The Silent War (46 page)

‘Auntie.’ Sunday was now stretched forward, holding both Louie’s hands. ‘You told me once that you knew my mother, my real mother. Who was she?’

Louie tried to look away.

Sunday persisted. ‘Please – won’t you tell me?’

‘There’s no point, Sunday,’ Louie replied. ‘Your mother’s dead – both of them are gone.’

Sunday was determined to coax something out of the old lady. ‘What do you mean, Auntie?’ she pleaded. ‘
Both
my mums?’

‘No, Sunday,’ Louie replied, pulling her hands away and resting them in her lap. ‘I promised your mum, I promised Madge that I’d never be the one to tell you. That was the trouble. That’s why I fell out with her. I wanted you to know. I wanted to hurt her by telling you.’

‘Then tell me, Auntie!’ begged Sunday. ‘What’s the use of keeping it from me now?’

Louie sat up straight in her chair. As she did so, Sunday thought how much she looked like her mum.

‘Because that’s how Madge wanted it,’ Louie replied firmly. ‘And that’s the way it’s going to be.’

It was half past nine when Sunday got back to the Nag’s Head, and it was almost dark. During the war years, Sunday had always hated walking home in the dark because the streets were pitch-black, but now there were lights everywhere, not only from the streetlamps but also from some of the shop windows. It was a few yards’ walk from the bus stop to the backyard of ‘the Buildings’, and when she got there, and was just about to disappear through the entrance to her block, someone came up from behind and touched her on the shoulder. Sunday turned with a start. It was Doll Mooney.

‘Guess where I’ve bin?’ she said perkily. ‘I’ve bin ’round the Marlborough ter see this singin’ an’ dancin’ pitture –
Coney Island
, wiv this great big sexpot, George Montgomery.’ She was clearly reeling from seeing someone on the screen that she really fancied, for she was talking so fast, Sunday could hardly follow what she was saying. ‘Ooh, Sun,’ she said, practically drooling, ‘’ave yer ever seen ’im? Drives me wild! Can’t imagine what ’e sees in bloody Betty Grable.’ Then, without pausing for breath, she added, ‘’Ere. ‘As anyone ever told yer, you look a bit like Betty Grable – only better!’

Sunday, embarrassed, laughed dismissively and shook
her
head. ‘How come you went on your own?’ she asked.

‘Got Joe ter baby-sit. ’Bout bleedin’ time. ’E spends most ’is nights down the boozer, so why shouldn’t I ’ave me bob’s werf of George Montgomery!’

They both laughed, and whilst they were standing there, it was such a pleasantly warm September evening, some of the neighbours popped their heads out of their windows to see what was going on down below.

‘Wot’s all the bleedin’ row then?’ yelled Bert Vickers from the window of his second-floor flat.

Doll looked up and yelled back. ‘Go back ter bed, Bert! We’re too young fer you!’

The moment Bert saw who was calling out to him, he knew there was no hope of winning an exchange with her, so he disappeared inside, and slammed the window.

‘Silly old sod!’ said Doll. ‘Be glad ter get out of this place.’

Sunday immediately stopped laughing. ‘What was that you said, Doll?’ she asked.

Doll suddenly became serious, and after looking around to make sure no one else was listening, she lowered her voice, and emphasising her lip movements, drew as close to Sunday as she could. ‘Look, Sun. Keep this to yerself, but – it’s just possible me and Joe are goin’ ter split up.’

Sunday was shocked. ‘Doll!’

‘Ssh!’ she said, again checking all around to see that no one could hear. ‘There’s nuffin’ definite yet, but – well, ’e’s got ’is eyes on this uvver woman now. Some cow lives up Mile End way. Joe goes a bundle on the East End!’

Sunday was confused. ‘But you said you’d never leave him. You said you still loved him.’

‘I do. But I’m sick er bringin’ up four kids all on me own. And now wiv this new one due any minute.’ She sighed despondently. ‘I must’ve bin off me chomp. Still, it’s me own fault. ’E got randy one night, and just banged
away
. But wot can I do? It I can’t stop ’im, I just have ter lie back an’ imagine ’e’s George Montgomery!’

Although Doll roared with laughter again, Sunday knew only too well what she was going through. Doll was such an easy-going woman, who would do anything for anyone. But the way Joe Mooney was treating her was cruel and unfair. She deserved so much better than an occasional wrestling match followed by yet another howling baby.

