The Silent War (44 page)

‘And they talked – about religion?’

‘Far as I know. As I said, I always used ter push off. Din’t want ter know anyfink about it.’

Sunday sat back in her seat, dumbfounded. The idea of her mum having any contact at all with a woman like Bess seemed totally incomprehensible. Ever since Sunday was a child, Madge had never done anything but condemn Bess and her sinful lifestyle. Even the very mention of Bess’s name had turned the look on her mum’s face from one of sweetness and heavenly light, to a kind of puritanical disdain. Over and over again she tried to imagine the two women together, and in Bess’s own flat! Why had her mum never told her about these meetings? Why had she always kept it such a secret? As she watched Alf sipping his hot tea, and blowing it to cool it down, all she could think about was the strange mind of the woman who had adopted her. And that snapshot of herself, so proudly positioned on a page of Bess’s photograph album. Was it really possible that her own mum had actually given it to Bess? It was an utterly intriguing thought.

‘It’s not all that surprisin’, yer know.’

When Alf suddenly spoke, Sunday leaned forward again.

‘I said, it’s not all that surprisin’ – about yer mum comin’ over ter see Bess.’

Sunday was puzzled. ‘What d’you mean, Alf?’

Alf was very deft at drinking down hot tea, so he quickly drained the cup, and his rather shaky hand put it down on to the small table beside him. ‘She tried ter do too much, Sun,’ he said, eyes lowered but turned towards her. ‘My gel, I’m talkin’ about. She let ’erself go ter look after me. That’s why yer mum come ter see Bess – ter try an’ change ’er ways.’

Sunday tensed. What was Alf telling her?

‘Oh, it’s all right – I know,’ Alf continued, his elbows leaning on both arms of the chair, his chin resting on his fists. ‘I fink I’ve always known. And yet I refused ter believe it. I refused to believe what she was up to each night, where she was goin’, and why she was doin’ it.’ He looked up at Sunday, and shook his head. ‘The fact is, Sun, I
let
’er do it, and I’m ashamed of meself.’ His eyes were watery, so he took out his handkerchief and dabbed them. ‘’Ow’d yer like an ’usband like me, eh? Lets ’is missus go out on the game just so’s ’e can live a life of ol’ Riley.’

Sunday could see that he was on the verge of tears, so she leaned forward, hugged him, then looked directly at his face. ‘It wasn’t like that, Alf,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Bess loved you. She never stopped loving you. What she did, she did because she wanted the best for you.’

The old boy’s face crumpled up, and he sobbed deeply. Sunday pulled his head gently on to her shoulder, and held him tight.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked one of the nurses, who was on her rounds collecting empty teacups. As Sunday was not looking at her, she tapped her on the shoulder and repeated the question.

‘Oh yes,’ replied Sunday, holding on to Alf. ‘Everything’s quite all right, thank you.’

Leaving the hospital, Sunday made her way down Highgate Hill, passing by the commemorative stone to London’s first Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington, as she went. But her mind was racing so much, and as it was such a clear and fine Sunday afternoon, she decided not to go straight home.

A short time later, she found her way up on to the bridge high above the busy Archway Road. Strolling idly along the narrow pedestrian path beside the bridge road made her feel just a little woozy, and if she had suffered from vertigo it would have been like a nightmare. But her mind was on other things, and a few minutes
later
she hadn’t realised that she had already reached the middle section of the bridge. Over the years, there had been quite a number of suicides from this spot, which meant that a wire grille had now been erected to prevent any more attempts. Sunday came to a halt, and peered through the grille. She was astonished how high the bridge was, for down in the Archway Road below cars and buses streaming up towards the Great North Road looked like toys, and people walking along the pavement were nothing more than crawling insects. After a while, the scene below became transformed into a kind of still picture, and in Sunday’s mind, everything came to a halt.

‘’
Ow’d yer like an ’usband like me, eh? Lets ’is missus go out on the game just so’s ’e can live a life of ol’ Riley
.’

Alf’s words seemed to bounce up from the road below, and during the few minutes that she closed her eyes, she could see his face before her. And then she remembered her own words: ‘
Are you saying that my mum came to visit Bess, in
your
flat?
’

And then she saw her mum’s face.

