The Silent War (37 page)

Sunday had deliberately not gone to Ridgewell Airbase to see the departure of Gary’s Air Force transport plane. Knowing that she might never see him again was pain enough, and to have to watch his plane disappear up into the huge white clouds was more than she could bear. That was why at ten o’clock in the morning, at the precise time that Gary’s flight was due to take off, she made quite sure that she was doing work inside the chicken house where she was able to cut herself off from what was taking place on the runway less than a mile away.

Sunday had got to know quite a lot about Gary during their final weekend together at Thorpe Bay. Not only did she discover that, during his savage fight with Ernie on the beach, he possessed far more physical strength than she had imagined, but he also confessed to writing one short poem every day of his life, as a kind of diary. He even managed to capture a moment of that drama on the
beach
in a few lines which he had scribbled down on the back of an old envelope:

Times past, times present, and times still to come,

Love, fight, cry, we all are one.

I knew the kid was wrong, but how could I be right

To test my feelings’ love in a senseless fight?

Can love have an enemy that it is forced to bruise?

I’ll hold on to that love, a love I shall not lose.

However, when Sunday told Gary that she didn’t really understand poetry because she had never read any, he answered by telling her that she should never close her mind to any experience, and that included learning to talk with sign language.

Knowing that Gary was no longer around was clearly going to leave a gap in Sunday’s life that she would find hard to accept.

Sunday’s decision to leave the Women’s Land Army had been accepted by the authorities, mainly on the grounds of her disability, but also because she had been a volunteer and not a conscript. Even so, it wasn’t easy for her to say goodbye to the girls at Cloy’s Farm, for over the past six months they had become such a part of her life. In any case, she had come to hate goodbyes. Ever since she had been injured in the flying bomb explosion back at Briggs Bagwash, it had been nothing else. First it was Pearl, then young Ronnie Cloy, then Erin and Jinx, and now Gary. From beginning to end, the war had hurt deeply.

Sunday finally left Ridgewell after a tearful farewell with the other girls at Cloy’s Farm. She was particularly sad to leave Maureen, the deaf and dumb girl whose sunny and cheerful nature had been such an inspiration, and the epileptic Ruthie, who often made her laugh by shaking her fist in anger at the sky every time she saw the vapour trail of a V-1 or V-2 rocket. But Sunday also knew that she was going to miss toffee-nosed Sue from
Birmingham,
with her disapproving ways and endless games of one-upmanship, and Sheil, strange disoriented Sheil, who showed every sign of remaining inside her shell for the rest of her life. Although all of them promised to meet up again one day, when Mr Barnes, the local taximan, arrived to collect Sunday and her baggage, the wrench she felt was unbearable, and she cried all the way to Great Yeldham. However, it wasn’t until she was on the train to Liverpool Street, that she managed to pluck up enough courage to open Sheil’s parting gift. It turned out to be what Sunday herself had asked for, a small, coloured crayon sketch.

It was of the red house across the fields, young Ronnie Cloy’s favourite view.

‘Have you heard about Hitler? Killed himself! In his bunker – in Berlin. Good riddance to bad rubbish say I!’

Aunt Louie was not renowned for her subtlety, but she was a great one for reading out newspaper headlines.

‘Sounds like that Eva Braun woman was with him. The Russians say their flesh was all burnt-up.’

‘Please, Louie!’ gasped Madge, who found the description distasteful. ‘I don’t want to hear all that terrible talk when we’re trying to have supper. Besides, Sunday’s only just got home. We should be celebrating.’

‘Well, I’m not celebrating ’til the war’s over,’ sniffed Louie, indignantly. ‘Not ’til they’ve got the whole damn lot of them – Goering, Goebbels, Himmler!’

‘It’s all over bar the shouting,’ said Madge, irritably, whilst trying to serve up mashed potatoes with the Spam fritters and dried peas. ‘We’ve waited this long, we must just be patient.’

Sunday hadn’t been watching either her mum’s or her aunt’s lips, so she had no idea what either had been saying. All she knew was that she found it deeply depressing to be home again. As much as she loved her home, the moment she walked through the front
door
and saw the warm afternoon sun creeping into the front parlour, she felt as though she was being shut away in a cell, and that her real ‘home’ was back there in the fields of Essex. On top of that, every time her Aunt Louie opened her mouth, it was like a red rag to a bull, and even her poor old mum’s over-loving care was getting her down. All this and she had only been back at ‘the Buildings’ for less than two hours.

