The Silent War Read online

  By the time she reached the Nag’s Head, where Holloway Road crossed between Parkhurst and Seven Sisters Road, Sunday found herself hoping that the war would soon be over, and that Pearl would be able to get Lennie home safe and sound again. Whilst waiting at the traffic lights to cross the busy Parkhurst Road, she casually glanced up at the puffs of small white clouds that seemed to be sprinting across the blue early-evening sky. And she sighed with relief, relief that it had now been quite some time since out of that very same sky Hitler’s bombers had brought so much death and destruction to the streets of Holloway and the rest of poor old London. Yes, Pearl was right, Sunday said to herself. It’s all over bar the shouting. Nothing to fear now. The war’s over. Now’s the time to have some fun.

  The traffic lights changed and Sunday crossed the road. As she did so, she trod on the previous day’s copy of the Daily Sketch with its bold headline: HITLER’S SECRET WEAPON. The breeze grabbed hold of the heavily soiled newspaper, lifted it, and tossed it up into the mild evening air.

  Peacock Buildings wasn’t quite such a grim place as some of the other Borough Council residential blocks in Islington, and like a lot of similar dwellings built before the Second World War they were at least cheap and functional. Situated on the main road, between the Nag’s Head and Holloway Road Tube Station, ‘the Buildings’, as they were known locally, were constructed of red bricks and concrete and laid out on six floors, which could only be reached by climbing endless flights of well-worn stone steps. Most residents in the surrounding streets were divided in their opinions concerning the look of ‘the Buildings’: some thought they were an eyesore; others thought they added something to the Holloway Road, though as to exactly what nobody was too certain. Luckily, ‘the Buildings’ had escaped the worst of the air-raids during the war, except for endless broken windows and fallen ceilings from bomb-blast in the neighbouring streets.

  As usual, Madge Collins was anxiously peering out through her bedroom window at the rear of ‘the Buildings’, waiting for the first sight of her daughter as she entered the courtyard below. Sunday always hated her mum doing this, for it meant that by the time she had climbed the steps to their flat on the top floor, her tea would be already waiting for her on the parlour table. If there was one thing Sunday hated more than anything else, it was daily routine. Some evenings when she got home, she just felt like sitting down for a while, kicking off her shoes, and listening to some big band music on the wireless. But her mum would have none of it. As soon as the girl came through the front door, tea was on the table, and within minutes the scrambled dried eggs on toast, or sausage and mash, or spam and bubble and squeak was steaming hot beside it. It was a ritual.

  The noise in the yard that evening was deafening. Clearly it was to do with the fine, warm weather, for it had brought out hordes of kids, all yelling and laughing their heads off as they either played hopscotch with a couple of stones, or relentlessly kicked a football against the back wall of one of the blocks. That was the trouble with living in a communal block, no privacy, no peace and quiet for longer than a few minutes at a time. If it wasn’t kids running riot, it was the sound of someone’s wireless set turned up to full volume. Sunday loved music, but not when it was so loud that it practically burst her eardrums. She had always found it peculiar that after all the horrors of the Blitz, when each night the air was fractured with the sound of falling bombs and anti-aircraft fire, people just didn’t seem to relish the opportunity to live a quiet and peaceful life.

  The first thing Sunday noticed as she entered ‘the Buildings’ through the rear door, was the smell of carbolic. When she had left in the morning, a stray dog had clearly found its way on to the second-floor landing and done its big job there. But there was no smell of it now; both the landing and the stairs leading up to it were cleaner than a new pin. And Sunday didn’t have to guess very hard who was responsible for that.

  ‘’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell these people ter keep that bleedin’ door shut downstairs! Every cat an’ dog treats this place like their own personal bog!’

  Jack Popwell was at the door of his flat, polishing the brass letterbox, something he did with regular monotony seven days a week.

  ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you, Mr Popwell,’ said Sunday, as she reached the landing. Despite the fact that she always regarded her neighbour as a bit of a prissy old maid, Sunday was really quite fond of him. He made her laugh, and to her way of thinking anyone who could do that was worth something. And she admired the poor man for the way he’d managed to pull himself together after his missus was killed in an air-raid up near Finsbury Park at the beginning of the war.