Suddenly, she felt someone touching her on the shoulder. Her eyes sprang open, and when she turned around she found herself staring straight into the face of a police constable.

‘We’re not goin’ to do anythin’ silly –
are
we, miss?’ he asked.

Sunday hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled. ‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not me.’ Then she walked off.

Madge was in a good mood. Not only was her leg almost fully recovered, but, apart from the odd headache, she felt fitter than she had done for a very long time. She was also back to cooking regular meals again, and by the time Sunday had got home from visiting Alf in hospital, she was just taking some fairy cakes out of the oven for tea.

‘How was he?’ she asked, as Sunday came into the kitchen. ‘Settled in all right, has he?’

Sunday went straight to the small kitchen table, and sat down. ‘He’s fine,’ she answered blandly.

Using a tea cloth, Madge put the tray of piping-hot cakes on to the table. Then she closed the oven door, and collected her favoured blunt kitchen knife from the drawer. ‘I thought we’d have a little treat for tea,’ she said, waiting a moment before removing each cake from the tin tray. ‘I’ve made a few extra to take to the band concert this evening. Don’t forget, you promised to come, and you’re going to bring that nice friend of yours from the school with you. I’m so looking forward to meeting him. Don’t forget though, if it rains, it’ll be in the Hall, not on Highbury Fields.’

Sunday had forgotten about her promise to go to the weekly Salvation Army Band concert. She hated band concerts, and thought it was inconsiderate of her mum to expect her to sit through the ordeal of not being able to hear one single note that was being played.

‘My friend Sarah Denning loves my fairy cakes. She says no one can make them as light as I do.’ Madge finished removing all the cakes from the tray, and arranged them in a neat pattern on a large plate. ‘Your Aunt Louie likes them too.’

Sunday was watching her mum carefully. ‘Well she’s not here to eat them, is she?’ she said caustically.

Madge hesitated a moment before answering. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.’

She sat down opposite Sunday, and rested her hands on the table. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, her eyes trying hard not to make contact with Sunday’s. ‘I think I should go and see Auntie. Ask her to come home.’

Sunday could say nothing. She was too shocked.

‘I can’t deny it,’ Madge continued. ‘I feel guilty about her. We’ve always been such good friends. It seems unkind to let this happen after all these years.’ She
sighed
and looked straight at Sunday. ‘How would you feel about that, Sunday?’ she asked.

Sunday was nonplussed. It was astonishing to see her mum actually owning up to her own guilt, especially after all the harsh things she had said about her sister. All she could say was, ‘It’s your decision, Mum. It’s up to you.’

‘It hasn’t been easy for me, you know,’ Madge said, as she unconsciously rearranged the cakes on the plate. ‘The trouble is that I don’t like getting old. It’s my stupid brain, you see – it gets so muddled at times.’ She gently ran two fingers across her forehead, as though trying to clear it. ‘Silly, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘Someone with my faith, my devotion, and yet I can’t even face up to the passing of time. Even so, Louie shouldn’t have kept getting at me.’

Sunday was curious. ‘Why was she getting at you?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know Auntie,’ said Madge. ‘She’s always been a bit of a gossip.’ She paused, looked down, then suddenly looked up again. ‘No. That’s not true. Auntie wanted me to tell you about – your parents.’

Sunday sat bolt upright.

‘Sunday, I know I haven’t been as honest with you about that as you want, but there were reasons. I’ve always intended to tell you everything, but not until you reached twenty-one. You’ve been through quite enough in this awful war. I didn’t want to distress you even more.’

Sunday suddenly found herself warming to her mum all over again. She was like she used to be, with a sweetness that would melt the heart out of even the biggest cynic. ‘I’m not a kid any more, Mum,’ she said as gently as her throat chords would allow. ‘No matter how painful, you must tell me everything I ought to know.’

Madge was deep in thought for a moment, then she got up from the table. ‘Come into the other room,’ she said.

Sunday followed her into the parlour, where the table
had
already been set for tea with three places. Madge immediately disappeared into her own bedroom for a moment, whilst Sunday waited for her to return, her heart thumping hard with the reality that her whole life was about to be explained. Feeling how flushed her face was, she sat down at the table in an attempt to keep calm.

