The Silent War (24 page)

It was already dark when the young party-goers, clutching their presents from Santa Claus and a whole array of coloured balloons, finally swarmed out of the canteen and filed excitedly back on to the USAF buses that were to take them back home to their various towns and villages. Sunday and Gary stood with Jinx and Erin as they and all the young servicemen and women waved the kids off.

‘You know somethin’,’ said Jinx, as she wandered off with Erin. ‘This one afternoon’s been worth not ’avin an ’oneymoon.’

‘Speak fer yerself!’ answered Erin, as he put his arm around Jinx’s waist, and leaned forward to bite and kiss her neck.

A few minutes later, Sunday and Gary strolled off together. It was already turning out to be a typical winter’s evening, with a freezing fog swirling across the runways, and parked vehicles looking as though they were entombed in a thin web of frost. As they walked, the dimmed headlights of an Air Force jeep passed close by, casting strange patterns and shadows on to the stifling grey wall of fog that had engulfed them.

When Gary entered the Sergeants’ Mess with Sunday, there was hardly anyone there, just two men playing cards at a corner table, and another man fast asleep with his half-finished cigarette still burning in an ash-tray. Not surprising, for with the aerodrome now fog-bound, the night’s missions were cancelled, leaving air-crews the chance to get some well-deserved shut-eye. Strictly speaking, Gary wasn’t allowed to bring visitors into the Mess, especially a female guest, but as there was little chance that anyone was going to complain on a night like that, he threw caution to the wind and found them a table by a shuttered window.

Gary took off his peaked cap and placed it on to the empty seat beside him. Then, for a brief moment or so, the two of them just sat and looked at each other. Both were now aware of a strong feeling between them, a warmth that was difficult to define. But what they did know was that during the times that they were apart, they thought a great deal about each other.

Gary made the first move. He held up his hands, and started to animate the sign-language alphabet.

Sunday shook her head. ‘No lessons tonight, please, Gary,’ she said. ‘I’m too tired.’

Gary understood, and smiled. Nevertheless, he still
continued
to use sign language as he talked to her. ‘I was wondering,’ he asked tentatively, ‘whether you’d like to come over here on Christmas Eve. They’re showing a Bing Crosby movie. Have you seen
Holiday Inn
?’

Sunday shrugged her shoulders, and looked a little pensive. ‘I haven’t been to the pictures since – before . . .’

The moment she hesitated, Gary continued. ‘Then now’s the time.’

‘What’s the point, Gary? I mean, if I can’t hear it, I won’t know what’s going on.’

‘You’ll know
everything
that’s going on – believe me.’

Sunday shook her head. ‘I’d like to, but I have to go home for Christmas. Just a few days. My mum – well, it wouldn’t be the same for her without me.’

Gary leaned forward and covered her hands with his own. ‘That’s different,’ he said. ‘But I’m warning you, next Christmas – you’re mine.’

They turned with a start as the sleeping sergeant suddenly began to snore loudly. Both laughed.

‘What makes you think you’ll still be here next Christmas?’ Sunday asked, facing Gary again. ‘The war’s nearly over.’

Gary grinned at her. ‘Whether the war’s over or not, nothin’s goin’ to keep me away from you, Sunday – nothin’.’

Sunday wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. For the first time in her life, she was completely at a loss for words.

Gary leaned across the table. ‘I want to tell you something, Sunday,’ he said, looking straight into her eyes. ‘I’ve known girls in my time. But none of them has been like you.’

Sunday felt embarrassed, so all she could do was laugh. ‘Oh yes?’ she quipped. ‘How many times have I heard that at the pictures!’ The moment she said it, however, she wished she hadn’t.