‘It’s good to have you home again, Sunday,’ said Madge, once they had all settled down to the meal. ‘I can’t tell you how much we’ve missed you. Isn’t that true, Louie?’

Louie pretended she hadn’t heard, and started cutting up her Spam fritters.

‘I’ve missed you too, Mum,’ replied Sunday, who felt awful to know that she didn’t mean it.

‘We’ve been so proud of you, doing your bit for the war, despite everything you’ve been through. Anyway, I’ve cleaned out your room from top to bottom. You’ll know the difference from having to sleep with a whole lot of other girls.’

Sunday smiled weakly and tried to swallow some mashed potato. If only her mum knew how she already yearned to be back at the barn, sharing her room with her friends.

‘Not much to come back to, this place!’ said Louie, with her mouth full of Spam fritter. ‘Men sleeping with other people’s wives all the time. It’s disgusting!’

If she had been blessed with longer legs, Madge would have kicked her sister’s foot under the table. ‘Don’t be so coarse, Louie,’ she said. ‘Doll and Joe must sort out their own problems. It’s none of our business.’

‘Joe Mooney’s just like every other man,’ snapped Louie. ‘He’s sex-mad, and has no right to treat his wife and kids like that. As far as I’m concerned, that
is
our business.’

This time, Sunday had managed to read her aunt’s lips.
‘Why
do you hate men so much, Auntie?’ she asked quite briskly.

Louie was caught off guard by her niece’s sharp question. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t say I hated men.’

‘No, but that’s what you meant,’ Sunday quietly insisted. ‘Some women behave badly too. I know I do sometimes.’

This remark prompted Madge to take a sly look at Sunday over the top of her thin-framed, oyster-shell spectacles.

‘I wasn’t talking about you.’ And without turning to look at Madge, Louie added, ‘I was talking about married people who have to go around with other married people.’

Madge ignored her sister’s pointed remark.

‘Even Jack Popwell’s got himself a floosie.’

‘Louie!’ snapped Madge. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say. Ivy Westcliff is a nice, respectable woman. She’s a widow and Jack’s a widower. They’re entitled to some companionship if they want it.’

‘Yes,’ snorted Louie, her back straightening as she ate. ‘Provided that’s
all
they want.’

For some reason, Aunt Louie’s remark amused Sunday, who asked provocatively, ‘Tell me, Auntie. D’you think it’s wrong for people to sleep together before they get married?’

Louie straightened her back even more. ‘I certainly do!’

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Sunday replied mischievously. ‘I’ve done it lots of times.’

Louie nearly choked on a forkful of peas, whilst Madge pretended that she hadn’t heard anything.

Luckily, a difficult scene was avoided when a sparrow suddenly flew into the room through the wide-open window, and flapped all around the place in panic. This gave Madge a welcome opportunity to leap up from the table.

By this time, Louie, who was terrified of birds, was shielding her hair with both hands and screaming her head off. ‘That’s Jack Popwell!’ she yelled hysterically. ‘He’s been feeding them out on his windowsill again!’ She screamed out in panic as the poor, terrified little creature dive-bombed her across the table and shot right past her.

There was a huge grin on Sunday’s face as she watched the drama, and when Madge finally persuaded the sparrow to escape out through the window again, she felt quite sad. In many ways, Sunday envied the small creature’s successful dash for freedom.

The redbrick walls of ‘the Buildings’ were bathed in the magnificent dazzling light of morning sunshine, and as she made her way across the back yard, Sunday thought that the place had never looked better. She wasn’t sure whether this had anything to do with the buzz of excitement about the imminent end of the war, or because the residents she saw standing around in their usual small groups were actually laughing and joking with one another. Whatever it was, however, the atmosphere had been completely transformed from the last time she was home.

Sunday had no idea what she was going to do with her life. It was one thing giving up her job in the Women’s Land Army, but quite a different matter when it came to thinking about the future. On her first morning after returning home, her immediate inclination was to call on Bess, but aware that her old mate had only just got to bed after a night’s ‘work’, she decided to take a stroll.

Holloway Road had suddenly come back to life. Ever since the threat of further V-bomb attacks had subsided, an air of confidence had returned and even though it was only a weekday, the shops were crowded with people, the windows had lost their protective sticky tape, and nobody was bothering to glance up anxiously at the sky.

