The Silent War (17 page)

On Saturday, Sunday had the afternoon off, so she
decided
to stroll down to the village shop and buy herself a new tablet of soap. Since she had arrived at the farm, she had got to know the shopkeeper, Ken Johnston, quite well. He was a lovely, rotund man, who seemed to have a perpetual smile on his face every time Sunday saw him. The only problem was that he had a moustache, and for one reason or another, Sunday found that difficult when trying to read his lips. Therefore, whenever Sunday came in to buy something, he usually had a few scraps of paper ready so that he could write down anything that she couldn’t understand. Sunday was always amazed whenever Ken failed to ask for her ration book, especially for soap, which had often been in short supply back in London during the war. But then, she soon got used to seeing more things available in Ken’s shop than she ever saw back home. In the countryside, people ate well.

‘So, ’ow d’you reckon you’ll make out with the
Ities
?’ asked Ken, ringing up the penny bar of soap on his till.

Sunday looked puzzled. What the hell did he mean?

As usual, Ken obliged, and scribbled down,
Italians. POWs
. Then he looked her straight in the face, and said, ‘I ’eard they’re bringin’ some of ’em over to your place on Tuesday.’

Sunday gradually understood, and nodded her head. ‘Good,’ she answered. ‘We could do with some help.’

‘Lazy lot though, them dagos. Got to keep an eye on ’em – if you know what I mean.’

Sunday did know what he meant, and because Ken was a bit of an ‘old woman’, it brought a smile to her face. ‘We’ll keep an eye on them all right, Mr Johnston,’ she replied. ‘No need to worry about that.’

Ken smiled back, delighted that he had mastered the art of communication without resorting to too much scribbling.

Sunday picked up her soap, slipped it into the pocket of her warm uniform topcoat, and turned to leave.

‘’Ang on a moment, Sunday,’ he called softly. Taking something out from beneath his counter, he came round and discreetly popped it into one of Sunday’s coat pockets. It was a one-ounce bar of plain chocolate. ‘Mum’s the word, eh, dear?’ He took a quick glance out through his shop window to make sure that he wasn’t under surveillance by M.I.5, then quickly returned behind the counter.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Johnston,’ said Sunday, who was really very touched by his gesture. ‘It’s very good of you.’

As soon as Sunday got outside the shop, it started to rain. Luckily, she had her umbrella with her, and as she rarely seemed to go anywhere these days without wellington boots, she wasn’t too worried about getting wet.

It was almost twenty minutes’ walk back to the farm, so she decided to take the short cut along a small back road that bordered the airbase. For Sunday, walking in the rain had now become a whole new experience. No longer could she hear the raindrops pelting down on to her umbrella, like the time when she went to listen to her mum playing in the band at the Salvation Army meeting. Even if there was thunder rumbling across the entire sky, she wouldn’t hear it. There was no longer any threat, no longer any menace. The momentary feeling of despair suddenly turned to anger, and in a fit of bitterness and rage she took down her umbrella, turned her eyes up towards the sky, and walked along with the rain pelting down on to her face.

Whilst she was hurrying along the narrow muddy path, the rain was driving down so hard that she could hardly see where she was going. Soon, a stream of water came rushing down the path against her wellington boots, and she had a struggle to keep her balance on the slippery mud. A thin veil of rain mist gradually covered the bare trees, and after a moment or so she couldn’t even see any of the USAF planes in front of their hangars in the
distance.
With her headscarf now saturated, she put up her umbrella again. But as she did so, she was unable to hear the rapid approach of a motor vehicle just turning round the bend on the path ahead of her.

There was a sudden screech of brakes, followed by the angry wail of a motor horn.

Sunday looked up, and just managed to dodge out of the way as the US Air Force jeep skidded in the mud alongside her.

‘You stupid broad!’

The young airman who leapt out of the jeep looked as though he was going to hit Sunday. But his outburst was caused more by anxiety than anger.

‘Don’t you ever look where you’re goin’? You could’ve been killed stone-dead!’

With both of them now soaked to the skin, Sunday just stared at the airman with total disinterest.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, for Chrissake! Say somethin’!’

Sunday had no idea what he was ranting on about. All she could see was a face distorted in anger. So she decided it was safer to ignore him, and continue on her way.

