The Silent War (47 page)

More than anything else, Sunday missed Gary. Since coming back from Ridgewell she was only now realising what an influence he had been on her life, how he had given her the confidence to cope with the trauma of being deaf, and the will to survive even the most challenging situations. Most of all, she missed Gary himself, his quirky sense of humour and those pale blue eyes that turned her knees to jelly. She missed the warmth of his body lying beside her, she missed his cheek resting against her own and the touch of his short, wavy blond hair as she ran her fingers through it. She couldn’t bear the thought that she might never see or even hear from him again. Nothing or no one could replace him. Not even Pete Hawkins.

Sunday’s relationship with Pete was getting nowhere. It wasn’t his fault, and she knew it. After their solitary night of passion, Pete had asked her back to his flat several times, but Sunday had always found an excuse to decline. The fact was, of course, that she had only used Pete as an outlet for her unhappiness and frustration. In her own mind, she was telling Gary that if he didn’t want to contact her any more then that was fine with her, that as far as she was concerned, there were plenty more fish in the sea, and she didn’t need him. But the fact of the matter was that she
did
need him, and the way she was feeling right now, she was finding it hard to do without him. After a while, Pete began to get the message, and he gradually stopped pursuing her. Not that he didn’t fancy her any more, but the competition from someone he didn’t even know was too much. However, they remained good friends, and when Sunday did eventually start talking to Pete about her feelings for Gary, the young deaf and dumb teacher became an even better friend. On his advice, Sunday wrote to the Commanding Officer at Ridgewell Airbase to see if she could get some information concerning Gary’s whereabouts. Needless to say, the reply she got was fairly official and vague, and all she discovered was that, at the end of June, Gary had been transferred to combat air
duties
in South-east Asia. Which left one big question unanswered. The war out there was now over, so why hadn’t Gary written?

As summer gradually turned to autumn, the worst problem for Sunday was loneliness. With the nights drawing in again, once she had got home from school in the late afternoon, she felt that she didn’t want to go out anywhere or see anyone. And when she remembered how only a year or so before she had been dancing with Pearl up at the Athenaeum every Saturday night, she again questioned what she was going to do with her life. And always at the back of her mind was the nagging feeling about who she was and where she came from. At the beginning of November, however, her life was to change dramatically.

It came after the Armistice Day Service of Remembrance at Islington Green, in which the Salvation Army joined representatives from the Armed Forces in honouring the dead of two world wars. Sunday had always tried to avoid this annual event, for she found it such a sad and sombre occasion. But, as her mum’s old ‘Army’ band was playing at the service, she decided to go and give her support. Despite the bitterly cold morning, there was quite a crowd around the modest white stone war memorial, and amongst them were several local dignitaries, like Dr Eric Fletcher MP and the Mayor of Islington. Sunday thought it was a very poignant sight, for everyone, including herself, was wearing a red poppy in their buttonhole, which seemed to be a wonderful symbol of all those young men and women who had given their lives for their country in two horribly savage wars.

During the service, Sunday stood next to her mum’s old Salvation Army friend, Captain Sarah Denning, who constantly kept her informed about the next item. Although Sunday couldn’t hear any of the readings, the address, or the hymns, during the one minute’s silence on the stroke of eleven o’clock, she deliberately kept her eyes open so that she could study the dignified, but war-weary faces of
the
young and old veterans. As soon as the service was over, and the military and civil procession had wound its way back to the Town Hall, Sunday and Captain Sarah walked together down Upper Street towards Highbury Corner. As they passed the imposing grandeur of St Mary’s Church, the congregation was just swarming out on to the pavement after their own Remembrance Day Service, and the pealing of the church’s bells could be heard quite clearly above the rooftops from the Angel to Canonbury and Highbury.

Once they had crossed the main road to get away from the St Mary’s crowd, Sunday and Captain Sarah ambled along at a slow, comfortable pace, regardless of the fine frosty rain that was beginning to dampen their topcoats.

‘You must miss your dear mum a great deal,’ Captain Sarah said, adding wistfully, ‘I know
we
all do.’

