The Silent War Read online

  ‘Go away!’ she called. ‘I’m in the middle of packing. I hope you’re satisfied!’

  Chapter 2

  Saturday night at the Athenaeum Dance Hall was like a magnet to young people. They flocked there from not only the Parkhurst Road area, which had the dubious distinction of sharing the neighbourhood with the castellated façade of Holloway Women’s Prison on the opposite side of Camden Road, but from places as far apart as Highgate, Muswell Hill, Finsbury Park, Highbury, and the Angel Islington. Its only real rival was the Arcade at the Nag’s Head, but that was usually more busy on a Friday pay night, and was mainly a meeting place for the local Irish ‘Paddys’. The dance floor at the Athenaeum itself wasn’t a particularly large area, more the size of a small church hall, so that when a lot of dancers were crammed together it became more of a shuffle than a waltz or a foxtrot. On most nights, the music was provided by gramophone records of some of the favourite bands of the day, such as Tommy Dorsey, Kay Keyser, Harry Roy, Geraldo, and of course, Glenn Miller, but occasionally there was ‘live’ music such as piano, saxophone, and drums.

  By the time Sunday and Pearl arrived, the place was ‘jumpin’. A small queue had formed at the entrance, and it was all of twenty minutes before they could get inside. Once they had powdered their noses in the cloakroom, they gradually managed to edge their way into the hall itself, where the hordes of dancers were doing their best to find enough space to quickstep to a gramophone record of Jack Hylton and his orchestra playing ‘I’ll See You In My Dreams’. As usual, there were more girls hanging around in groups on one side of the floor, for so many boys were now serving in the forces. But the young boys that did remain had a pretty good choice of dancing partners to choose from, and took their time before they were quite sure who they wanted to go for.

  Within just a few minutes of her arrival with Pearl, two different boys asked Sunday to dance. It was easy to see why, for she looked dazzling in her new blue cotton dress which she had recently bought from Damants Ladies Shop in the Seven Sisters Road with her own ration coupons and a few more donated by her mum. The colour set off beautifully her strawberry-blonde hair, which had been pinned back behind her ears to show off her clear pale complexion and slightly rouged cheeks. Her mum, of course, had disapproved of the alterations Sunday had made to the dress, which she had cut low at the neck to reveal as much of her cleavage as she dared, and also the hemline, which was tacked up to at least an inch above her knees, to reveal her new silk stockings bought on the black market for four shillings. But, like a lot of the other girls who were dancing with each other, Sunday decided to decline the two boys’ offers, and partner Pearl in a slow waltz. However, this didn’t last very long.

  ‘May I have this dance, please, miss?’

  Right in the middle of the crowded dance floor, Pearl turned with a start to find a young soldier boy grabbing her around the waist from behind.

  ‘Lennie! Where yer been? I been lookin’ all over for yer.’

  ‘Didn’t look ’ard enuff, did yer?’ The young soldier spun her round to face him. ‘I was over by the bar.’

  ‘Wot a surprise!’ Pearl had to shout to be heard above the sound of Jack Hylton’s orchestra. ‘The last place I’d ever expect ter find you, Lennie Jackson!’

  To Sunday’s intense irritation, Pearl had her arms wrapped around Lennie’s neck while he kissed her full on the lips. The other dancers were pretty aggravated too, for they pushed and shoved the couple so that they had to move on.

  ‘Sorry about this, Sun!’ Pearl called, as Lennie whisked her off to join the throng of dancers trying to make some sense of the quickstep.

  ‘See yer later, Sun!’ called Lennie. ‘Don’t worry about ’er. I’ll make sure she don’t be’ave ’erself!’

  Left stranded in the middle of the dance floor, Sunday tried to convince herself that she was happy for Pearl. But she wasn’t. She strode off the floor, practically pushing the other dancers out of the way as she went. Making her way straight to the narrow, floor-side bar, she ordered herself a glass of lemonade, the only drink she was used to. Just as well, for, with the exception of rather weak beer, there was currently a very severe shortage of alcohol.