The young airman watched her go in sheer disbelief. There he was, practically up to his knees in mud, rain soaking his cap and uniform, and she just walked on as though she had nothing to do with the whole darned thing.

‘Goddamn Limey!’ he yelled. Then he got back into his jeep, slammed the door, and started to move off. Unfortunately, however, the wheels were now stuck in the mud.

By this time, Sunday was well on her way back to the farm. She didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder at the hotheaded airman who had nearly knocked her down.

‘Stupid Yanks!’ she said to herself. ‘Think they own the country!’

24 November 1944

Dear Sunday, You may or may not be interested to know that your poor mum has been injured by a V-2 rocket that fell on a pub up near Hackney.

Aunt Louie’s scribbled note shocked Sunday. For the past week or so, she had suspected that something was wrong, for, since she left home her mum had written to her twice a week, but during the last week she had heard nothing. So, once she had got Jinx to clear compassionate leave with Farmer Cloy, she was back on the village bus to Braintree, and then the train to Liverpool Street.

During the journey, Sunday imagined all the worst possible things that might have happened to her mum. Every day the newspapers were full of reports about V-2s dropping on all parts of London, and despite the insistence that casualties were light, she knew only too well what it was like to be buried alive in falling debris from one of those devastating explosions.

Doll Mooney was the first person Sunday saw as she entered the backyard of ‘the Buildings’. And, as usual, Doll was full of high drama and pessimism. ‘I don’t know ’ow we survive, ’onest I don’t,’ she said, trying to keep an eye on her two eldest kids who were making snowballs from the first light fall of the winter. ‘I tell yer, Sun, I’m sick of it. One minute they tell us the war’s practically over, and then all of a sudden these bleedin’ rocket things start it all over again.’ Then she wiped her running nose
with
one finger, and asked gloomily, ‘Did yer ’ear about the one that came down on Smiffield Market? Loads er people copped it, poor devils. Terrible!’

Luckily, Sunday hadn’t taken in half of what she had been saying, for most of the time Doll had forgotten to let Sunday lip-read.

A few minutes later, Sunday had climbed the stone steps, and was letting herself into the flat with her own key. What she found inside was hardly what she had been expecting.

‘Sunday! Oh . . . oh . . . Sunday!’

Madge was out of her chair at the tea table in a flash, and throwing her arms around Sunday in a warm, tight embrace. ‘Oh, my dear, dear little girl!’ she whimpered, over and over again, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘I’ve missed you so much. Let me look at you.’

She stood back to look at Sunday, her eyes streaked with tears. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. They said on the wireless it’s the coldest winter in fifty years. Is your bed warm? Have you been wearing enough clothes?’

‘I’m all right, Mum,’ said Sunday, embarrassed by the fuss, and surprised to find the old lady looking so well, with only a few signs of cuts and bruises. Once again, Aunt Louie had exaggerated. But the moment Sunday had entered the parlour, her attention had been drawn to the elderly man who had got up from his seat at the tea table.

‘Oh – I’m sorry, dear,’ said Madge, only just realising that she hadn’t introduced her visitor. ‘This is a very good friend of mine – Mr Billings.’ She turned to the grey-haired man still standing by the table, and held out her hand towards him. ‘Stan,’ she said rather shyly. ‘This is my daughter, Sunday.’

Mr Billings came across, and shook hands with Sunday. ‘Lovely ter meet yer, young lady,’ he said, making quite sure Sunday could see his tongue and lips moving. ‘Yer mum’s told me so much about yer.’

Sunday tried hard to smile, but she found it difficult. All she could bring herself to say was, ‘Hallo.’

‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home, dear?’ asked Madge uneasily. ‘I’d have got things ready.’

Sunday felt odd, a mixture of hurt and resentment. ‘Aunt Louie wrote that you’d been injured in a rocket explosion up at Hackney.’

Madge sighed. ‘Oh dear. Auntie shouldn’t have done that. We were having a Bible meeting in the local Army Hall. But it was several streets away. I just got a little shook up, that’s all.’

‘Actually, yer mum was very brave,’ interrupted Mr Billings. ‘All the windows blew in. She was blown off her feet, poor thing.’

‘Don’t be silly, Stan,’ said Madge. ‘I was perfectly all right.’