Sunday never found it easy trying to watch what people were saying whilst walking together. But Captain Sarah was different. She had a wonderful aptitude for summing up a situation, and doing the right thing. ‘I can hardly believe it sometimes,’ Sunday replied.

‘Madge was such an important part of our group, you know,’ said Captain Sarah, as she strolled along, clutching her Bible in both hands in front of her. ‘It’s taken all our strength to carry on without her. However,’ she said, with a glowing smile, ‘at least we’ve inherited you.’

Puzzled, Sunday was about to question her, when two small snotty-nosed kids rushed by, giggling and yelling at the funny lady in the bonnet and uniform.

‘What do you mean?’ Sunday asked, as soon as the kids had disappeared.

‘Surely you must know what your mum’s dearest wish was?’

Sunday shook her head.

Captain Sarah beamed. ‘For you to join us.’

Sunday came to a dead halt. ‘
Me
!’ The look on her face told what she thought.

‘Why yes,’ replied Captain Sarah. ‘Your mum was
always
telling us how much you embraced the things we do.’

Sunday stared in horror at the bright face looking straight at her. In her mind she asked how her mum could have given such an impression? Yes, it was certainly true that Sunday had always admired everything about the selfless work the men and women of the Salvation Army were always doing for the community, but the idea of her becoming a part of it all scared the life out of her. And yet, she didn’t know why. They were, after all, just ordinary men and women, good Christians who were joined together in a common faith. So what was there to be afraid of?

Sunday shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Denning,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for anything like that – not just yet.’

Captain Sarah smiled serenely. It was an infectious smile that immediately transformed her long, droll face into that of a naughty, mischievous schoolgirl. ‘We’re not all doom and gloom,’ she said, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘We have a lot of fun at the Hall.’

Sunday tried to smile. But although she had a great deal of time for Captain Sarah, the idea of taking over her mum’s place in the Salvation Army was still too unnerving.

‘Anyway,’ continued the Captain, patting Sunday gently on the cheek, ‘there’s no rush. After all, we’re not going to run away.’

They moved on, and a few minutes later they reached Highbury Corner, where a drunken old regular was just leaving the pub. But when he suddenly caught sight of the Salvation Army officer just passing by, he quickly swivelled round on his heels and beat a hasty retreat back inside.

The incident made both Sunday and Captain Sarah laugh. ‘Looks like there’s one sinner who’s not yet ready to be redeemed!’ said the Captain, with a hearty chuckle.

After crossing the road, they had soon reached the entrance door of the Mission Hall. Captain Sarah invited Sunday to come in and join some of the group for a cup of tea. At first Sunday refused. The place had so many difficult associations with her past life that she just didn’t feel she could cope with it. But soon after she had taken leave of Captain Sarah, she had second thoughts. A few yards along Holloway Road, she turned and made her way back to the Salvation Army Hall.

As soon as she was inside the building, she knew that she had made a mistake. Wave upon wave of panic swept through her, and by the time she had entered the Hall itself, the sight of that same platform where she had been shown her mum’s dead body filled her with a sense of guilt and despair. To make things worse, she suddenly found herself surrounded by all sorts of well-meaning friends.

‘Sunday!’ ‘Hallo, Sunday, my dear!’ ‘How lovely to have you with us again!’ ‘Your mum would be so proud to know you were here.’ In every direction she looked, there was a sea of faces, all of them with lips that seemed to be moving in grotesque shapes. It was such a strange feeling, for she knew that behind every one of those faces were kind, decent, and loving people. But she felt hemmed in by them, as though they were quite unintentionally trying to suffocate her. Then Captain Sarah eased her way through the group, and hugged her. After saying something that Sunday didn’t understand, she led the way towards a table in front of the platform where one of the uniformed ladies drew a cup of tea for her from an urn. Sunday took the cup, and tried to respond to what people were saying to her from one side to the other. She tried to smile, but somehow it felt false. Then she tried to sip her tea, but it was too hot and she burnt her lips. Something was happening to her, and she didn’t know what. She felt as though she had a fever, for she was now burning-hot, and her underclothes were wet with perspiration. Everyone was
making
such a fuss of her, everyone was so sympathetic, so over-sympathetic. They were radiating goodness, and she felt wretched for not being able to respond. But why was it that there was such a fine line between good and evil? These people were undoubtedly good, they were God’s creatures, God’s messengers. And yet, she was afraid of them. Why? Why? Why?

