chart showing a two-handed alphabet on the wall behind.

‘Now this is someone you’ll do well with,’ proclaimed Jinx, proudly, standing beside the chart, and talking directly at Sunday. ‘Bit of a mascot is our Maureen. Deaf an’ dumb all her life. Takes it all in her stride though.’ And leaning forward to Sunday, she added with a beaming smile, ‘She’ll teach you all you want to know about usin’ sign language.’

Sunday immediately felt herself shrivel up inside. She smiled weakly, and moved away from Maureen’s bed.

‘Oh – and by the way,’ said Jinx, following Sunday and then stepping round in front of her. ‘I’m from Swansea – capital of the whole bloody world!’

Sunday laughed with her. But her mind was really still on that wall chart.

Although it was not yet four o’clock in the afternoon when Sunday was called across to the house to meet Farmer Cloy, it was rapidly getting dark. The sun, which had struggled all day to break through the damp November mist, had finally given up the struggle by deserting the landscape with a watery golden glow, and now a light coming from the window of the farmer’s office on one end of the house was beginning to cast huge shadows across the stable-yard.

Sunday was met in the back porch by young Ronnie Cloy, the farmer’s fourteen-year-old son, who had just returned from school in nearby Sible Hedingham. Sunday thought he was quite small for his age, but she liked the way he smiled at her, and kept crinkling up his nose as he talked. And to her surprise, he did talk well, because, unlike so many people who tried too hard, he moved his lips in a perfectly natural way that was so much easier to read.

‘D’you like butterflies?’ Ronnie asked, almost the moment he set eyes on her.

‘Yes,’ replied Sunday, taken aback. ‘They’re beautiful.’

Ronnie’s face lit up. ‘If you like, I’ll show you my collection. I’ve got ten different species all under glass.’

That wasn’t quite what Sunday had been expecting. She hated the idea of anything being captured and killed and put on display. Since losing her hearing, she had felt very much as though the same kind of thing had happened to her. However, she was grateful that the boy had wanted to share something with her that he prized so much. ‘I’m a bit worn-out tonight,’ she replied in her low voice. ‘Some other time perhaps?’

Ronnie didn’t take offence. In fact, he didn’t take offence with anyone except his own father, who had only ever looked upon his son as an intense irritation.

‘Is it true what they say about you?’ he asked, with innocent curiosity. ‘Can’t you hear anything at all?’

Sunday wanted to answer that she wasn’t entirely deaf, that at times she could hear just a little. But it simply wasn’t true, and she knew it, although she was determined, whatever she told others, never to admit it to herself. ‘It’s true,’ she replied, nodding her head.

‘No need to worry,’ said the boy brightly. ‘You can count on me. If you want, I’ll show you round Ridgewell. I know a pond where there are loads of newts.’ To Sunday’s surprise, he offered her his hand to shake. ‘Friends?’

Sunday was taken aback by this sudden act of kindness from someone she had only just met. ‘Friends,’ she returned, shaking the boy’s hand.

‘Ronnie!’

Sunday had no idea Farmer Cloy was standing in the doorway of his office behind her, until Ronnie’s expression changed abruptly. ‘See you later,’ he said to Sunday, soundlessly moving his lips.

As he rushed off, Sunday turned around to see a massively built man beckoning to her. ‘In here, please,’ he said curtly. But as he was standing with his back to
the
light, Sunday couldn’t see what he was saying. But she guessed, and moved into the office.