It seemed an eternity before her mum returned, but when she did eventually reappear, she was carrying something in her hand. ‘This is your father,’ she said, giving Sunday a small photograph. ‘Your flesh-and-blood father. I wasn’t going to give it to you until you were twenty-one.’

Sunday looked intently at the small faded photo of a young man, probably in his early twenties. She looked hard for any sign of a resemblance between this man and herself, but the only clue was his short blond hair. ‘Who is he?’ she asked tremulously.

‘A man,’ said Madge, without emotion. ‘Just a man. Someone who passes in the night.’ And then she added, ‘Like so many.’

Sunday looked up from the photo. ‘Where did you get this?’ she asked intensely. ‘Did my mother give it to you?’

Madge shook her head, and sat down opposite her daughter. ‘Sunday, you’ll have to understand that there are some questions I just can’t answer. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know. All I can tell you is that when he knew you were on the way, he wanted no part of you. He disappeared a long time ago, Sunday. No one knows where.’

‘Not even my real mother?’

Madge took a deep breath before replying. ‘Not even your – real mother.’

Although Sunday couldn’t hear the sound, church bells in the distance were ringing out five o’clock.

Sunday realised how difficult this moment was for her mum, but now this long-overdue discussion had got this
far
, she wasn’t prepared to let it go. Leaning across the table to Madge, she gently took hold of her hand and asked tenderly, ‘What about
her
, Mum? Where does she come from? Where is she now?’

Madge slowly shook her head. What she was doing now was clearly causing her great anguish. ‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Sunday, you have to realise that all this has caught up with me quite suddenly. I’ll tell you all you want to know – yes, I promise I
will
tell you. But I know that when I do, I’ll have lost you – for ever.’

Sunday shook her head.

‘Oh, I know what you’re saying. But believe me, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself, you’ll no longer be my daughter, my little girl. You’ll be someone else’s.’

Sunday sighed, leaned back in her chair, head lowered.

‘Look at me, Sunday – please, dear.’

Sunday didn’t hear what her mum had said, but allowed Madge’s hand to raise her chin.

‘Sunday, there’s something I want you to know. Whatever you think of me, I can assure you that everything I’ve ever done has been for you – not for me or anyone else – but you. You’re the child I never had, the child our Lord never allowed me to have. When you came along, my life began. Oh, I know I’ve made mistakes, lots of them. I know I should have told you about who you were and where you came from. But believe me, Sunday, I did it to protect you, and for no other reason. But from now on, it’s going to be different, everything’s going to be different. Whatever the consequences, I’ll no longer hold anything back from you.’

They were suddenly interrupted by a ring on the front doorbell.

‘That’s Stan come for tea,’ said Madge. But before she could get up from the table, Sunday took hold of her arm.

‘
When
will you tell me, Mum?’ she asked, a look of pleading in her eyes. ‘I shan’t sleep until I know.’

Madge tried smiling back at her. ‘When we get back from the band concert,’ she said with assurance. ‘I promise you I won’t let you down. Not this time. Not ever. I love you, Sunday. Don’t ever forget that. Just trust me.’

A couple of hours later, Sunday met up with Pete Hawkins, and before they went on to the band concert, they stopped off for a drink at a pub. As much as she liked him, Sunday found it hard going with Pete, for their only means of communication was through sign language. That was fine for a time, but Pete was absolutely fluent with his knowledge of the alphabet and with phrasing, but Sunday had to concentrate all her powers when she was sign-talking back to him. Her greatest difficulty was the fact that Pete only used his hands to communicate, but despite her consistent sign-writing practice, reading lips was still the easiest option for her. However, at least the other customers in the pub were fascinated by the way the two young deaf people communicated, and whenever either Sunday or Pete turned in their direction, one of them always nodded with a smile.

‘Pete,’ Sunday said, after putting down her usual glass of shandy on the counter, and plucking up enough courage to sign-talk. ‘I’m really sorry about dragging you out like this. It was a crazy idea of mine to ask you to a band concert!’

Pete understood perfectly what Sunday had signalled, and his face broke into a broad grin. ‘I’m not coming to the concert to hear music,’ he said, his hands and fingers darting about in a rapid reply. ‘I just want the chance to sit next to you for an hour.’