The Silent War (41 page)

‘I am not talking about the Blitz, Mrs Mooney,’ replied Louie, rather condescendingly. ‘I am referring to what this Prime Minister would do to help working-class people earn a decent living. For instance, what would he do about setting up a Public Health Service?’

‘I think a Health Service is a very bad idea,’ said Jack, rather dangerously. ‘I mean, where’s the money coming from?’

‘From the rich, of course!’ snapped Louie. ‘God knows
they’ve
made enough money out of the war – one way or another!’

‘Don’t be silly now, Louie,’ said Madge, embarrassed by her sister’s simplistic opinions. ‘I’m in favour of a Health Service too, but whoever the Government is, they won’t find it easy to fund it.’

By now, people all over ‘the Buildings’ were hanging out of their windows listening to the rumpus going on down below. Everyone was moving their lips far too fast for Sunday, who found it almost impossible to understand what anyone was saying. But as she watched the heated exchanges, she couldn’t bear the tense looks on people’s faces, the way they screwed up their noses or glared at their opponent in rage or indignation. To her, it seemed incredible that just a few weeks ago these same people had been laughing and dancing with each other during the VE Day celebrations. What was it about politics that changed people from human beings into opinionated monsters? Sunday was glad that she was still too young to vote.

‘Anyway,’ said Doll, still trying to calm little Josie, ‘they’ve been talkin’ about an ’Ealth Service fer years. There’s no way we’re goin’ ter get one.’

‘Doll’s right, ma!’ called a man from the back of the group. ‘The Tories are goin’ ter sweep in next week. That’s the last you’ll ’ear about it.’

Louie swung round angrily on the man. ‘Have you read this morning’s
Daily Herald
by any chance?’ she called.

‘No, ma. I don’t read the papers. It’s bad fer me eyesight!’

‘For your information,’ growled Louie above the gales of laughter all around her, ‘the
Daily Herald
is predicting a landslide for Labour. Mr Attlee will have a clear majority.
Then
you’ll have a Public Health Service. Then people like my sister will be able to afford to have their phlebitis cured!’

This brought jeers from around the yard.

Madge was furious with her sister’s remark, and without saying a word, she quickly left the group. Sunday watched her go, then followed her. Her Aunt Louie had brought her attention back to something that she had been noticing for some time. It was that her mum was now walking with a very definite limp.

After Madge and Sunday had disappeared into the block, Louie held the stage for as long as she could. To a hail of jeers, and sometimes applause, she took issue with everything that Jack Popwell, Doll Mooney, or anyone else challenged her with. But when she asked Joe Mooney for his opinion, the only support she got from him was, ‘Sorry. I’m a Paddy. I’m not allowed opinions.’

Sunday had never seen her mum so angry. The moment Aunt Louie returned to the flat, Madge’s lips practically spat out the words at her: ‘You had no right to humiliate me like that! My ailments are to do with me and no one else! You have no right to tell everyone in these buildings that I’m suffering from phlebitis!’

‘So what if I did?’ Louie retorted. ‘For weeks now you’ve been in pain, and that doctor’s done nothing to help you.’

For once, Sunday was able to read her aunt’s lips. ‘Is this true, Mum?’ she said anxiously, turning to Madge. ‘
Are
you in pain?’

‘No more than millions of people all over the place,’ Madge replied. ‘But it’s got nothing to do with –
her
!’

Louie ignored her, took out a rolled cigarette from her tobacco tin, and sat at the parlour table.

‘What exactly
is
this – phlebitis?’ Sunday asked.

Madge was suddenly very irritated to be cross-examined by her daughter. ‘It’s one of the veins in my leg – got a bit inflamed, that’s all. It’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’

‘But you
have
been to see the doctor?’ persisted Sunday.

‘Yes, of course I have.’

‘And what does he say?’

Madge sighed irritably. ‘He rubbed some zinc ointment on my leg and wrapped it up with an elastic bandage.’

‘Ha!’ Louie snorted dismissively. ‘Fat lot of good that’s done!’

Madge immediately turned on her sister. ‘Oh you know so much, don’t you, Louie? You’re such an expert on absolutely everything.’

‘I know that if we had a Public Health Service, this sort of thing would have been cleared up long ago.’

‘Politics again!’ said Madge, sitting down on the sofa, and stretching out her troublesome leg. ‘That’s all you ever think about.’