‘Anyway,’ Doll continued, ‘now the war’s over, ’e says ’e wants ter get out of London, and give up doin’ work as a brickie. ’E reckons ’e can get a job at some car-makin’ place over at Dagen’am.’

‘Will you go with him?’

‘That’s up ter ’im now,’ replied Doll. ‘It’s goin’ ter take an awful lot for me ter give up all me friends ’round ’ere – ’specially you.’

Sunday leaned forward and hugged her.

A few minutes later, Doll went into her block, and Sunday made her way across the yard to her own entrance. Her chance meeting with Doll had made her very depressed. Although Doll wasn’t all that clever in the brains department, she was very astute about everyday matters. And over the years she had been the most wonderful support to Sunday, especially during the height of the Blitz, when she, her mum, and the Mooney family often had to spend the night together in the public shelter. With bombs dropping and guns blasting away outside, Doll had always been the one to keep up everyone’s morale with an endless stream of good old Cockney humour, which cunningly disguised her own fears and apprehensions. No, Doll deserved better than being treated like a sex machine. She was a worthwhile person, and it was about time someone told Joe Mooney what a shit he was.

As usual, the entrance door to Sunday’s block was stuck, so she had to use her shoulder to force it open. Cursing, she asked herself how many times had the
council
been told about all the things in ‘the Buildings’ that needed to be repaired.

Once inside the ground-floor landing, Sunday had to grope her way towards the stairs in the dark, for the solitary electric light bulb wasn’t working. However, she had her small pocket torch in her handbag, so she got it out, and started to make her way up the stone steps. She hated the climb, and whilst she was doing it, she couldn’t help thinking about the number of times her poor mum had been absolutely breathless by the time she had reached the fourth floor. As she went, the torch beam not only picked out the harsh stone steps that she was taking one at a time, but was also casting a dim glow on some of the graffiti that had been scrawled across the walls during the war, including plenty of V-signs, a couple of ‘Winnie!’ slogans, and several more proclaiming, ‘Labour For Peace!’

Eventually, she reached the door of her flat, and immediately cursed herself again for not removing her front-door key from her handbag at the same time that she had retrieved her torch. Before she found the key, however, she was suddenly aware that she was not alone. She turned sharply, but as she did so, someone’s hand slammed across her mouth, preventing her from screaming out. Then she felt the torch being taken from her own hand, and when the beam was directed on to the face of the person who was restraining her, she saw that it was Ernie Mancroft.

‘Wotcha, Sun!’ he said cheekily, his lips moving stiffly in the torchlight. ‘Bet you’re glad ter see yer ol’ mate again, ain’t yer?’

Sunday struggled, but he kept his hand clasped across her mouth and held on to her.

‘Tell yer what, Sun,’ he said, making quite sure she could see his lips. ‘If I take me ’and away, let’s say yer promise ter be’ave yerself. Bargain?’

Sunday nodded.

Ernie cautiously took his hand away from Sunday’s
mouth
. ‘Yeah, that’s better, mate.’ He kept the torch beam directed at his face. ‘Sorry ter ’ear about yer ol’ woman, Sun. Rotten luck that. Goin’ ter ask me in for a shandy, are yer?’

Sunday shook her head violently.

‘Now, that’s not a very friendly way ter treat someone who saved yer life, is it?’ said Ernie, with a leer, voice low. ‘Bet yer wouldn’t do the same ter your Yankee pal.’

‘What do you want with me, Ernie?’ Sunday said, her eyes carefully looking along the row of front doors to see if there was a light on anywhere. ‘Didn’t you learn your lesson down at Thorpe Bay?’

Ernie refused to let this remark intimidate him. ‘Don’t get too smart wiv me, Sun – just ’cos yer Yankee boyfriend got lucky.’

As he spoke, a light came on in the hallway of one of the flats further along the corridor. Sunday tried to make a move, but he quickly held her arm with his hand. Then he put a finger up to his mouth, signalling her to keep quiet. After a moment or so, the light went out again.

‘They should have put you away, Ernie,’ Sunday said, her voice speaking louder than Ernie would have liked. ‘You’re the one that struck lucky.’

Ernie’s fixed grin faded. ‘I’m sorry to ’ve disappointed yer, Sun,’ he said. ‘But I was innocent, y’see. Not guilty.’

‘You were absent without leave. They shoot people for that.’

This brought a smile to Ernie’s face. ‘Mitigatin’ circumstances, Sun. My big bruvver, Denn – you remember ’im, don’t yer? ’E was a para. Got a packet at Arnhem. The court martial got sorry for me – silly bastards!’

