The Silent War (38 page)

‘I ’aven’t opened the windows or the curtains since I ’eard about Bess,’ said the old boy, who clearly hadn’t shaved for a couple of days either, and looked strained and distraught. ’Til I know she’s safe, it’s goin’ ter stay like that.’

Sunday sat in a chair facing him. ‘What’s happened to her, Alf?’

‘She just din’t come ’ome one mornin’. I always know it’s ’er when I ’ear the front door go, that’s usually about seven. But when it got to after ten, I knew somefin’ was up. Oh yes, I knew all right.’

‘Did you – call the police?’ Sunday asked tentatively.

Alf nodded. ’Some smartarsed bluebottle come round ’ere an’ asked me a whole lot er questions. But I din’t know what ’e was talkin’ about ’alf the time. All I know is, two weeks ago last Tuesday, my gel went off ter work at her usual time, but she never come ’ome.’

Sunday bit her knuckle anxiously. Because of the dim light in the room, she was having great difficulty reading
the
old boy’s lips. ‘Did the police tell you what they’re going to do about it?’ she asked.

Alf shook his head. ‘They’re pursuin’ their investigations,’ he spluttered, making an attempt to adjust his ill-fitting false teeth. ‘’Til then, they’re puttin’ ’er on the Missin’ Persons List.’

Sunday thought hard for a moment. What if the police started asking awkward questions? What if they should try to locate the hotel where Bess was supposed to have worked as a night receptionist? If Alf was told the truth about where the money had been coming from all this time, it would probably kill him.

‘Now you listen to me, Alf,’ she said, leaning closer so that he could see as well as hear her. ‘You’re not to worry, d’you hear? I’m sure there’s a straightforward explanation for all this, and we’ll find Bess – sooner or later, we
will
find her. OK?’

The old boy hesitated, then nodded.

‘Now, how are you managing about food?’ Sunday asked.

‘The woman couple er doors down brought me in a kipper yesterday mornin’. It was good of ’er, seein’ as ’ow sniffy they all are in this block. I ate a bit of it. But I don’t eat a lot. No point. Not till Bess gets back.’

Sunday didn’t see her mum until later that evening. It was soon after a Wednesday evening Salvation Army Band concert on Highbury Fields, which was well attended, for not only was the weather hot and muggy, but people had come along to treat it as a premature celebration for the end of the war.

The concert itself had been a roaring success, with crowds of onlookers joining in with the band and singers as they let rip with a selection of some of the most joyous hymns of praise. As usual, Sunday’s mum was looking as pretty as a picture in her black and piped red uniform with matching bonnet and bows, although at times it was quite difficult to pick her out behind the rather large
euphonium
, which obviously required a great deal of puffing and blowing. Madge’s friend, Mr Billings, wasn’t far away either, for although he wasn’t an official member of the ‘Army’, he was helping out by turning the sheet music for Captain Sarah Denning at the harmonium.

When the concert was over, everyone was invited to have a cup of tea at a stall which had been set up earlier in the evening by two of the ‘Army’ volunteers. Although there was a charge of a penny a cup, it was made quite clear that the proceeds were to go to the Salvation Army’s fund for bombed-out war victims. However, Sunday didn’t have to pay for her cup, for her mum had managed to sneak theirs out free of charge. The snag was that whilst they were drinking their tea, Sunday had to endure the ordeal of being smothered by well-meaning attention from several of her mum’s ‘Army’ friends. Within a few minutes, the caring smiles and over-exaggerated lip-talk, which told her such things as she was ‘a credit to Madge’ and ‘what a brave and courageous girl you are’, drove Sunday mad. It was not that she did not admire these wonderful and unselfish people who had done so much to relieve the suffering of tragic war victims, but that by praising Sunday for the way in which she had coped with her disability, they were only making her feel different to everyone else, which is the last thing she wanted. So the moment they had finished their tea, she persuaded her mum to take a slow stroll with her across the Fields.

‘Thank you for coming to the concert,’ said Madge, making sure Sunday could see her lips moving whilst they were strolling. ‘I know it embarrasses you when my friends say nice things about you, but I can’t help feeling proud.’

‘What are you proud
of
, Mum?’ Sunday asked. ‘I’m going to be deaf for the rest of my life.’