Sunday was in such a state of panic that she suddenly dropped her cup of tea, which went cascading down on to the wood-tile floor, smashing into pieces. She had no idea what was happening to her, and while she was apologising for all the trouble she had caused, she was unconsciously backing her way through the group, and heading for the entrance door. Although everyone was deeply concerned, Captain Sarah beckoned to them to give Sunday some breathing space.

As she continued to back down the corridor, Sunday could see the Captain coming after her, arms outstretched, calling to her. But Sunday was shaking her head, and just couldn’t stop.

In the street outside, Sunday could at last breathe again. The ice-cold drizzle was now turning to sleet, and she turned her face upwards to cool it down. As she did so, Captain Sarah followed her out, and she could tell that the poor woman was calling her name.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Denning!’ Sunday repeated over and over again. And she kept on backing away from the entrance, further and further across the pavement towards the kerb. ‘I shouldn’t have . . . I didn’t want to . . . I’m sorry, sorry . . .’

‘Sunday! Don’t go any further, Sunday! The road!’

Sunday didn’t understand what the woman was saying, and when some of the others came out to join her, it only made her panic even more. ‘I’m sorry!’ she called out again in utter confusion. ‘I can’t! I just can’t . . .!’

She had no idea that she had stepped off the pavement and was now backing across the road. She was also unaware that a small goods van was hurrying towards her.

The moment the van hit her, Sunday seemed to be tossed into the air as if in slow motion. As she came down again, the back of her head hit the hard tarmac road with a thump.

When Sunday regained consciousness, she found herself in a hospital bed, her head swathed in bandages. It took her several minutes to recover her faculties, but when she did, a searing pain shot across the back of her head. She had a burning desire to sit up, but as she tried to do so she felt a sharp pain in her right shoulder, which was strapped up. So she flopped back on to her pillow again, and as there was no one around her bed she could turn to, she closed her eyes and just lay there.

Gradually, images started to dance across her mind. Captain Sarah and those people at the Salvation Army Hall, all stretching out towards her. Then it all came back. The cup and saucer smashing to pieces on the floor, her backing out into the street, the frantic look on Captain Sarah’s face as she called out to her, and suddenly, the dark rain-swept sky whirling round and round as she spiralled out of control through the air. Only then did she remember what started it all. The humming sound. Subconsciously, her hands were gripping the blanket on top of her. She felt quite giddy, and lacked all sense of cohesion. And then she heard it again. The humming sound. A voice? No. It wasn’t possible – imagining it again. There it was again! A voice! Yes – definitely. Small and distant. A voice! Her chest was heaving up and down beneath the sheets. She felt sick. She felt giddy. Humming? No – a voice!

‘Sunday?’

Someone was gently stroking her face.

‘Sunday?’

A voice!

‘Are you awake, Sunday?’

Sunday’s eyes sprang open. The smiling face of a nurse was staring down at her.

‘Hallo, Sunday.’ Sunday saw the girl’s lips move. But as she watched her, she also heard her voice. Far and distant – but she
heard
it.

Her stomach lurched. Then she was sick all over her pillow.

Mr Callow had already spent nearly two hours peering into Sunday’s ears, probing around with cotton buds and all kinds of surgical instruments, and looking at the results of the latest tests and X-rays. It had been another exhausting day in the ENT Clinic for Sunday. She had spent most of the time in a special examination room where every few minutes different specialists and therapists had come in to look at her eyes, her nose, her throat, feeling for any tenderness beneath the ears, and using all sorts of gadgets to peer down at the size, shape, and condition of her eardrums. Then there were the nurses, who took her temperature, blood tests, and pulse. She felt like a guinea-pig. The only difference from all the tests she had taken just a few weeks ago, was that whilst these ones were being carried out, she could hear the faint voices of those who were discussing her. Needless to say, there was quite a lot of scepticism as to whether she was fantasising about regaining her hearing, so that it became a wonderful game for her to play when she was able to tell people what they were saying whilst their backs were turned towards her.