  For several minutes, Sunday stood with her back to the bar counter, surveying the dancers all crushed together and whirling around the floor in what seemed to be one huge mass of bodies. She was particularly sniffy around those girls who, unable like her to afford stockings on the black market, had chosen to cover their legs with make-up. The place was airless, for a thick pall of fag smoke had turned the atmosphere into a dense blue-grey fog. But no one seemed to mind, for even at the bar itself practically every girl and her feller was lighting up yet another cheap fag.

  For several minutes, Sunday sipped her lemonade and tapped her foot in time to another current hit song, ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’, which had sent the dancers into a frenzy of train engine catcalls, as they cut up the hard-used parquet floor with another quickstep. She tried hard not to look envious as some of her ‘Baggie’ mates swept by with their partners, some of them showing off like mad with elaborate steps clearly designed to upset her. But Sunday couldn’t care a toss about their fancy steps. At this moment, the only people she really cared about were Pearl and Lennie, who were clutched so tightly together on the dance floor that there could hardly have been breathing space between them. Every so often Pearl would wave to Sunday as she caught sight of her above the mass of bodies. Sunday waved back, but only half-heartedly, then tried to give the impression that she couldn’t really see them. The fact was, she was as jealous as hell of Pearl, more than she ever thought she could be. Ever since she left school when she was fifteen, she had fancied Lennie Jackson herself, fancied him like mad. His slim body and coarse good looks were everything she had ever wanted in a feller, and with his short, dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and rough Cockney slang, she would have killed to get her hands on him. But she knew only too well that Lennie would never be for her. He had shown her so several times, when he had totally ignored her in favour of any bit of skirt that happened to be around at the time. But why Pearl? It was a question she had asked herself over and over again. How could a real bloke like that go for a girl who was so fat that at this very moment sweat was running down her blood-red face as she danced. Yes, Sunday was jealous all right. If it wasn’t for the fact that Pearl was her best friend, she’d go all out to get Lennie bloody Jackson for herself.

  ‘’As anyone told you, yer’ve got the best tits round ’ere?’

  Sunday had already noticed the boy in RAF uniform who had made his way towards her from the other end of the bar. If she didn’t like his style then it was her own fault, for she had seen him eyeing her, and quite deliberately egged him on.

  ‘Bit of an expert, are you?’ Sunday replied, rather tartly.

  ‘I know the best when I see it.’ The boy’s eyes were flicking back and forward from Sunday’s eyes to her breasts. ‘Fag?’

  Sunday was about to shake her head, when over the RAF boy’s shoulder she caught sight of Pearl waving to her. ‘Ta,’ she replied, taking out a Gold Flake from the packet the RAF boy was holding out for her. Only when the boy had lit the fag, and she drew in the first puff of smoke, did she realise what a daft thing she was doing. However, despite the fact that Sunday had never smoked before, she was quite determined to put on as big an act as she could, and make quite sure that both Pearl and Lennie could see her.

  ‘M’name’s ’Arry. ’Arry Smike.’ The boy was looking all over Sunday with the most come-to-bed eyes she had seen in a long time.

  ‘Sunday.’

  Harry looked puzzled. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘My name’s Sunday,’ she answered, raising her voice to compete with the ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’ catcalls. ‘It’s too long a story to tell why.’

  Harry asked no more. He just grinned at her, puffed at his fag and swallowed as much of the nicotine as he could. He liked this girl. He liked her a lot. She had a good tongue. She had a
good body. This one he was not going to let go.

  ‘What’s the propeller for?’ asked Sunday, nodding towards the small flash on the sleeve of Harry’s blue uniform tunic.

  ‘LAC. Leading Aircraftman.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Well, at least it’s one up from AC plonk.’

  That was good enough for Sunday. Her eyes darted momentarily across to Lennie Jackson, who was bending the dumpy figure of Pearl backwards in some showy exhibition of his quickstep dancing talents. There was certainly no flash of any kind on his plain army tunic.

  For a moment or so, Harry watched this sexy bird sipping from her glass of lemonade, taking in minimal puffs of smoke from the fag he had given her. ‘Wouldn’t yer like somefin’ stronger than that stuff?’ he asked, his lips practically pressed against her ear.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ she said, without turning to look at him.