‘I’m proud because you’ve learnt how to come to terms with it.’

‘Stop it, Mum!’ Sunday brought them to an abrupt halt. ‘You should know that I haven’t come to terms
with
anything. There’s a battle going on inside me that keeps wanting to tear me apart.’

‘Once the war’s over—’

‘It won’t make any difference when the war’s over, Mum,’ Sunday insisted. ‘I had nearly eighteen years of hearing the sounds of everyday life, eighteen years of answering people when I heard them talking to me, eighteen years of listening to music on the wireless, dogs barking downstairs in the backyard of “the Buildings”, and people singing on the pictures. Have you any idea how I felt knowing everyone was singing their hearts out at your concert tonight, and
I
couldn’t hear them? No, Mum. You don’t give all that up without questioning whether life in the future is going to be worthwhile.’

They started to stroll again, and after a few minutes they came to the perimeter of the Fields facing Highbury Corner. From this position, Sunday had one of her favourite views, for this was where all the roads came together for traffic heading along Upper Street to the Angel, Islington, to Dalston, Hackney, and the City, and to Holloway, the Archway, and the Great North Road beyond.

‘So where do you go from here?’ asked Madge, more subdued now after all Sunday had confided to her.

‘I don’t know, Mum. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.’

For a moment or so, they stood watching the evening traffic as it separated and made off in different directions. They looked out at the gap on the opposite side of the road which had once been the main post office, but was destroyed by a ‘doodlebug’, and the brewer’s horse and cart which was just delivering a fresh supply of beer to the pub on the corner of Holloway Road and Upper Street. Best of all, were the street and shop lights, now back on for the first time since the start of the war. There seemed to be so much happening, that neither Sunday nor her mum said anything. But eventually, Madge knew that she just had to get something off her mind.

‘Sunday,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Is it true what you
said
to Auntie and me last night? About – sleeping with someone?’

Sunday hesitated before replying. Then she said, ‘You’re the second person to ask me that question.’

‘But is it true?’

Sunday was determined to evade her mum’s enquiry. ‘It’s true that someone’s asked me to marry him.’

Madge’s tiny eyes widened behind her spectacles. ‘Sunday! Is it the American boy you told me about when you were home at Christmas? The one who was missing in action?’

‘Yes. But don’t get too excited. He’s gone back to America. I’ll probably never see him again.’

‘But you’d like to marry him.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you love him?’

Sunday sighed. ‘Yes, I love him,’ she said, wishing desperately that Gary was there right now to help her through this conversation.

‘I’m so happy for you,’ said Madge, taking Sunday’s hand and clasping it tightly. ‘But you should have told me. Sunday, why didn’t you tell me?’

Sunday looked away for a moment. When she turned back again, her mum was still waiting for a reply. ‘There are some things that I don’t like to talk about,’ she said. ‘Just like you,’ she added pointedly.

Madge was a bit taken aback by that remark. ‘What do you mean?’

Sunday paused a moment. ‘Mum,’ she asked, ‘why didn’t you tell me that Bess Butler has gone missing?’

Winston Churchill delayed his announcement that the war in Europe was finally over until 3 p.m. on the afternoon of Tuesday, 8 May. By then, practically every windowsill in ‘the Buildings’ had a flag of some sort hanging from it, most of them the Union Jack of course, but also the flags of other Allied nations such as the USA, Russia, and France, and there was even a solitary Chinese flag hanging out from the top of Doll and Joe Mooney’s kitchen window. There was red, white, and blue bunting everywhere, over every outside door, every gate, every tree, and right along the Holloway Road side of all the residential blocks. The end of more than five long tragic years of war had brought a surge of euphoria throughout the country, and everyone in ‘the Buildings’ intended to make the most of it.