For a moment Gary looked hurt, and averted his eyes.
But
he quickly recovered, looked straight at her again, and squeezed her hands which were still resting on the table. ‘When I was a kid,’ he continued, ‘I used to know this girl. Her name was Margie. She was a friend of my sister, came from a well-stocked family who had a farm just outside town where I lived. Margie and I were in love with each other. She was six years old, I was seven.’ He leaned back in his chair, took out a cigarette, and lit it. ‘Margie and I used to go toad huntin’ together – well, not exactly huntin’, more like observin’ ’em.’ He drew on his cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Anyhow, we used to find most of these toads down by the old pond on the edge of McCauley’s land. Not many people went there because it was pretty deep and muddy, and in the fall the place was infested with ’squiters – mosquitoes.’ For a moment or so, he had lost eye contact with Sunday, and was staring down quite aimlessly at the ash-tray. ‘One day after Sunday mornin’ church service, we was down this pond, and Margie fell in. I panicked, tried to get her out, but her hand was too full of mud, and she just – fell away straight under. There was nothin’ I could do.’ Quite impulsively, he stubbed out his just-lit cigarette in the ash-tray. ‘It wasn’t fair, it just wasn’t fair.’ He looked up at Sunday, and talked directly at her again. ‘You see, Sunday,’ he said, ‘I trusted Margie. She trusted me. We shared all our secrets together, and never let on to no one.’ He paused a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘Right from that time, I vowed I’d never trust anyone else. Margie’d meant too much to me, and look what happened. An’ I never have let myself trust anyone else. Not ’til now.’ He took hold of both her hands, and held them. ‘Don’t ask me why, Sunday, because I don’t know.’ He kissed her hands gently.

Sunday watched him closely, and as he sat upright in his seat again, she then took his hands and kissed them. Then both of them broke into a broad smile.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Gary said suddenly. ‘I almost forgot.’ He stretched into his topcoat pocket and took out a small
packet
. It was wrapped in Christmas paper. ‘Since I won’t be seeing you at Christmas, this is for you.’

Sunday took the packet and looked at it. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I’m an old-fashioned boy, Sunday,’ he quipped. ‘Open it on Christmas morning and find out!’

Early on the morning of Christmas Eve, Sunday was on stable duties with Jinx, Ruthie, and Sue. It was her last job before the Christmas holiday, for she was catching the afternoon train back to London.

‘You know what?’ called Jinx, who was cleaning out one of the horse stalls. ‘I’ve heard that in Lond’n, some people ’ave been eatin’ these things.’

‘Don’t, Jinx,’ said Ruthie, who was helping her. ‘That’s a terribly sick thing to say. Horses are such beautiful creatures.’

‘I know they are,’ Jinx called. ‘No offence meant,’ she said, talking straight into the horse’s ear. Then after picking up some soiled straw and putting it into a sack, she added, ‘But I wonder ’ow they cook ’em? Roast or boil?’

Ruthie shivered. ‘Jinx – please!’

‘It’s true,’ called a voice from the stable door. ‘They do cook horses. Not young ones though. Only the old’uns that cost too much to keep.’ It was young Ronnie Cloy.

Sunday waved her sponge as she caught a glimpse of him from between the legs of the horse which she was rubbing down.

‘Hallo, Sunday,’ Ronnie said, crouching down to talk to her. ‘I’ve come to ask if you want to come to Clare with me. Not ’til you’ve finished, of course. I’m going over on my bike to see the Christmas Bazaar at the pub there. You can borrow my mum’s bike. She won’t know ’cos she hardly ever uses it.’

‘I’m sorry, Ronnie,’ replied Sunday. ‘But I’m going back home on the afternoon train.’

Ronnie’s face crumpled. ‘Home?’ he said. ‘You mean – London?’

Sunday nodded. ‘Just a few days. Back after Christmas.’

Ronnie seemed deep in thought for a moment, then said something quite extraordinary. ‘Is that Yank going with you?’

Sunday looked at him in astonishment, and even the other girls stopped what they were doing.

‘What do you mean, Ronnie?’ she asked.

‘That Yankee bloke you’ve been knockin’ around with. Is
he
going to London with you?’

Sunday stood up and came around from behind the horse to face him. ‘No, Ronnie. I’m going home on my own. To see my mum.’

Ronnie shrugged his shoulders. The boy was clearly irritated. ‘They’re not worth it, you know. All these Yanks are the same. They all go after the girls and give them babies.’

‘Oi!’ yelled Jinx, over the top of the stall she was working in. ‘You’re not old enough to talk about things like that, young man!’

‘It’s true,’ snapped Ronnie defiantly. ‘I know girls in the village who’ve been to bed with Yanks, and they’ve all ended up in the family way.’

Jinx was outraged, and exchanged a shocked look with Ruthie.

‘That’s not a nice thing to say,’ said Sunday. ‘The Americans are very good to us. They’re here to protect us.’

‘Is that what your Yankee boyfriend’s doing?’ he snapped sarcastically. ‘Is
he
protecting
you
?’