Although Sunday had a hard time trying to work out what was being said in the angry exchange between her mum and Aunt Louie, she decided that as the conversation was reverting back to politics, she would go off to the kitchen and make a cup of tea.

Whilst she was waiting for the kettle to boil, Sunday had a lot to mull over in her mind. So this is why her mum hadn’t been involved in any of her Salvation Army activities in recent weeks. This is why she had spent so much time at home with her legs stretched out on the sofa. She had clearly been in pain and was doing her best to keep it from everyone. But there was more to it than that. For instance, what had happened to her mum over these past few months? Why had she suddenly become so different from that placid little woman she had known all her life? But most curious of all was the way in which Madge was behaving towards her sister Louie. Ever since
Sunday
could remember, her mum had been protective of Aunt Louie, and would never allow anyone, including Sunday herself, to say one single thing that would hurt or offend her. But now, the two of them fought like cat and dog. These days, nothing Louie said or did seemed to please Madge. Every evening the two women sat at the supper table, doing their best to ignore each other’s glances. It was strange, unnatural behaviour. Sunday felt uneasy. Something inside was telling her that either her mum, or her aunt, or both of them were trying to keep something from her.

A few minutes later, Sunday took a tray of tea into the parlour. Only her mum was there.

‘Where’s Auntie?’ she asked, going across to her mum.

Madge’s face was taut and strained. ‘She’s gone out,’ her lips read. ‘And as far as
I’m
concerned, she needn’t bother to come back.’

That same week, the police came to tell Alf Butler that they had arrested a young Rhodesian serviceman for Bess’s murder, but that after he had confessed, he had hanged himself inside his gaol cell at the police station.

When Sunday heard the news, she immediately called on Alf at number 7. She found the poor old boy very cut up, and despite the bits and pieces of food she had been bringing him each day, he was looking thinner than ever. The flat was as dark and dingy as always, and when she went to make them both a cup of tea, she was disturbed by the smell of stale food in the kitchen, and the grease-covered stove which hadn’t been cleaned for weeks.

‘I’m goin’ away,’ Alf announced quite unexpectedly. ‘I always said if my Bess never come ’ome, I wouldn’t stay ’ere.’

Sunday, sitting opposite him, pulled her chair closer, took hold of his hands, and held them. Despite the fact that outside it was a beautifully hot day, his hands were ice-cold.

‘Got a place up the Whittin’ton. There’s a geriatric ward up there. They’ll keep an eye on me.’

Sunday felt quite sick. ‘But you’re too young to go to a place like that, Alf,’ she said. ‘We can take care of you here.’

Alf shook his head. ‘I ain’t gettin’ any younger, Sun. Got arthritis in me knees, acute bronchitis, and on top of that, I’ve got angina. I’m much better off where they can keep an eye on me.’

Sunday knew it was no use trying to persuade Alf. She had known him since she was a little girl, and was only too well aware that once he’d made up his mind to do something, nothing in the world would change it.

‘But before I go though, I got a few fings I want yer ter do for me, Sun.’ The old boy eased himself up from his chair. ‘Just ’ang on ’ere for a minute,’ he said.

He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then returned clutching a small white pudding basin.

‘This is fer you,’ he said, handing the basin over to Sunday. ‘Bess told me about it. She asked me ter give it to yer if anyfink should ’appen to ’er.’

Sunday looked at the basin. It was full of silver coins and one- and five-pound notes. ‘I can’t take this, Alf,’ she said, and offered it back to him. ‘It belongs to you.’

Alf refused to take it, and, shaking his head, said, ‘She wanted yer ter ’ave it, and it’s yours. I don’t know ’ow much is in there, but she wanted yer ter ’ave it. Anyway, I don’t need any of that stuff up where I’m goin’.’

Sunday didn’t know what to say. She just sat there with the basin held between her hands on her lap.

‘There’s somefin’ else,’ said Alf. ‘Yer may not like ter do this, but if yer did, it’d take a lot off me mind.’ He seemed to falter a moment, before looking up at her again. ‘It’s ’er clothes. They’re all there in the wardrobe. If yer could sort ’em out for me, take anyfin’ yer want for yerself. There’s one or two nice dresses there. My Bess knew ’ow ter turn ’erself out all right. Oh yes.’

