The Silent War (16 page)

But during these first few weeks, Sunday’s life was changing in more ways than one. Most important of all was that she was allowing herself to be drawn out of the shell she had been hiding in ever since she had lost her hearing. At last she was beginning to mix with people who were totally different from herself, people who came from a different way of life to her own.

Two weeks after she arrived, Sunday finally agreed to go down and have a drink with her Land Army pals at the local pub, the King’s Head. It wasn’t a very big pub, and as it was a Saturday evening the place was jammed to suffocation with locals and American servicemen from the Ridgewell USAF Airbase. Since going deaf, Sunday had acquired an acute sense of smell, and as soon as she entered the pub the pungent smoke from the mixture of British and American fags nearly choked her.

‘That’s the trouble with this place,’ called Jinx, making quite sure she could be heard as she pushed a way through the already well-oiled crowd of khaki uniforms and flat Essex caps. ‘Bloody Yanks think they own it!’

Sunday didn’t even know she was saying anything, for she and the other girls were too busy trying to follow on behind.

‘Mind you,’ continued Jinx, turning briefly to look at Sunday as they reached the counter, ‘I never object to a nice bit of lease an’ lend from time to time. Especially the lease. I mean, we’ve got to keep up Anglo-American friendship, ’aven’t we!’ She didn’t wait for a reaction before bursting into one of her loud, raucous laughs.

Amidst all the crush, Sunday couldn’t fail to notice that some of the young servicemen and their local girlfriends were bopping around in time to the old upright pub piano, which was being pulverised by a young GI who was attempting to get as much boogie rhythm out of it as he possibly could. For a moment or so, Sunday just stood quite motionless, trying hard to imagine what the music sounded like, whilst casting her mind back to Tommy
Dorsey
and Glenn Miller and all those bands that used to be such a part of her life.

Whilst Jinx was ordering the drinks, Maureen, the deaf and dumb girl, studied the forlorn expression on Sunday’s face. So she twisted herself round to look straight at her, and moved her tongue and lips slowly and clearly to say, ‘You look wonderful, Sunday. I love the way you’ve done your hair.’

Sunday looked embarrassed, and subconsciously raised a hand to smooth her strawberry-blonde hair which she had tied with a ribbon behind her head. It hadn’t really occurred to her to imagine why she had decided to take so much trouble with her appearance.

Maureen spoke again. But as it came so naturally to her, this time she used both her hands to express what she was saying, as well as her tongue and lips. ‘The boys from the base can’t keep their eyes off you.’

The moment Sunday saw Maureen’s hands fluttering in front of her, she felt ill at ease. Instead of being flattered by Maureen’s remark, she shrugged her shoulders indifferently. But she knew only too well that as soon as she had entered the pub, quite a few heads had turned towards her, and even now a group of young airmen were eyeing her up from the other side of the bar.

‘Two shandies!’ called Jinx, turning from the counter with two glasses. ‘A port for you, Sue. An’ a delicious G and T for Mama Jinx!’

Ruthie took the two glasses of shandy from Jinx, and gave one of them to Sunday. Then Sue took her small glass of port.

Sunday sniffed the small amount of alcohol in her lemonade. Then she sipped it and discovered that it wasn’t nearly as horrible as she had been expecting.

‘Doesn’t Sheil like coming to the pub?’ she asked, quite innocently.

‘Hardly ever,’ replied Ruthie, who, at thirty-one, was the oldest amongst the Cloy’s Farm girls. ‘She’s a funny kid. Spends most of her spare time listening to classical
music
on the wireless, or drawing pictures on old bits of paper.’

Sunday was curious. Watching Ruthie’s lips carefully for a reply, she asked, ‘She draws pictures?’

‘Does she!’ snorted Sue, in her rich Brum accent. ‘Everywhere you look you find something she’s been scrawling on. Newspapers, magazines, cigarette packets – even on the kitchen wall.’ As she sipped her port, she patted the mass of thick dark hair that was packed tightly beneath a fashionable thick black hairnet. ‘She’s a pain in the neck, that one,’ she said haughtily, her heavily made-up eyes constantly scanning the bar to see if any of the young airmen had noticed her. ‘It’s time she grew up.’

Sunday didn’t catch every word Sue had said because she spoke too fast. But she did get the feeling that she was being a bit unkind about someone who had to cope with life so soon after losing her family in the Blitz.

‘Mama baby!’

Sunday had no idea what the pug-nosed airman had said to Jinx as he pushed his way through the customers and threw his arms around her.

