The Silent War (26 page)

Sunday watched him stride off down the street. However, he had only gone a few yards when he stopped again and turned. ‘Oh, an’ by the way – Merry Chris’mas!’

With his hands in his trousers pockets, Ernie Mancroft hurried off, and within a few moments he had disappeared out of sight, turning off down Hornsey Road.

Sunday watched Ernie go. This time, she wasn’t angry, just sad. But most of all – she felt guilty.

By the time Sunday had reached the Salvation Army Hall, the Christmas morning service had already begun. So she found a seat at the back of the Hall and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as she possibly could.

The Hall itself was beautifully decorated, with lovely coloured paintings of the Nativity done by children from the Sunday school, and home-made paper chains draped across the stage and all around the walls. As ever, the huge Christmas tree was most impressive, and was lit by the
same
lights that had been used since Sunday was a little girl. Soon after she entered, everyone stood up to sing a Christmas carol, but as she couldn’t hear the words, she had no idea which carol it was. But she soon found the order of service sheet, and it took her very little time to feel the mood and tempo of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. It was an odd experience for her, for practically every Christmas morning of her young life she had come to this Hall and joined in the hearty festive singing with all her Salvation Army aunts and uncles. Now, like so many other things, she could only hear the music and words of the carols in her own memories.

On stage, the band was clearly at full throttle, and it was easy for Sunday to pick out her mum, whose cheeks were puffed out at the mouthpiece of her euphonium. Sunday always got a lot of fun out of watching Captain Drew conducting the band as though it was some vast symphony orchestra, and now that she was unable to hear anything, it had given her a greater awareness of certain things that she had taken for granted all her life. The energy that the singing had radiated throughout the Hall was somehow a potent force, a force of inspiration. Salvationists loved music, they loved to sing and play their instruments, and most of all they rejoiced in sharing it with each other. Sunday’s own mum had been a perfect example of what true dedication was all about. Madge had devoted years of her spare time in the service of poor people, of people who had lost their way in life and had nowhere to go, and the only reward she had ever received for her unselfish contribution had been to bring up Sunday as her own daughter. As she stood there, watching all those Christmas worshippers sway to and fro to the carol music, Sunday thought about her mum. In fact, she thought about her now more than ever before.

When the carol came to an end and everyone sat down, Sunday was able to catch a fleeting glimpse from behind of a white-haired man who was seated just a couple of rows in front of her. It was her mum’s
‘gentleman
friend’, Mr Billings. And a couple of rows in front of him was Jack Popwell from ‘the Buildings’. Seeing so many familiar faces all around her gave her a feeling that she was spending Christmas with a far bigger family than she had ever been used to. In some ways, it helped to erase some of the guilt she felt about the turbulent meeting she’d just had with Ernie Mancroft. Colonel Faraday then stood up to give the Christmas Day address. As he was so far away and she was unable to read his lips, Sunday couldn’t understand what he was saying. So it gave her a chance to come together with her own thoughts. Seated next to her were an elderly couple who absolutely fascinated Sunday because they were holding hands all the way through the service. But then, she thought, why shouldn’t elderly people hold hands if they want to? Surely there should be no age limit between two people who love each other?

For the next few minutes, the Hall remained quite motionless, listening in rapt attention to the homespun message from the portly, ruddy-faced Salvation Army Colonel. Most years, this was always the part of the service when Sunday spent much of the time scanning the Hall for something –
anything
– that would take her mind off all the boring words that always seemed to be bouncing off the high ceiling. But not today. Today was quite different. At this precise moment, Sunday seemed to be assessing her own life, and what the future would hold for her once this seemingly endless war was behind her. She closed her eyes. The first and only image she saw – was Gary. He was sitting opposite her at that table in the Sergeants’ Mess, his short, wavy blond hair catching the glow from an electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling above them. And she could see that smile – that devastating, mischievous smile, caressing and comforting her, and bringing a warm flush to her pallid cheeks. ‘
I want to tell you something, Sunday
.’ Gary’s words suddenly entered her head, and whirled around in a soft but distant echo. ‘
I’ve known girls in
my
time. But none of them has been like you
.’ Sunday, her eyes closed tightly, leaned forward in her chair, head bowed low. In her mind, she was reading those lips, watching those hands make words that she wanted desperately to understand. ‘. . .
I’m warning you, next Christmas – you’re mine
.’ Gary’s words were haunting her. She tried so hard to imagine what his voice would have sounded like. Would his accent have been soft and gentle, or clear and sharp? If only she could have heard it with her own ears, just once. If only. It was also hard to believe that Gary was not right there beside her now, willing her to stop feeling sorry for herself and urging her to get on with her life. But it was even harder for her to believe that she would never see that face again, nor read the lips and hands that would remain a burning image within her for the rest of her life. As she sat there, hunched up in her seat, she felt her stomach start to shake. Everything inside her was telling her to cry, to release all the frustration and sense of loss that she was unable to cope with. But the tears just wouldn’t come. Like all the emotions she had been born with, tears were elusive. ‘
Oh, by the way. I almost forgot
.’ Once again, Gary’s voice soared through her troubled brain. ‘
Since I won’t be seeing you again before Christmas, this is for you
.’