  Jack was positively glowing with the compliment Sunday had just paid him. ‘By the way,’ he beamed, adjusting with one finger the small quiff of hair he used to disguise his practically bare pate, ‘I ’aven’t fergotten that jam sponge I promised yer last week. I’m just waiting on me god-daughter ter get me some more saccharin tablets. I’ve got no more coupons left on me sugar ration.’

  ‘No rush, Mr Popwell,’ said Sunday, her eyes constantly flicking up to that quiff. ‘It’ll taste all the better by the time we get it.’

  For a brief moment, Jack Popwell’s smile faded. ‘Tell that to yer Aunt Louie,’ he sniffed, indignantly. ‘Every time she catches sight of me, she goes on about people who don’t keep their promises.’

  The mention of her Aunt Louie’s name suddenly reminded Sunday why she rarely looked forward to coming home from work in the evening. Her mum’s sister. Aunt Louie. Oh God! The thought of seeing that woman again! ‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of her, Mr Popwell,’ replied Sunday reassuringly. ‘Aunt Louie can’t even boil a kettle of water!’

  ‘Sunday? Is that you, luvvie?’

  Madge Collins’s voice echoed down the stone staircase, reminding Sunday that her scrambled dried egg on toast was waiting for her on the parlour table.

  As it turned out, however, dried eggs were not on the menu this evening. As soon as Sunday entered the tiny flat she could already smell the grilled bloaters, which her mum usually got from the fish man who always called with his barrow at ‘the Buildings’ on a Saturday.

  Sunday wasn’t surprised to see that the tea table had been laid with only two places instead of the usual three; clearly, Aunt Louie had decided to eat on her own after the row she and Sunday had had over breakfast that morning. Sunday couldn’t care less. It wasn’t the first time she’d fallen out with her tempestuous aunt, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Despite that, the table itself looked a picture, with a clean white tablecloth, a posy of small spring flowers in a glass tumbler, and a huge brown teapot full to the brim. Each plate contained a pair of sizzling-hot bloaters, and several slices of bread had been sliced from the farmhouse loaf which Madge had bought from Millers the baker earlier in the day. Sadly, there was very little margarine to go with the bread, for the week’s butter coupons had already been used up. Sunday barely had enough time to go to the lavatory, because her mum was already seated at the table waiting to eat with her.

  ‘Wonderful news, luvvie!’ Madge said, excitedly. She was clearly bursting to tell Sunday what she’d had to bottle up all day.

  Sunday looked up from the tiny bones she was trying to separate from the bloaters on her plate. She always loved the look on her mum’s face when she was excited about something. It was a sweet look, full of childish enthusiasm.

  ‘The Army’s on the move!’ Although Madge was already holding her knife and fork, she hadn’t yet started on her bloaters. ‘Every Sunday for the next four weeks. The band’s touring all over Islington – Highbury Corner, the Angel, Essex Road, Hornsey Rise, Highgate. We’re starting off outside the Marlborough Cinema tomorrow afternoon. Colonel Faraday’s coming down from Headquarters to give the address.’

  For a brief moment, Sunday watched her mum with deep affection. To her it was weird enough that Madge always referred to the Salvation Army as ‘the Army’, especially in wartime, but to get
so excited about the band playing hymns outside pubs up and down the borough seemed so trivial. Nonetheless, if that’s what made her mum happy, then Sunday was happy too. After all, her adopted mum had brought her up and cared for her – and taught her how to speak properly, not in a Cockney slang like her mates at work. ‘That’s lovely, Mum,’ was all Sunday could say, as she chewed a piece of dry bread to help down the bloater.

  Madge beamed, and leaned across towards her daughter. ‘You could come along too if you want,’ she said hopefully. ‘Everyone keeps saying how much they’d love to see you at one of the meetings.’

  Sunday put down her knife and fork and looked across the table at her mum. ‘Now don’t let’s go through all that again – please, Mum,’ she said, trying hard not to upset Madge. ‘You know I don’t like getting involved in all that kind of stuff.’

