The Silent War (39 page)

Sunday decided to make her way back to ‘the Buildings’ via Hornsey Road. Although she couldn’t hear any of the endless parties that were still going on in nearby Kinloch Street, light was streaming out of open windows everywhere, as if in a final act of defiance to the long years of blackout.

When she had reached as far as Charlie Brend’s sweet-shop, she stopped for a few moments to look at the darkened window with its huge V-sign picked out in white sticky tape. But as she did so, she suddenly realised that her own face was reflected there. Luckily, there was still a semblance of vanity left inside her, so she reached up with her hands to ruffle her shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair. It was at that moment that she felt the real pangs of despair. Despair about her lack of direction, about not having Gary around to love and caress her, no Jinx or Pearl to confide in, and a home-life that was in danger of totally overwhelming her with cosiness. Unable to bear looking at her reflection any longer, she closed her eyes tight and thought of Gary, and of how he and his buddies would be celebrating the end of the war in Europe. Then she thought of Jinx and her forthcoming baby, and her mates at Cloy’s Farm, and what they would
all
be getting up to on this one extraordinary night of their lives. Then she thought of her mum. And she tensed.

‘Mrs Butler is nothing to do with us, Sunday.’

With her eyes still tightly closed, Sunday could vividly picture her mum’s face, cold and taut, as she struggled to answer Sunday’s awkward question.

‘I don’t know why she’s gone missing. She led a very secret life. I’m not surprised this has happened.’

Sunday hated the way her mum was talking about Bess as though she was already dead. ‘What
has
happened, Mum?’ she had asked. ‘What d’you know about it all?’

‘I only know that God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.’

This had been the moment when, for the first time in her life, Sunday had seen her mum in a totally different light. She had always known how devoted to Salvation Army life her mum had been, but in these last months that devotion had become an obsession. ‘
God moves in mysterious ways
’? How could she say such a thing when by now Bess Butler could be lying in a back alley somewhere with her throat slit? Where was God’s love now, where was His compassion?

‘All we can do now for Mrs Butler is to pray, pray for her soul, pray for forgiveness. Most of all, we must pray for her husband, and give God’s thanks for this poor man’s tolerance.’

The image of Madge Collins’s tight little lips forming a small circle as she spoke filled Sunday with despair and disbelief. The more she could see her, the more she wanted to know what was lurking behind the mask of the woman she had always known as her adopted mum.

Sunday’s eyes suddenly sprang open, and she found herself staring straight at the reflection in Charlie Brend’s shop window. But in her mind’s eye, it wasn’t the reflection of her own face that she could see.

It was of Bess Butler.

My very own Sunday,

Oh Jesus, I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you! Ever since I got here, I’ve thought of nothing and no one but you.

Gary’s first letter came like a bolt out of the blue, and it sent Sunday into raptures. She hadn’t expected to hear from him ever again, and even to touch the very paper that he had written on made her feel as though she was being held in his arms.

The flight back was hell! Forty of us guys locked up in this broken-down transporter, and hardly enough chow to keep us going for more than ten minutes. I tell you, Sun, it made me wish I was back there eating with you at the good old British Restaurant in Halstead – yeah,
even
the British Restaurant!

Sunday read the letter over and over again. She loved it most of all because Gary wrote about everything he could think of, and that included a description of his new colonel, who, until recently, had been assigned to General MacArthur’s command in South-east Asia. She was also especially interested to learn that Gary had been given forty-eight hours’ furlough, which he used for a quick visit home to his folks back in Whitefish, Montana.

Told Ma all about you.
Everything
about you. She said you sounded pretty good. I said
pretty
good? Sunday is sensational! Anyway, both she and Pops are looking forward to meeting you, my sister Jane, too. Once we get the rest of this war over, I’ll be back to kidnap you!

It was only when Gary mentioned ‘the rest of this war’, that she remembered that although it was all over in Europe, there were still the Japanese to contend with. For a moment or so, that brought a sinking feeling inside her stomach, for she hoped that, after all Gary had been through, the war for him would now be over. But by the time she had read eighteen pages of Gary’s handwriting, she felt so cheered, it gave her the determination to think positively. And after she had kissed his scrawled signature on the last page, she was thrilled to see that there was still more to come.