  ‘Wot do yer do?’

  Harry’s predictable question didn’t worry Sunday one little bit. She merely turned to face him, and with their lips almost touching each other’s replied, ‘I dance.’

  As she spoke, the lights in the hall came up full, and over the tannoy system came the voice of the dance MC: ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen. Boys an’ girls. Take your partners for – the jitterbug!’

  To the accompaniment of a loud cheer from all the dancers, the floor cleared instantly, leaving behind only a small group of younger people, mainly teenagers. From the loudspeaker now came the sound of Kay Keyser and his band with a frantic version of ‘Gotta Gal Named Sal’, which was the cue for the few remaining couples to burst into an energetic display of the latest dance craze – the jitterbug.

  Without warning, Harry suddenly grabbed hold of Sunday’s hand. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You wanna dance? Let’s dance!’

  Pearl and Lennie watched in astonishment as Sunday was dragged by her RAF boyfriend through the crowd of dancers lining the floor, and straight into the small group of jitterbug fanatics who were already twisting and turning and throwing themselves into a wild display of acrobatic dancing.

  With music blaring out from the loudspeaker, and the crowd of onlookers clapping their hands and thumping their feet in time, Sunday, Harry, and the rest of the jitterbug gang leapt at each other, the boys with legs wide apart and knees bent, swaying back and forth to the fast and furious beat, and the girls twisting their heels into the parquet floor, skirts and dresses swirling, holding on to their partners with one hand, and the other hand waving to and fro with the beat. One boy was even bold enough to do a somersault, only to land in a split on the floor. This brought an uproarious cheer from the crowd, which immediately prompted the other members of the jitterbug gang to venture even more daring exploits. After a while, however, the frenetic pace gradually took its toll on the small energetic group, and they were eliminated couple by couple, finally leaving only Sunday and Harry to slog it out.

  At this point, Sunday seemed unstoppable. Her whole body twisted and turned in time to the jitterbug beat, sending shockwaves of lust through every red-blooded young bloke in the hall. As the perspiration ran down her body, her cherished blue dress clung to her so tightly that it accentuated every sensuous curve she possessed. Sunday loved the feeling of total abandonment. She literally gave herself to the throbbing sounds coming out of the loudspeaker on the tiny platform, she embraced them as though they were telling her to go on and on. Although she knew her fresh home-perm would be an early casualty, she recklessly ran her fingers through her strawberry-blonde hair, yelling out a scream of ecstasy at the overpowering musical beat which dominated the room. She was the centre of attention, and she loved it. They were all out there, Pearl and Lennie and the other ‘Baggies’ – all watching, admiring, envying her. Sunday had even caught a glimpse of Ma Briggs, togged up in a tight-fitting black dress, with that same large chunky rolled-gold bracelet that she wore every day of her life. Yes, the old witch was there all right, clinging on to her young piece of trousers from the Nag’s Head pub, and hating every moment of what she was watching on the dance floor.

  Sunday was by now in a state of delirium. She was passionate about music at the best of times, but the sounds she was now hearing were sending her wild. It was much the same with Harry, for the Brylcreem from his hair was now running into the sweat that was streaming down his face. In fact, he was on such a high that he didn’t think twice about taking Sunday to the ultimate goal of the jitterbug. Grabbing hold of her hand, he dragged her to the floor, slid her entire body beneath his legs, and lifted her in one perilous movement up on to his shoulders. This inevitably brought cheers and applause from the crowd, and Sunday, arms outstretched in unrestrained triumph, lapped up all the admiration. But that triumph was to be shortlived. An alien sound had suddenly pierced the roars of excitement from the dance-hall crowd.

  ‘Air-raid!’

  The MC’s shock announcement through the loudspeaker was soon drowned by the wail of the air-raid siren.

  The atmosphere immediately changed to astonishment, for as there had been no air-raids for some time, people had begun to take it for granted that the war was all but over. Whilst the lights in the hall were being quickly extinguished, there was a sudden rush towards every available exit door. Harry quickly lowered Sunday down from his shoulders, took her hand, and tried to lead her through the crowd. But before they could even reach the door, they were separated by the desperate efforts of the dancers to reach the nearest air-raid shelters.