Jinx allowed him to give her a full, tight kiss on the lips, before snapping, ‘Where’ve you been, you bloody tike! You were supposed to ’ave been ’ere ’alf an hour ago!’

‘Listen, honey. If you want us guys to win this war for you, you’ve got to give us time to drop a few Christmas presents for Adolf.’

‘
You
win the war for
us
– ha!’ Jinx’s voice could be heard all around the bar. ‘Bloody Yanks! If it wasn’t for us diggin’ in our ’eels, you’d ’ave ’ad the jackboots marchin’ down bloody Times Square long ago!’

Sunday caught the gist of the exchange, and laughed along with the others around her.

‘Anyway, stop boastin’,’ sniffed Jinx, ‘and say ’allo to my friend.’ Turning to face Sunday, she said, ‘Sunday, this is Erin. ’E calls ’imself my boyfriend, God ’elp me!’

Sunday laughed, and shook hands with the pug-nosed American.

‘Bombardier Erin Wendell at your service,’ he said, bowing low, and removing the remains of a cigar stub from his mouth. ‘Heard all about you, Sunday,’ he said. ‘You’re not a bit like Jinx here described you. You’re much more of a chick. Lemme get you a drink.’

Jinx slapped him one on the top of his head. ‘She’s already got one!’

Even though Sunday was concentrating hard on Erin’s lips, she found it hard going trying to read them. But he had a good face, a humorous one which reminded her a bit of Edward G. Robinson in a gangster film she’d once seen. Which meant, of course, that he wasn’t as young as Jinx! Sunday even detected a slight paunch beneath his short leather combat jacket.

‘Anyway,’ continued Erin, still looking Sunday over, ‘anytime you get too much flak from Mama baby here, you just—’

To Sunday’s surprise, the Bombardier’s lips suddenly stopped moving, and his expression changed.

‘Excuse me, miss. Can I buy you a drink?’

Sunday had no idea that someone was talking to her, for her back was turned towards the young airman. But she was able to read what the Bombardier’s lips were now saying.

‘The lady already has a drink, buster. Get lost.’

Sunday turned with a start. Standing behind her was a young American airman in uniform. He was black.

Sunday was at first taken aback. Apart from the pictures, it was the first black man she had ever seen. Once the fact had registered, she smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not realising that her voice was raised. ‘Did you say something?’

The young airman had a stern, defiant look on his face. ‘I asked if I could buy you a drink?’

The Bombardier took a step forward, but was quickly restrained by Jinx. A sudden silence descended on the
bar,
as several groups of American servicemen turned to witness the exchange.

Sunday was puzzled and bewildered by the tension she could feel, especially from the Bombardier, who was sharing a look of mutual hate with the young black airman. Even Jinx was shaking her head at her, and she couldn’t understand why.

‘“Doodlebug!”’

Sunday didn’t hear the landlord calling from behind the counter, but it certainly broke the tension, for everyone suddenly made a wild dash for the door. Everyone that is, except Sunday herself, the Bombardier, and the young black airman, who stood right where they were, just staring at each other.

Before she knew what was happening, however, Sunday was led out of the bar by Ruthie and Sue, whilst Jinx had practically to force the Bombardier to go with her.

Outside the pub, the customers were looking up into the dark night sky, where the familiar droning sound of the ‘doodlebug’ flying bomb was echoing across the quiet unlit countryside.

Sunday couldn’t hear the deadly sound that she knew only too well, and she was hesitant about glancing up at the burning tail of the machine, with its fiery glow that was now reflected in the anxious eyes of all who were watching and waiting to see where it would fall. After all, it was not the first time Sunday Collins had ever seen a flying bomb.

It was, however, the first time that she had seen a black man.

Digging turned out to be Sunday’s least favourite type of work. For a start, Cloy’s Farm was a holding of eighty acres of land, and as Arnold Cloy himself was an independent farmer, the place possessed very few agricultural machines that would take the pain out of the many essential back-breaking jobs. And now that the winter frosts had set in, the clay soil was particularly
hard
to break down. However, Ronnie Cloy had confided to Sunday that some Italian soldiers from a nearby prisoner-of-war camp would soon be coming to the farm to help out on the land, so there was hope that the digging was only temporary.

‘I’m sorry about what happened at the pub last night, girl.’ Jinx was hoeing alongside Sunday, and had to tap her on the arm whenever she wanted to talk to her. ‘The Blacks usually keep themselves to themselves. Erin says that bloke’s an engineer or somethin’, doesn’t even come from the base. Anyway, it’s best not to get involved in all that.’