During the morning, Sunday helped set up trestle-tables in the backyard, where a tea party for the kids was being held in the afternoon, and a knees-up for the adults in the evening. There was quite a lot of griping from some of the women residents, who were furious that the Government had not allowed any extra food rations for the celebrations, but luckily everyone chipped in with tins of Spam and pilchards for the sandwiches, and so many bowls of different-flavoured jelly that the kids could have floated in it – and some of them did! Earlier in the morning, during a heavy thunderstorm, Sunday had made a brief, emotional visit to the desolate bombsite of Briggs Bagwash. For a few minutes, she stood there alone in the pouring rain, with memories churning over inside,
and
raindrops pelting down on to her umbrella. Then she went on to Highgate Cemetery to place a small bunch of tulips and irises on Pearl’s grave, where the earth had now settled, and a headstone fitted with Pearl’s name engraved along with the words, ‘A Loving Daughter’. Sadly, whilst she was arranging the flowers into an old jamjar, she had been unable to hear the sound of church bells which were ringing out in the distance across the rooftops of London for the first time since the start of the war. It seemed ironic that Sunday’s tearful few minutes alone at her old mate’s graveside should be in such marked contrast to the wild, abandoned joy that was now sweeping through all those who had survived one of the most fierce, ugly, and dangerous conflicts the world had ever known.

The evening VE Day party in the backyard of ‘the Buildings’ turned out to be the happiest and most carefree event the residents had ever seen. Once the tables had been cleared after the kids’ tea party, the adults took over, out came the booze, and the knees-up began. Someone had provided an upright piano, and everyone sang their heads off. Sunday was amazed at the talent around, and she laughed herself silly as she watched the most unlikely residents teaming up to do everything from the old-fashioned waltz to ‘Ballin’ the Jack’. Doll Mooney was having the time of her life. Pissed as a newt and wearing a short party dress that was bursting at the seams, she hardly missed a single dance, leaving her husband Joe, back home from his sexual exploits in Stepney with the bus-conductress, to watch from the sidelines. However, the undoubted stars of the evening were Jack Popwell and his lady-friend, Ivy Westcliff, who showed professional expertise in their own interpretation of the tango. The only person who did not approve was Aunt Louie, who sat on a bench, smoking a cigar one of the men had given her, and chatting with two of her women friends from Swiss Cottage, all of whom were making wry comments about everything and everybody. Throughout the proceedings, there was an air of fervent patriotism, with frequent toasts
to
the King and Queen, to Princess Elizabeth and her sister Princess Margaret Rose, and most especially to the Prime Minister, ‘
Good ol’ Winnie! Gord bless ’im!
’ One teenager had even painted his own face in the colours of a Union Jack, and another had a huge VE printed on his forehead. Sunday loved it all, but by the time everyone had done their umpteenth ‘Hokey Cokey’ and ‘Knees Up Mother Brown!’, the strain of not being able to hear anything that was going on became too much for her, so she left.

In Holloway Road there were still puddles left over from the severe thunderstorm earlier in the day. But at least the storm had cleared the air, and as it was now almost midnight, Sunday found it quite pleasant to walk. There were plenty of revellers around, and it was clear that the street party celebrations would be going on all through the night. In many ways, it was like New Year’s Eve, with groups of people wearing paper hats and blowing party favours, arms linked together as they sang and skipped deliriously up and down the pavement kerbs. All the fears and frustrations of more than five years of war were at last being released, and the streets of Holloway were bursting with exhilaration.

As she walked, however, Sunday couldn’t help thinking about what life would be like after the ‘night before’. At the outbreak of war she had been only twelve years old; as far as she was concerned, the trials and tribulations of adulthood meant nothing to her. Despite the Blitz and all the horrors of aerial bombardment, life in her early teens had been a great big adventure, it meant fun and dancing with her mates, and the traditional teenage contempt for anyone who told her what she should or shouldn’t do. And in some ways, even the nights spent down in the public shelter at ‘the Buildings’ were exciting, because it gave her the chance to spend at least some time away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of her own tiny bedroom. But being grown-up was different. It meant taking things seriously and being responsible.
And
being deaf in a world full of sound was something even more alien.

On the pavement outside the Nag’s Head pub, a crowd of customers in a boisterous mood were singing their heads off. Sunday was the only one who couldn’t make out what the song was, but the streets around were echoing to the sound of ‘There’ll Always Be An England’. As she made her way down Seven Sisters Road, Sunday found it the same outside The Enkel pub and also further along, outside The Eaglet on the corner of Hornsey Road. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were crowds everywhere, and all the pavements were littered with coloured streamers and empty beer bottles. But it was such a joy to see the street gas lamps lighting up the shopfronts again.