The moment she heard those words, Sunday’s hand dug deep into the pocket of her duffle coat. Slowly, she brought out the small packet that Gary had given her and asked her not to open until Christmas morning.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the present, and after holding it tightly in her hand for a moment, opened it. Inside she found a jewellery box containing a gold locket surrounded by mother-of-pearl and set on a fine gold chain. In the centre of the locket was a tiny snapshot photograph of Gary in cap and uniform. He was smiling. It was a typical mischievous Gary smile.

Sunday placed the small locket in her palm, and after studying it closely for a moment, she closed her hand tightly around it.

At long last the tears came. And it helped.

So far, it had been a lousy Christmas for Doll Mooney. For a start, the week before she had trudged the streets of Holloway to find a turkey, but because there weren’t many of them around this year, she had to make do with a chicken that looked as though it had died of old age. Then on Christmas Eve, the kids had kept her awake half the night waiting for Father Christmas to come down the blocked-up chimney with their presents. And if that wasn’t bad enough, just as she was getting to sleep, her husband Joe, who had come home blind-drunk from the Nag’s Head, tried to have sex with her. Already two months gone with her fifth, she soon put a stop to that! Luckily, however, Joe always managed to sober up fairly quickly after a night out, and at the crack of dawn Doll was relieved when he went off to an early-morning Mass at the Roman Catholic Church in Upper Holloway. Anyway, once the old-age pensioner bird had been devoured by an army of hungry mouths, Joe was off again. Doll knew where he was going, but pretended she didn’t. So once he’d gone, she sent the kids off to play with their pathetic wartime toys in their own bedroom, got rid of her own mum and dad for an afternoon nap in her and Joe’s bedroom, and then settled down herself to a cup of tea and a piece of Woolworth’s Christmas cake with Sunday, who had just popped in for a quick visit.

‘’E’s got this woman up at Stepney,’ Doll gabbled, as she smoked a Gold Flake fag, sipped some tea, and ate a piece of fruit cake all at the same time. ‘Conductress on
the
buses, can you believe! I mean, yer’d fink ’e could do better than that. Someone wiv more class at least!’ She roared with laughter at her own joke, then flicked her fag ash into her saucer which was balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa where she was sprawled out.

Sunday was amazed how calmly Doll had reacted to Joe’s unfaithfulness. ‘When did you find out about all this, Doll?’ she asked.

‘Oh, right back last summer I knew ’e was ’avin’ a bit on the side. In fact, ’e’s always ’avin’ a bit on the side – lots er bits. That’s the trouble wiv Joe – sex-mad!’

‘But don’t you mind?’

‘Wot’s the point?’ Doll replied, unwittingly dropping a few currants on the floor as she munched her piece of cake. ‘Joe’s always ’ad an eye fer a bit of crumpet – even when I first met ’im. Men are like that. Always got an itch in their trousers.’

Sunday found it a bit difficult to follow Doll, because as she spoke she had a habit of turning away. ‘But if he’s unfaithful,’ she asked, ‘why don’t you just kick him out?’

‘Don’t be silly, Sun,’ Doll spluttered, her mouth full of cake. ‘Why would I do that when I love ’im?’

Sunday was bewildered. Most people in ‘the Buildings’ had always known what an odd couple the Mooneys were, but how could Doll humiliate herself by holding on to this man?

‘I look at it this way,’ Doll continued, putting her feet down on the floor and sitting up straight on the sofa. ‘Joe’s been a good farver to ’is kids, never lets ’em want – nor me neiver, come ter that. But if yer try ter tie ’im down, yer’ve lost ’im. An’ the trouble is, I don’t want ter lose ’im.’