The incident had been on Sunday’s mind all night, and she was still bewildered by what had gone on between Erin and the young black airman. So she stopped digging for a moment and asked, ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Like I say – that Blackie.’

‘What about him?’

Jinx didn’t know why she felt awkward, but she did. ‘The Blacks and the Whites don’t get on. That’s why they keep them apart – in different camps.

Sunday was shocked. ‘Different camps?’ she said, totally horrified. ‘How can they do such a thing? I thought
all
the GIs over here were supposed to be American.’

Jinx didn’t quite know how to answer that one. But she tried. ‘Apparently it’s the same over there, Whites and Blacks at each other’s throats all the time. Chalk and cheese.’

‘It’s all racial discrimination,’ said Sue, taking off her gloves for a moment to rub some warmth into her hands. ‘You’d never catch that sort of thing happening over here.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ called Ruthie, over her shoulder. She was just ahead of the others, and having a hard time breaking down a huge lump of rock-like clay. ‘My father used to work out in the West Indies. He said the English always considered the Blacks inferior.’

‘Well they are, aren’t they?’ asked Jinx. ‘I mean, what I heard was that their minds can’t move faster than a bloody snail.’

‘That’s not fair, poor buggers,’ said Sheil, chiming in whilst sipping a cup of hot tea from a vacuum flask.

‘Don’t be such a hypocrite,’ said Sue, putting on her gloves again. ‘They’re different to White people, everyone knows that.’

Sunday, who had been trying to follow what was being said, felt uneasy and slightly disgusted. ‘That man last night.
He
wasn’t different – well, not really. He was nice. He only wanted to buy me a drink.’

‘Yes, and all the rest, girl!’ griped Jinx. ‘You’d soon find out ’ow nice ’e is if ’e got you round the back of the pub on your own on a dark night!’

With the exception of Sunday, all the girls roared with laughter. Even Maureen joined in with a huge beam on her face, despite the fact that she hadn’t taken in a word of what anyone was talking about.

Sunday had a sinking feeling inside. She found it difficult to understand why everyone was being so unfair about the black man, who seemed to be no more troublesome than half the blokes she used to knock around with back home in Holloway Road. In fact, she’d trade Ernie Mancroft in for him any day of the week.

A few minutes later, Jinx, Ruthie, Maureen, and Sue made their way back to the barn for lunch, leaving Sunday and Sheil to follow on in their own time. Before they put down their shovels, the two girls watched the rapid progress of a V-2 rocket as it streaked across the gaps in the dismal grey sky, leaving in its wake a long thin trail of exhaust. Neither girl said anything. But they were both thinking a great deal. Thinking about the rocket’s final destination, and how many more people’s lives it would destroy.

After a moment or so, Sunday was the first to speak. ‘What will you do after the war, Sheil?’

Sheil hesitated a moment, then turned to look at her.
‘I
can’t fink that far ahead,’ she said. ‘I can only fink of today.’

‘Don’t you want to get married?’

Sheil grunted wryly. ‘I’m not the marryin’ type.’

‘Why not?’

Sheil looked away briefly, then turned back again. ‘Because the only man I ever loved was me bruvver.’

Sunday was more curious than shocked.

‘We used ter sleep in the same bed tergevver,’ she said, looking straight into Sunday’s eyes without any trace of anxiety or guilt. ‘We din’t do nuffin’ though – if yer know wot I mean. We just cuddled up tergevver, that’s all. ’E was a year younger than me. Got killed wiv me mum and dad in the bomb.’ She turned her eyes away to stare aimlessly across the horizon. ‘’E was a lovely feller. I miss ’im like ’ell.’

Sunday knew exactly what Sheil felt. She didn’t know how or why, only that she felt an affinity with this strange little creature, with her mousy hair that was short and uncared for, tiny breasts that were barely noticeable beneath her chunky knitted sweater, and wellington boots that were one size too big for her. There was something about Sheil that reminded Sunday of Pearl, about the close bond of friendship that had always existed between the two ‘Baggies’. Was it the grief she still felt, the loneliness, the despair of not having Pearl around any more to confide in? As she and Sheil stood together and felt the frosty air biting into their flushed cheeks, a large flock of green-and-white-coloured birds swooped down low and skimmed the field just ahead of them, finally coming to rest on a mutually agreed site where they immediately began the arduous task of beaking the muddy soil. Sunday couldn’t hear the strange little call they were all making, and had no idea what they were actually searching for. But, like herself and Sheil, she knew it had to be for something.