‘Ronnie!’ called Ruthie. ‘Stop that!’

‘Well, it’s true,’ yelled Ronnie, who was clearly upset. ‘If she thinks a Yank’s going to look after her and take her back to America and give her a good time, she doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for.’ Then turning to face Sunday directly again, he said, ‘I thought you were supposed to be
my
friend? I thought you were different to all the rest of them. But you’re not.’ Then, close to tears, he yelled, ‘You’re just a bloody Yankee’s girl!’

With that, he rushed out of the stable, leaving the door open behind him. Sunday and the other girls watched him go, all absolutely astonished and bewildered.

Sunday was too upset to say anything, so she turned back to carry on rubbing down the horse she was grooming. Inside, she felt a deep sense of sadness, of guilt, of not understanding the boy’s feelings for her. But Ronnie was wrong. Whatever he thought about Yanks, he had no right to talk about Gary like that. Gary was special, he was different. He had made her feel like someone he could trust, and she would never betray that trust. Not as long as she loved him. And she
did
love him.

Her quiet moment of thought was suddenly interrupted by someone’s hand touching her on the shoulder. She swung around with a start.

‘Erin,’ she said with surprise.

Jinx’s bombardier husband was standing there. But the expression on his face was unlike anything she had seen before. It was grave and drawn.

‘Erin?’ Jinx came across to meet him. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, immediately concerned.

But Erin was still looking straight at Sunday.

‘Erin?’ Sunday asked. ‘Tell me?’

‘I’m sorry, Sunday,’ he replied, his lips almost too dry to move.

The moment he spoke, Sunday knew what he had come to tell her.

It was still dark when Sunday’s eyes sprang open. She imagined it was about four o’clock in the morning, for that was the time of her daily alarm call back at Cloy’s Farm. But when she switched on the small bedside lamp, her clock was showing that she had overslept, for it was already six forty-five and she could see the first chink of morning light filtering through the side of her blackout curtains. On the previous afternoon, when she arrived back home at ‘the Buildings’, all she had wanted to do was to go straight to bed and shut herself away. But her mum had been so excited to see her again that, after a Christmas Eve meal of boiled scrag-end of mutton and mashed potatoes, they and Aunt Louie had sat up talking until nearly eleven o’clock at night. However, despite the lateness of the hour, Sunday had slept very little. The news that Gary had been listed Missing in Action in a night raid over Berlin had absolutely devastated her. Although she had known him for just a few weeks, he had been the first man that had ever really meant something to her. As she lay awake for hours on end, tossing and turning restlessly in her bed, she found it hard to believe that her short young life could be so full of ups and downs. If what Erin had warned her was true, if the Air Force jargon really meant that Gary had been killed, then not only had she lost someone she had come to love and trust, but she had also been deprived of the one chance to restore her own self-respect.

A few minutes later, she got out of bed, put on her old towelling dressing-gown, and went into the parlour. Her
mum
was clearly already up, because the curtains had been drawn back, but as it was a fairly grey morning outside, the early-morning light was quite dim. But, unlike getting out of bed at this hour back at the barn, the place was warm and cosy, for the gas fire had been lit and was throwing out a welcoming glow around the room. As usual, there was the small Christmas tree on a table at the side of the sofa, decorated with tinsel, cotton wool, and home-made paper chains, and the mantelpiece was proudly displaying a selection of Christmas cards.

Despite all this, however, Sunday found it hard to believe that this was Christmas Day. Every year at this time she had always got up to the sound of church bells ringing out on the wireless, followed by carols and the regular Christmas morning programme,
Postman’s Knock
. Then it was time for scrambled (powdered) eggs and skinny bits of streaky bacon for breakfast with her mum and Aunt Louie, and a trip up to the Salvation Army Hall for the Christmas morning service. But this year it was different. This year she could hear none of the wondrous sounds of Christmas that she had been brought up to love and cherish – the kids in the next door flat, yelling with delight as they woke up at the crack of dawn and excitedly searched the Christmas stockings filled for them by Santa Claus; and the parties and knees-ups in every flat throughout ‘the Buildings’. This year, and every year from now on, her Christmas Day would be reduced to silence, pictures with no sound.

Whilst she was warming her hands in front of the fire, she suddenly felt her mum’s arms hugging her from behind. She turned around to face her.