PS Hope you’re keeping up with the sign-talking.

Don’t let me down now!

PPS Some lines from Keats (he’s a Brit, like you!)

just so’s you know that I’m mad about you!

I cannot look on any budding flower,

But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,

And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour

Its sweet in the wrong sense:– Thou dost eclipse

Every delight with sweet remembering,

And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.

Don’t forget me, Sun!

Sunday hadn’t been to the Royal Northern Hospital since she was an outpatient at the Ear, Nose, and Throat Clinic. But her letter from Gary had spurred her into making an appointment with the Rehabilitation Officer, in the hope that she could receive some guidance about future career prospects. She knew it wasn’t going to be an easy time to look for work, for now that the war in Europe was over, demobilisation was going to be a top priority for servicemen who were anxious to return to their old jobs. It was also not going to be easy to place someone who was so severely disabled.

Helen Gallop, the ENT Rehabilitation Officer, turned
out
not only to be very helpful, but she also had one or two friends who lived in ‘the Buildings’.

‘First of all,’ she asked, using lips and hands, ‘how’ve you been getting on with your sign language?’

Sunday demonstrated by answering with both lips and clear and precise signs, ‘Difficult. But I’m doing my best.’

‘Excellent! Splendid!’ replied Helen. As the temperature was in the eighties outside, she had a small electric fan on the filing cabinet behind her, which helped her to cope with the perspiration on her forehead, which she wiped frequently with her handkerchief. ‘You’ve obviously had a good teacher.’

Sunday had liked Helen on sight, because she was not much older than herself, and, unlike some people Sunday had come across, hadn’t treated her like some kind of freak.

Helen took off her spectacles, and put them down on to the small desk in front of her. ‘What sort of work would you like to do most of all, Sunday?’ she asked.

Sunday shrugged her shoulders.

‘No idea at all?’ asked Helen.

Again, Sunday shrugged her shoulders. ‘I had no idea that I was going to be deaf for the rest of my life.’

‘What did you want to be – before what happened to you?’

‘I wanted to teach dancing.’

Helen’s face lit up into a bright smile. ‘Really?’ She got up and brought the electric fan across to her desk so that Sunday could feel its benefit too. ‘What kind of dancing?’

‘Anything. Dance-hall stuff, I suppose.’

‘Marvellous!’ Helen said. ‘If that’s what you want to do, you should do it.’

Sunday sat up straight in her chair. ‘Pardon?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t teach dance if that’s what you want to do.’

Sunday thought she hadn’t understood properly, so, looking a bit taken aback, she asked, ‘How?’

The office was small and airless, and Helen sipped from a glass of water before continuing. ‘Do you like children?’ she asked, with both lips and hands.

Sunday, puzzled, thought a moment. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Why?’

Helen perched on the edge of her desk. ‘Teaching children can be quite rewarding. Especially children like yourself.’

Sunday was now even more puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Deaf children, Sunday. There’s a school for deaf children in Drayton Park where you could be a great help.’

The word ‘deaf’ upset Sunday. ‘But I’m no teacher,’ she answered.

‘You don’t have to be. They’re all quite young – mostly nursery age. All you have to do is to be with them, and be their friend.’ Then she added pointedly, ‘Teaching them how to dance would be a wonderful thing. It would be a way to show them that they’re no different from anyone else.’

Sunday hesitated. It seemed such a crazy thing to ask her to do. And yet, wasn’t that exactly what Gary had done for her back at the Base Christmas Dance? He gave her the confidence and determination to carry it through, and she did it.

‘What d’you say?’ asked Helen, eagerly awaiting Sunday’s response. ‘Think it’s worth a try?’

Sunday hesitated briefly, then nodded her head.

Helen broke into a broad grin. ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing Sunday’s shoulder. ‘The pay’s not much, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll be doing something really worthwhile.’ She got up from perching on the corner of her desk, and returned to her seat. ‘Whatever happens, I promise you you’ll not regret it.’