As Sunday watched Doll pulling on her fag and again flicking the ash into her saucer, it suddenly occurred to her what an attractive woman Doll must have been in her younger days. But after four kids and another one on the way, she had let herself go, for these days she
hardly
even bothered to put a comb through her straight shoulder-length brown hair; her whole appearance suggested neglect and a lack of interest in how she looked.

‘But surely you can’t keep going on having kids, knowing Joe’s out with other women all the time?’ asked Sunday.

‘Oh, don’t you worry, Sun,’ replied Doll instantly. ‘This is the last – make no bones about that! I told ’im last night, from now on ’e’s got ter tie a bleedin’ knot in it!’

They both laughed, but as they did so, there was the sound of a rumpus coming from the kids’ bedroom.

Doll leapt up from the sofa, rushed across to the bedroom door, and called, ‘You lot wake up yer nan and grandad, and I’ll separate all of yer from yer bleedin’ breff!’

Although Sunday couldn’t read exactly what Doll was saying, she had a pretty good idea, and it made her laugh.

‘I’ll tell yer somefin’, Sun,’ Doll said when she returned. ‘This war does funny fings ter people. I mean, a few munffs ago we fawt it was all over. An’ then these bleedin’ planes wiv their arses on fire come along. Then the rockets. An’ suddenly, we’re all back ter square one. I tell yer, I’ve not seen people so fed up – not since the Blitz.’ She sat down on the sofa again, and curled her legs up beneath her. ‘Yer know, it’s not bin easy fer my Joe.’

Sunday put down her cup and saucer on a small table beside the armchair she was sitting in. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Bein’ Irish an’ all that. Sometimes ’e feels like a square peg in a round ’ole. ’Specially durin’ wartime. If ’e ’adn’t bin a Caffolic, I fink ’e’d ’ave gone off ’is chump. Some people in the Buildin’s don’t go a bunch on the Paddys. They reckon they should’ve bin interned for the duration of the war, like the Jerrys and the Dagos.’

Sunday knew exactly what Doll meant. When the war
broke
out, it was common knowledge in ‘the Buildings’ that certain residents resented the presence of some Irish people who lived in the district, suspecting them of having sympathy with the Nazis. It was because of this prejudice that the likes of Joe were often treated with suspicion, and never allowed to work near ‘sensitive’ wartime establishments.

‘Anyway, Joe knows I’ll never desert ’im,’ Doll continued, lighting up another fag. ‘As long as he goes on lovin’ me, ’e can ’ave as many flings wiv ’is women as ’e wants.’ She pulled deeply on her fag, held the smoke briefly in her lungs, then exhaled very, very slowly.

‘But if the time comes when
I
stop lovin’ ’
im
,’ said Doll, ‘it’ll be a very different matter.’

On Boxing Day there was a brief fall of sleet. It didn’t last long, and the moment the sun popped out from behind grey clouds, there was a quick thaw, and the roads and pavements glistened with a slippery, wet surface.

After a midday meal, Aunt Louie went off to play cards at a Ladies’ Bridge afternoon at a house up in Liverpool Road. So Sunday agreed to go with her mum to Archway Central Hall, where the Salvation Army were giving a tea party for people who had been bombed out of their homes, and also for the usual sad crowd of down-and-outs. Madge and Sunday were collected by Mr Billings, who took them in his old Morris Minor car, but it was a tight squeeze in the back seat because Sunday had to share it with one of her Salvation Army ‘aunties’, who had to bring along two aluminium teapots and a bucket full of party balloons, paper hats, and song-sheets. On the way up Holloway Road, Sunday took a wistful look out at the poor old Gaumont Cinema, once the pride and joy of the entire neighbourhood, but now reduced to an empty shell thanks to the ‘doodlebug’ which had landed on its roof during the previous August.

The party itself turned out to be far less solemn than Sunday had expected, for most of the people there were
determined
to have a good time. She even joined in the knees-up with a group of elderly people who had been bombed out of their homes by a V-2 rocket which had fallen on nearby Grovedale Road. The fact that she couldn’t hear the piano playing made very little difference, for all she had to do was copy what everyone else was doing. But, as much as she entered into the spirit of things, it was no patch on the good time she’d had on Boxing Day afternoon the previous year, when she and Pearl had paid ninepence each up in the ‘gods’ at the Finsbury Park Empire, where, alongside a theatre full of kids and their families, they hissed the villains and cheered the heroes in the annual Christmas panto,
Babes in the Wood
.