  Madge’s sweet smile faded immediately, and her once cherubic face, now heavily lined, crumpled up in disappointment. ‘You used to – when you were little.’

  Sunday always dreaded this type of exchange with her mum, mainly because the poor woman was so vulnerable. She knew only too well that Madge had to deal not only with her sister Louie’s endless tantrums, but also with a daughter who refused to embrace her own passion for religion. ‘It was different when I was little, Mum,’ she said, biting her lip anxiously. Then she stretched one hand across the table and placed it affectionately on to her mum’s hand. ‘Things were different when I was little, Mum,’ she said softly. ‘I’m grown up now. I have to do things for myself – my own things.’

  ‘But I’m only asking you to come and listen to the band. You love music. You always have.’

  ‘Of course I love music, Mum.’ Sunday felt herself tensing. ‘But not your kind of music. I like to dance to Glenn Miller, or Harry Roy, or Ivy Benson.’

  Madge sat straight in her chair. As she was barely five feet tall and only slightly built, the tea table still seemed to dwarf her. ‘I’ve always told you, Sunday,’ she said, a touch imperiously, ‘dance halls are no substitute for God’s work.’

  Suddenly, Sunday had no appetite for her bloaters. For the next few minutes, she sat back in her chair and listened to another of her mum’s dissertations on how wonderful it was to be one of God’s ‘soldiers’. To Madge, the Salvation Army was the very essence of good itself, always caring for those in need, in peace and war. Unfortunately, Sunday knew that everything her mum was saying was true. The ‘Army’ really were a magnanimous lot, and during the height of the Blitz they had provided food and comfort to everyone who had to endure the nightly aerial bombardments. But, although Sunday certainly shared their beliefs, it was not the way she wanted to live her own life. But it was difficult, oh so difficult. Living in a tiny two-bedroomed council flat with a loving mum who was constantly trying to get her into a bonnet and uniform, and a bullying aunt who was determined to get her way about everything, there were times when Sunday felt as though she was a prisoner in her own home. Oh if only she had known her dad. If only he hadn’t died when Sunday was a tiny child. Things would have been so different. Or would they?

  Sunday’s only escape at times like this was to shut out the sound of her mum’s voice and scan the room. By now she knew the entire pattern of the wallpaper, the same badly hung wallpaper that had remained unchanged since before the war. The pink roses were gradually fading, but the brown woodwork around the windows and wainscoting was still remarkably fresh, with very few chips, and the fawn-coloured tiles around the minute fireplace with its built-in gas fire were virtually glistening in the early-evening sunshine. Although it was a small parlour room, Madge kept it immaculately clean. At home and at work, Sunday often despaired that her whole world seemed to be dominated by the pervading smell of carbolic. She’d loved the time when the whole place had had to be treated with DDT, for Aunt Louie had screamed the place down after finding a cockroach squatting comfortably in the middle of the eiderdown on her bed.

  Sunday’s eyes had now scanned the entire room, from floor to ceiling, kitchen door to passage door and lavatory beyond, and her own bedroom door, and the neat lace curtains from the North London Drapery Stores in Seven Sisters Road, which only partly disguised the anti-bomb-blast tape protecting the glass panes of the two small windows. Finally, her eyes came to rest on the door of the bedroom which her mum shared with Aunt Louie. Until this moment, she hadn’t noticed that the door was slightly ajar. Oh yes! So the old bag’s having a good listen.

  ‘What about Aunt Louie?’

  Sunday knew she was being mischievous, because her voice was raised. But at least it stopped her mum in her tracks.

  ‘Auntie?’ replied Madge, puzzled by the sudden, unexpected question. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is she coming to hear your band playing tomorrow?’

  The question immediately prompted Madge to swing a nervous glance over her shoulder towards the bedroom door. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, so obviously keeping her voice low. ‘Auntie likes to have her sleep on Sunday afternoons.’

  ‘Wouldn’t do her any harm to give up her precious afternoon sleep just for once,’ quipped Sunday, making quite sure her voice carried across to the bedroom door. ‘She’s got nothing else to do all day!’

  Madge immediately panicked, got up from the table, hurried across to her bedroom door, and closed it.