A few minutes later, Helen walked Sunday out towards
the
hospital reception. Before Sunday left, they stopped briefly.

‘By the way,’ said Helen, feeling confident enough to know that Sunday could understand her rather fast sign language. ‘What’s all this I hear about Ernie Mancroft?’

Sunday did a double-take. ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked rather tentatively.

‘One of my friends in “the Buildings” told me about what happened down at Thorpe Bay. Is it true he was picked up by the Army, absent without leave?’

Sunday nodded warily.

‘Then how come the court martial found him not guilty?’

Piccadilly Circus was looking very different from the last time Sunday had been there. Clearly VE Day had injected new life into the place, for people were milling about in the hot May sunshine, more cars and taxis were circling the boarded-up Eros site, and more neon signs such as GREYS TEA and GORDON’S GIN had joined the illustrious legends of BOVRIL and SCHWEPPES TONIC WATER.

When Sunday came up the steps of Piccadilly Circus Underground Station, the afternoon heat hit her like a steaming kettle, and she was glad that she had worn only a flimsy cotton dress instead of her well-worn lemon-coloured blouse and dark brown slacks. The pavements in Coventry Street were burning-hot, and she was not to know that behind her, in the Circus itself, some crank was trying to fry an egg on the steps below Eros.

Although it had been a couple of days since she’d had her interview with Helen Gallop, the news about Ernie Mancroft was still haunting her. How could he possibly have been let off by the Military Court who had tried him? Not only had he been AWOL, but he had stalked her right out to Ridgewell and Thorpe Bay, and also made an unprovoked attack on Gary. She was scared, really
scared
. If Ernie came looking for her again, he could be out to kill her.

But at this moment, her mind was on other things. Bess Butler was still missing, and something had to be done about it. That was why she had returned to the West End, to seek out some of Bess’s old haunts, to try to find some clue. In Sunday’s mind it just wasn’t possible for someone like Bess to disappear without trace. Someone must have seen her somewhere, sometime, and if they were hiding her, there had to be a reason.

At Rainbow Corner, the usual groups of girls were hanging around the main entrance. Sunday thought some of them looked younger than ever, despite the fact that they had tried to disguise their age by plastering their faces with thick, greasy make-up. After a few minutes of sizing them up from a respectable distance, she decided whom she would approach first.

‘Excuse me,’ Sunday said, hoping that the young teenage girl with black hair piled on top of her head could understand her fractured speech. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Aren’t we all,’ replied the girl, acidly, resentful that Sunday was trying to move in on her ‘pitch’.

‘You don’t understand,’ Sunday continued. ‘I’m looking for my friend. She – works around here. Older than you.’

‘Look, mate,’ snapped the girl, pulling on a fag and leaving thick lipstick on it. ‘If you’re tryin’ ter muscle in, I’ll scratch yer bleedin’ eyes out! Just bugger off!’

Sunday was not going to be intimidated. ‘Her name’s Bess. Bess Butler.’

The girl cringed visibly. ‘Don’t know ’er!’

‘But she’s often ’round here. Every night. Please, if you’ve seen her—’

‘I said, I don’t know ’er!’

Another girl, a redhead, joined them. She was older than the girl Sunday had approached, and with all the signs of quite a paunch, she had clearly had to squeeze
into
her above-the-knee, skin-tight dress. ‘What’s up, Jeannie?’ she asked.

‘Ask ’
er
!’ snapped the first girl, who hurriedly walked away.

Sunday spoke quickly. ‘I’m trying to find my friend. She’s gone missing, hasn’t been seen for nearly three weeks. You must have seen her.
Somebody
must have seen her.’

‘Wot’s she like?’ asked the redhead.

‘Not very tall, dark curly hair, beautiful bluish-grey eyes.’

‘Tits?’

Sunday was taken aback. ‘Pardon?’

‘What’re ’er tits like!’ the redhead snapped impatiently.

Sunday was embarrassed, but answered confidently, ‘Very full. Please. Can you help me? I
must
find her.’

The redhead hesitated for a moment before answering. She spent a second or so sizing Sunday up. ‘Tell me somefink,’ she said. ‘You deaf?’