For some reason or other, Sunday felt all twisted up inside. It was partly because she felt excluded from something, as though her mum had been carrying on with this man behind her back, just like Aunt Louie had told her. It was also because she had never met him before, and certainly couldn’t remember ever having seen him up at the Salvation Army Hall in Highbury.

‘Anyway, let’s all have a nice cup of tea,’ said Madge, before making her way back to the table to collect the teapot. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

‘Don’t bother about me, Madge. I’ll be on me way,’ said Mr Billings, picking up his trilby hat from the sofa. ‘You two’ve got a lot ter talk about.’

Madge looked disappointed. ‘Oh, are you sure, Stan?’ she asked, as she went across to him.

For a brief moment, Sunday felt guilty. After all, the man had done nothing wrong. He had every right to like her mum, even fancy her if he wanted. In fact, Sunday found Mr Billings quite a likeable old chap. He had a kind, cheery face, and the most beautiful head of white hair she had ever seen on a man of his age.

‘I ’ope I see yer again, young lady,’ said Mr Billings, once more shaking hands with Sunday. ‘You’re like yer mum all right – oh yes, no doubt about that. Strong as an
ox
too, I bet – especially after all you’ve been through. Gord bless yer, Sunday.’

After Sunday had shaken hands with him, she was surprised to see him lean across and peck her mum on the cheek. Again, she felt a twinge of resentment.

‘God bless you, Stan,’ said Madge, opening the front door for him. After he had left, she called-down the stairs, ‘See you soon.’

Before her mum had returned from the outside landing, Sunday picked up her small holdall, and went into her own bedroom. It was an odd feeling for her to be back home again. Nothing had changed. Her room was exactly the same as the day she had gone away, including a magazine she had left open at the side of her bed, and a packet of hairpins she had left behind on the pillow. It was as if she had died, and Madge had just wanted to leave everything intact. And that was how Sunday felt at this precise moment, as though she was coming back from the dead. The flat seemed to feel even smaller than she remembered it, with that overpowering smell of carbolic everywhere, and the three mantles of the gas fire in the fireplace with their flickering blue flames. Sitting on the edge of her bed and looking around, she couldn’t believe that she had slept in this same place all her life. Although she had only been away from home for a matter of weeks, living in the countryside had spoilt her. There she could breathe and move around as free as the wind itself.

She turned with a start as she felt her mum’s hand on her shoulder.

‘Oh, Sunday,’ said Madge, ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have you home again. I knew it was wrong for you to leave like that. I knew you only did it to run away from all the suffering you’ve had to endure.’

Still perched on the edge of the bed, Sunday looked straight up into Madge’s eyes. ‘I’ve not come home for good, Mum,’ she said, articulating her words slowly and with precision. ‘I’m only staying a day or so.’

Madge’s face crumpled up.

Sunday got up from the bed, and faced her. ‘You’ve got to understand something, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’m not the same person you used to know, the same person I used to be before – before what happened to me.’

She went to the window and looked out. In the backyard of ‘the Buildings’ below, she could just make out the tiny figure of Mr Billings slowly making his way out towards the Holloway Road gate. From this height, he seemed such a vulnerable old thing.

‘I need to do things,’ she continued. ‘I need to work things out in my own way – even if I make mistakes. I don’t want to be deaf for the rest of my life, Mum. I want to be able to hear the sounds of life again – all kinds of life. Dogs barking, people talking, rain pelting down on my umbrella, traffic in the road, birds on the trees, Doll Mooney yelling at her kids. I want to listen to
I.T.M.A
. on the wireless, and the bands and the singing. I won’t ever believe that I’ll never hear again. It’s not as though I was born this way. I know what it’s like to hear all those things, and I want them back. Why me, Mum? It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.’

Madge could feel her heart breaking. But just as she was about to move towards Sunday and throw her arms around her, Sunday suddenly swung around to look directly into her eyes.

‘Mum,’ she said tensely. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Stan Billings?’

Madge was taken aback.

‘You’ve been seeing him for a long time, yet you’ve never really talked about him to me. Why not?’

‘He’s only a friend, Sunday.’

‘A boyfriend?’

Madge was now embarrassed. ‘Stan is nearly seventy-four, Sunday,’ she spluttered. ‘I’m seventy-two.’