  ‘You mustn’t be unkind to your auntie,’ said Madge, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. ‘You know she’s got a weak heart.’

  ‘Oh come off it, Mum!’ snapped Sunday, getting up from her place at the table, and collecting the plate containing her half-finished bloater. ‘You wait on her hand and foot. She does nothing to help you round here – absolutely nothing! That’s why I blew up at her this morning. I hate the way she just lives off you. It’s time she found a place of her own!’

  Madge was getting more and more flustered. She quickly followed her daughter into the tiny kitchen whilst nervously checking over her shoulder to see if her bedroom door was still closed.

  ‘You mustn’t talk about your auntie like that, Sunday,’ Madge whispered, her carpet-slippers quietly padding on the bare lino floor. ‘I don’t expect her to do things for me. She’s my sister, Sunday, my own flesh and blood. If she left, I – I don’t know what I’d do. Don’t you understand? I love her.’

  ‘Well I don’t!’ Sunday’s response was emphatic.

  Madge looked horrified. ‘Sunday! How can you say such a thing?’

  Sunday remained defiant. ‘It’s true, Mum! You know it is!’ And she meant it. She turned to look out through the kitchen window. In the yard way down below, she could see some of the kids from ‘the Buildings’, shouting their heads off as they kicked their football against the bare brick wall. For as long as Sunday could remember her Aunt Louie had been a total pain in the neck, always rabbiting on at her every time she did anything that the old bag didn’t approve of. Sunday knew only too well that ever since her precious aunt had come to live in the flat all those years ago, she had used her sister as a meal ticket. She was sick to death at the way her mum always took Aunt Louie’s part, going on about how sad she was and how the poor woman had never had any love in her life. Surely it was plain as a pikestaff to see why no bloke in his right mind would want even to touch a cold fish like her. Dear Aunt Louie was nothing but a lazy, interfering old bag, whose influence over Sunday’s mum had caused more trouble in their lives than anything or anyone else.

  ‘You shouldn’t’ve talked to her the way you did this morning, Sunday.’

  Sunday swung round to her mum, and was about to answer her, but Madge spoke first.

  ‘When you have a row with her like that, it’s not Auntie you hurt. It’s me.’

  As much as she loved her, this was one of those moments when Sunday wished that she had a robust mum who was twenty years younger, instead of this meek and mild silver-haired woman who had adopted her over seventeen years before.

  Madge stood with her back to the white enamel sink. Close to t
ears, she seemed a lot older than her seventy-two years. ‘I took Auntie in, because – because when your dad died, I needed someone to talk to – to look after. You were only a little girl. It seemed the right thing to do.’

  Sunday felt awful. She had allowed her hatred of Auntie Louie to overshadow her own mum’s feelings. In the yard below, the kids were shouting louder than ever, and they were beginning to get on Sunday’s nerves. Leaning out of the window, she yelled out, ‘Shut up, will you – you lousy little buggers!’

  The kids briefly stopped kicking their football, to look up at the window of the flat on the top floor. When they saw who was shouting at them, they all raised two fingers at her and yelled insults back.

  Sunday did not bother to exchange banter with them. She merely slammed the window, and turned to face her mum again. With a deep sigh, she went across and put her arms around her. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll try and behave myself.’

  Madge quickly wiped her eyes with her pinny, and looked up at her daughter eagerly. ‘Will you, Sunday? Will you really?’

  Sunday nodded, and kissed her mum on the cheek. ‘Promise.’

  ‘Then will you go and make it up with her?’

  Sunday felt her insides collapse. ‘Mum!’

  There was a begging look in Madge’s eyes.

  Sunday sighed deeply. There was no use pursuing the subject, for she had been through this time and time again.

  A few minutes later, she was back in the parlour, heading towards her mum’s bedroom. For a moment or so, she just stood in front of the door, trying hard to calm herself before going in to face the onslaught, just hoping the old bag hadn’t heard too much of the conversation she’d just had with her mum. Finally, she plucked up enough courage to tap on the door.

  ‘Auntie,’ she called, ‘can I come in?’

  The voice that boomed out from inside sounded more like that of a hefty-voiced man than an elderly woman.