Unfortunately, however, the happy mood amongst the
shoppers
was not matched by the window displays, for there were obvious signs of shortages everywhere. Sunday was convinced that some of the old-fashioned knee-length dresses in Jones Brothers’ window had been there for months, and the so-called two-piece ‘high fashion’ women’s suits in Selby’s were so drab they could have been made for the inmates of Holloway Prison. And what about those prices! What a nerve! The brightest place was the good old ‘threepenny and sixpenny’ Woolworth’s store, but even there Sunday found it pretty hard to find much for threepence or sixpence. But at the Nag’s Head, she was thrilled to see a man selling ice-cream from his barrow again, and as the sun was beginning to hot up, she promptly bought herself a penny cornet.

When she stopped outside the poor old Gaumont Cinema, Sunday found the place in a pretty sorry state. Following the ‘doodlebug’ explosion there the previous year, every entrance and exit of the once beautiful tile-fronted building was now boarded up, and local thugs had desecrated the faded and torn film posters with a whole lot of stupid messages. Feeling despondent, she decided to make her way home. But, just as she was about to do so, in the distance she suddenly caught sight of Doll Mooney hurrying towards her from the Upper Holloway end of the road, bumping little Josie up and down in her pushchair on the way.

Doll didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when she eventually reached Sunday, and threw her arms around her. ‘Oh, Sun!’ she spluttered, having forgotten that Sunday needed to read her lips to know what she was saying. ‘It’s wonderful ter see yer again, girl! I don’t know why it is, but you’ve been on me mind now ever since yer joined up.’ Finally, she remembered to face Sunday. ‘’Ow are yer, girl? ’Ome fer good now, I ’ope?’

Sunday smiled and nodded.

‘Isn’t it wonderful ter fink it’s nearly all over? I can ’ardly believe it! They say Jerry might give in by the end
of
the week. Mind you, I’ll believe that when I see it, but oh, Jesus, it’ll be so good ter start gettin’ our lives sorted out again.’

Sunday decided it wasn’t worth saying anything, because Doll was chatting so fast she was hardly coming up for breath.

‘Can’t buy a flag, yer know. All gone! I walked all up Seven Sisters and Holloway Road yesterday, and I couldn’t even buy a small Union Jack. All they ’ad left was a Chinese one or somefink. I ask yer, who wants ter put up a Chinese flag!’

‘How’s Joe, Doll?’ Knowing how things were between Doll and her husband, Sunday hesitated about mentioning his name, but then thought it better to get it over and done with as soon as possible.

‘No idea, love,’ Doll replied, shoving little Josie’s dummy back into the child’s mouth. ‘’Aven’t seen ’im since last Tuesday. Gone to his uvver bed in Stepney, I reckon.’

Sunday was amazed by Doll’s indifference to her husband’s infidelity.

‘But, don’t you miss him, Doll?’ Sunday asked tentatively.

‘Oh no, love,’ Doll replied firmly. ‘After all, what the eye don’t see the ’eart don’t miss. I’ve just taken Josie ter see ’er grandma, up Thorpedale Road. She says if Joe’s old man was still alive, ’e’d bash the daylights out of ’im. But I told ’er there’s no use worryin’. Joe’ll be back when ’e’s good and ready.’

Sunday shook her head. She was bewildered by Doll’s attitude.

‘It don’t do no good,’ said Doll, becoming more serious. ‘This bleedin’ war’s turned a lot of people’s ’eads. Joe’s like a bleedin’ sex machine. If I’d known what ’e was goin’ ter be like when we got married, I might’ve fawt again. But then—’ She sighed and tried to retie the ribbon holding her hair together on the top of her head. ‘When yer fink of what might
’appen
ter some people, like that poor woman in number seven—’

Sunday’s eyes widened immediately. ‘Number seven?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Yes. Mrs Butler,’ replied Doll. ‘Now I don’t hold with – well, you know, the way she carries on an’ all that. But I’d ’ate ter fink anyfin’s ’appened to ’er.’

Sunday was going out of her mind. ‘Doll!’ she snapped. ‘What are you talking about? What’s happened to Bess Butler?’

‘Din’t yer mum tell yer? Everyone in “the Buildin’s” talkin’ about it. Poor soul – she’s gone missin’.’

Alf Butler showed Sunday into his parlour, which smelt of sweat, stale boiled cabbage, and fish. The flat was virtually in darkness, with the only light coming from a forty-watt bulb in the standard lamp at the side of the sofa.