Sunday again tried to pull away, and again he restrained her. She tried very hard to show that she wasn’t frightened, for, knowing him only too well, she was sure that it would be the one thing he wanted most of all.

At this moment, Ernie felt confident enough to release
his
grip on her. But he held on to her torch, and kept the beam turned towards his face. ‘What is it about me that yer ’ate so much, Sun?’ he asked.

‘I don’t hate you, Ernie,’ she replied. ‘I just feel sorry for you. You’ve got so much going for you. You should be looking for someone who’ll love you, who you can settle down with.’

‘I’ve found someone I want to settle down wiv.’

‘It’ll never happen, Ernie. I promise you, it’ll never happen.’

Ernie leaned as close as he could towards her, so that the beam from the torch was casting a light on both their faces. ‘I want ter tell yer somefin’, Sun,’ he said, the torch beam reflected in the pupils of his eyes, his voice softening. ‘When that ’bug come down on the Bagwash, I told you that yer owed me one. Well, yer don’t – see? All I’m askin’ is that yer give me a chance, a chance ter show yer that I’m not nuffin’ like the person yer fink I am. I love yer, Sun. Why can’t yer understand that? There’s no uvver person I want, no uvver person that means a sod ter me.’ He blinked in the torchlight, and when he looked into Sunday’s eyes again, he thought he saw the first signs of guilt. ‘Y’know, I’ve ’eard ’ow some people
grow
ter love each uvver. It’s not there at first, but after a while, there’s a feelin’, a feelin’ that wiv a bit of work an’ understandin’—’

‘No, Ernie!’ Sunday pushed him away. ‘I don’t love you. I never could love you. I’m sorry about that, Ernie, I really am. But what’s happening is all one-sided.’ Then she shook her head, and backing a few steps away from him, said, ‘You can never make someone love you if they don’t want to.’

There was a moment’s pause between them, then Sunday decided to take a chance, and walk back to the steps. However, just when she thought she had succeeded in getting away from him, he leapt at her and tried to kiss her. Sunday was terrified, and as his lips pressed hard against hers, she tried desperately to pull away. She was
repulsed
by him, and knew that if she didn’t soon get some air into her lungs, she would suffocate. She finally succeeded, but when she let out a yell, Ernie hit her across the face with the back of his hand.

‘Cow!’ he yelled, now oblivious to the lights that were being turned on in the front halls of all the flats along the corridor. Then he grabbed hold of her, and threw her to the ground.

Sunday fell to her knees, and as she did so, she suddenly felt a soaring pain in her left ear. She let out a piercing scream. Suddenly terrified of what he had done, Ernie started to back towards the steps.

‘My ear!’ Sunday screeched several times.

Some of the neighbours started to peer out from their front doors, which sent Ernie rushing down the stairs, pushing Jack Popwell out of the way as he went.

‘Don’t leave me!’ yelled Sunday, clutching the ear that was throbbing violently. ‘Don’t leave me, Ernie! Don’t leave me!’

And as Jack Popwell reached her, Sunday grabbed hold of him, yelling, ‘Say something to me, Jack! For God’s sake – say something to me!’

Mr Callow, the ear specialist, hadn’t examined Sunday for quite some time, so he was intrigued by her claim that during her scuffle with Ernie Mancroft, she was positive that she had heard a faint sound in her left ear. Sunday spent nearly two hours in the ENT Clinic at the Royal Northern Hospital, and the endless impedance and audiometry tests she underwent proved very tiring. Each ear separately and then both together were subjected to rigorous sound waves, and although at times Sunday felt as though the pressure was going to split her head wide open, she was unable to recapture those extraordinary few seconds in which she was convinced she could hear
something
. However, once the sceptical Mr Callow had finally studied the tests and X-rays, he had no alternative but to conclude that the acoustic nerve in Sunday’s ears had been damaged in the ‘doodlebug’ explosion, and, as surgery was not yet available to repair such damage, it was highly unlikely that her hearing could ever be restored.

Sunday fell into the depths of depression. It seemed so cruel that her hopes should have been raised only to be dashed again by a whole lot of hospital X-rays and tests. During the following weeks, she refused to believe Mr Callow’s diagnosis, and when she was lying in bed at night there were times that she could imagine hearing the sounds of life again, a cat wailing in the backyard below, a neighbour’s wireless set, or her Aunt Louie snoring in the next-door bedroom. But they were nothing more than false hopes, and she knew that she had to get on with her life as it now existed.