  In the road outside, hordes of people were streaming out of the dance hall. The colourful dresses and elaborate hairdos were quickly forgotten in the mad rush to get away from the place, and by the time Sunday managed to ease herself out of the hall, there were so many people around her that it was impossible to find Harry. Not that she intended to try too hard. The RAF boy wasn’t a bad bit of trousers, but he wasn’t anything to write home about. Anyway, he had served his purpose.

  Sunday decided to make her way home via Hillmarton Road. It was a bit out of the way, but as there was a public shelter in Caledonian Road, she thought it was probably the safer route. By the time she had gone halfway down the quiet back road, the sound of anxious people rushing out of the dance hall behind her was gradually fading. There was a slight breeze, and as it was still only May, there was a cold nip in the night air. As she hurried along, Sunday could hear the clip-clop of her own high heels on the pavement, but it wasn’t too easy to see where she was going, for, despite the spring moon that was popping in and out of dark night clouds, the blackout was preventing any light from filtering through the windows of the tall, terraced Edwardian houses on each side of the road. After a moment or so, she quickened her pace as she began to hear the distant rumble of ack-ack fire, and was only too relieved to see that the sky was still dotted with the ominous dark shapes of silent, brooding barrage balloons, just waiting to deal with any intruder aircraft that might break through the outer London defences.

  Just before she reached the Caledonian Road, Sunday heard the first sound of approaching aircraft. There weren’t many of them, possibly only a couple, but it was enough to set off the ack-ack guns in nearby Finsbury Park. The sudden blast unnerved her, and her hurried walk quickly became a run. But by the time she had reached the stone walls of the old churchyard, the sky seemed to open up, and all hell was let loose. As she ran, Sunday covered her head with her hands, and would have panicked if someone had not suddenly grabbed hold of her around the waist, and dragged her into the cover of the church portico.

  ‘Wot’s a respectable girl like you doin’ out on a night like this?’

  Although it was pitch-dark, Sunday recognised the voice at once. It was Ernie Mancroft, the boy who worked with her down the Bagwash.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ asked Sunday, shivering with the cold. ‘We haven’t had a raid for months. I thought this rotten war was supposed to be over.’

  ‘Not yet it ain’t.’ Even though Ernie’s voice was low, it echoed in the arch of the portico.
‘But it will be after Ike and Monty start the Second Front.’

  ‘Second Front! Second Front! That’s all people ever talk about.’ Sunday was not only cold, but irritable. ‘It’s about time the Allies stopped yakking, and got on with it.’

  ‘Well, all I ’ope is they get on wiv it before I get called up. I don’t fancy catchin’ a packet at my age.’

  Sunday didn’t bother to answer him. Ernie Mancroft had always let it be known that, in his opinion, only suckers wanted to fight for their country. When she thought of all the good blokes from ‘the Buildings’ who’d gone off to fight in the war, she despised him, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before he got his call-up papers.

  As they stood there in the dark, the sound of the two approaching aircraft drew closer and closer, and Sunday began to feel utterly vulnerable. It was the first time she had been caught outside in an air-raid, and she was nervous. Every so often a flash of gunfire lit up the sky, and each time it did so she caught a momentary glimpse of Ernie’s face, staring at her. She didn’t like it, not because he was bad-looking; in fact, he had quite a masculine face for a boy his age, despite his pathetic attempts to grow a pencil-thin moustache. Her main concern was that Ernie fancied her. He had always fancied her, and she knew it. Ever since the first day he set eyes on her when he came to work at the Bagwash, she had caught him staring, leering at her. On one occasion, when she had to squeeze past him in a narrow passage to get to the women’s toilet, she had felt him deliberately press his body against her. But then, in her heart of hearts, she knew that there were times when she had led him on, so if he tried anything she only had herself to blame.

  High above them, searchlights were scanning the sky for the two intruder aircraft, who were dodging in and out of the killer wires of the barrage balloons.

  ‘Must be a couple of strays,’ Ernie said, watching the dark outline of Sunday’s silhouette as he spoke. ‘’Itler’s last fling before it’s all over.’