The only way Sunday knew how to stop herself from crying was to squeeze the basin tight.

A few minutes later, Alf showed her into the bedroom. Sunday was surprised to see two separate single beds.

‘We ’aven’t slept tergevver for a long time,’ said Alf, and then added quickly, ‘Only ’cos I toss around too much in the night.’ Then he went to the foot of what had clearly been Bess’s bed, which was covered in a neat blue candlewick bedspread. ‘We used to have lots er cuddles though,’ he said, with a warm smile.

Alf then left Sunday alone to look through Bess’s wardrobe, where there was a row of dresses, blouses, and skirts. Some of the dresses were quite exotic, and Sunday suspected that Bess had received those as gifts from a few of her customers at Rainbow Corner.

For the first few minutes, Sunday found it difficult to take in what she had been asked to do. She felt like an intruder who had no right to be there. These were Bess’s own clothes. She had admired, chosen, and worn them, and for another pair of hands even to touch them seemed sacrilegious. Sitting on the edge of Bess’s bed, Sunday’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the dressing-table which was still laid out with Bess’s half-used perfume bottles, cheap earrings and bracelets, comb and brush, hand mirror, lipsticks and nail varnish, face-powder and cream, and a few of her personal possessions, such as a lighter and a cigarette packet with only one left. Sunday got up from the bed, and looked over the dressing-table, then moved around the room, feeling the chintz floral-patterned curtains which Bess had been so proud of, and her collection of miniature cats, which she had scattered all over the two windowsills. She stopped to look at a small framed photograph of Alf, which was propped up on Bess’s bedside cabinet, and a rather crude reproduction of a Constable landscape, which was hanging on the wall between both beds. Although the room was not very big, everywhere Sunday went she could ‘feel’ Bess’s
presence
, even down to the remains of her cigarette ash in a small glass ash-tray.

But the most difficult part was still to come. First, she started to sort through Bess’s collection of shoes, so many of them fashionable and ideal for the dance floor. She took off her own shoes, and slipped into a pair of red patent ones, which, to her amazement, fitted perfectly. Then she tried on a few more pairs, including an expensive pair of suede shoes with a large metal buckle. Again they fitted perfectly.

The rest of the wardrobe was a treasure-chest of glamorous clothes to fit what Sunday considered to be a truly glamorous woman. Some of the stuff there was purely daytime functional, but a few of the dresses had clearly been used for ‘business’ purposes, and Sunday imagined what a knockout her old mate must have looked in them. As Alf had told her to take her time, she decided to try on one of the dresses hanging there. It was of emerald-green velvet, and had a large brooch in the shape of a spray of daffodils pinned to it. She was surprised how easily she fitted into it, although she couldn’t reach behind to do up the back buttons. And when she stood in front of the long wardrobe mirror, she felt quite strange, for there seemed to be a genuine likeness between Bess and herself. In fact, the dress fitted so well, and looked so sensational, it could almost have been Bess herself who was standing there.

After nearly an hour of sorting through Bess’s clothes and personal possessions, Sunday’s emotions were draining her. So after placing on Bess’s bed most of the clothes she intended to keep for herself, Sunday went back to the wardrobe to close the door. But one of the wardrobe drawers was slightly open, and as she went to close it, she noticed something protruding from beneath some of Bess’s undies there. When she investigated, she discovered that it was a small photograph album. Opening it, she found lots of early snapshots of Bess and Alf on holiday at Ramsgate before the war. It was an endearing album to find, for beneath each picture, Bess had scrawled
when
and where it had been taken. However, when she got to the last page of the album, she was shocked by the final snapshot there which was stuck on to the blank page all on its own. The snapshot was of a small girl, aged about eight or nine, with short, strawberry-blonde hair, and wearing a bathing costume on the beach at Southend. The child looked as though she was deliriously happy, for the camera had captured her laughing her head off. The picture was of Sunday herself.

Still clutching the open album, Sunday flopped down on to the edge of Bess’s bed again.

Only now did the tears really begin to flow.

When she got back to her own flat, Sunday was shocked to find a small gathering of neighbours on the landing outside. She quickly pushed past them, and went in.

‘Mum! Aunt Louie!’ she called, just as Louie came hurrying out of the room she shared with her sister. ‘What is it?’ asked Sunday, fearing something terrible had happened. ‘Where’s Mum?’