The Silent War Page 5

  Once the soul of ‘John Brown’s Body’ had gone marching on, a tall, gangly man stepped forward to address the crowd. Despite the weather, there was a radiant glow on his face, and although his red and black Salvation Army cap and uniform were soaking wet, they fitted him perfectly.

  ‘Brothers and sisters – welcome!’

  Sunday hadn’t seen the officer before, so she imagined he was the bigwig from Headquarters her mum had been so excited about.

  ‘God has brought us here together to this place today,’ proclaimed Colonel Faraday. ‘Let us rejoice in His work! Let us rejoice in the Family of Man!’

  Sunday wasn’t really in the mood for rejoicing, not even for the Good Lord Himself. As for the Family of Man, she let that pass. Man? Why not Family of Woman, or Family of ‘Aunties’ and ‘Uncles’? No, she was more interested in all those Salvation Army faces spread out before her. And especially the ‘uncles’. If she was to believe the venom her aunt Louie had tried to pour into her over breakfast that morning, that her mum was getting ‘more than friendly with a gentleman friend up at the Hall’, then she had to know which one.

  Madge caught a brief glimpse of Sunday beneath her brolly, and gave her a broad smile. But when Colonel Faraday asked everyone to pray, she had to close her eyes like everyone else.

  Sunday, however, did not close her eyes. Not because she didn’t approve, but because she just had to study those faces. She knew very well how much her mum had missed her dad over the years, but was she really capable of having a ‘friendship’ with another man? Sunday stared hard along the rows of glistening, rain-soaked faces. Which one? Which one?

  ‘Close yer eyes, yer naughty gel.’

  Sunday didn’t have to turn around to know who was standing just behind her. It was Bess Butler.

  ‘You’ll never go ter ’Eaven if yer don’t listen ter wot the man says.’ Bess kept her voice low as she spoke into Sunday’s ear from behind.

  Sunday couldn’t resist stepping backwards out of the crowd to join Bess. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you, Bess,’ she said, holding her brolly over both of them. ‘I’ve had just about enough of all this for one day.’

  Bess grinned. ‘Feel like a cuppa?’

  Sunday didn’t have to be asked twice.

  When Madge Collins opened her eyes again, her heart sank as she discovered that Sunday had left the crowd. And her cherubic face soon crumpled up in disdain when she saw in the distance her daughter making her way back along the Holloway Road with their neighbour, Bess Butler.

  It never failed to surprise Sunday how different Bess’s flat in ‘the Buildings’ was to the one she lived in with her mum and Aunt Louie. Not that number 7 was any cleaner or tidier than number 84 – quite the reverse in fact – but that Bess and her husband, Alf, had managed to create a home rather than just somewhere to exist. Number 7 was a corner flat on the third floor, overlooking Holloway Road on one side and Camden Road on the other. Despite the fact that Alf was a keen do-it-yourself fanatic, none of the rooms had seen a new coat of paint since before the war, but only because home decoration materials of any kind had been hard to come by. However, Bess had managed to give the place a stylish look, for in the parlour she had frilled and looped the lace curtains, hung framed copies of old paintings which she had bought from second-hand junk shops, and placed the parlour table by the Camden Road window so that she and Alf could watch passers-by down below. All the furniture was utility-made, which meant that it was very plain, simple, but functional.

  ‘Never expected to see you spending your Sunday afternoon listening to a Salvation Army Band,’ said Sunday, who sat in the most comfortable of the utility armchairs. ‘Weren’t you bored out of your mind?’

  Bess, who had kicked off her shoes and had her legs curled up on the sparse utility sofa, replied, ‘Let me tell yer somefin’, Sun. I don’t believe in knockin’ the old Glory Brigade. At least they’re good an’ ’onest – they care about people. Which is more than yer can say about some of the shit in these “Buildin’s”.’ She picked up an already open packet of American cigarettes from the floor beside her, and offered one to Sunday. ‘Fag? Oh no, I fergot – yer don’t, do yer?’

  To Bess’s surprise, Sunday stretched across and helped herself to a cigarette.

  Bess shook the pack until she was able to take out one of the cigarettes with her lips. ‘I remember ’ow they looked after everyone durin’ the Blitz. Bloody saints they was, servin’ up tea to firemen and injured people wiv bombs droppin’ all ’round ’em, sayin’ prayers over dead people, singing hymns to cheer people up. No, mate. Bess Butler don’t knock people like that.’

  The more Sunday knew Bess, the more she liked her. Most important of all, she respected her. Although Bess was over twenty years older than herself, she felt a great affinity with her. When she was in her company she felt relaxed, and able to talk about the things that worried her. Bess also had the knack of making her feel that she wasn’t just a seventeen-year-old kid, but a young woman with a mind and feelings of her own.

  ‘Your mum’s like that, yer know. A good person – right down to ’er bones.’

  Bess leaned across to light Sunday’s fag, but smiled a bit when the smoke made the girl cough. ‘’Ow’s the old gel gettin’ on?’ she asked.

  Sunday shrugged her shoulders, and quickly tried to inhale another mouthful of smoke.

  ‘Wos up?’

  Sunday, unsuccessful in her attempts to inhale the smoke into her lungs, looked across at Bess. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

  ‘Come on, Sun. I weren’t born yesterday, yer know.’

  From the floor at her side, Sunday picked up the cup of tea that Bess had made. There was no saucer. Bess didn’t believe in such etiquette.

  ‘Bess,’ said Sunday, leaning back in her chair, her eyes staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. ‘D’you think my mum’s too old to have a boyfriend?’

  Now it was Bess’s turn to cough out some fag smoke. ‘Say that again.’

  Sunday swung back to look at her friend. ‘I’m not joking, Bess.’

  Bess took her legs off the sofa, and turned to face Sunday. ‘Is yer mum too old ter ’ave a boyfriend?’ she repeated in a high-pitched voice. ‘Who told yer that, may I ask?’

  ‘Aunt Louie.’

  Bess suddenly let rip with a fag-filled chesty laugh that was loud enough to wake up a dead man, let alone all the neighbours. ‘Good old Louie!’ she bellowed. ‘Never fails ter come up wiv somefin’ new!’

  For a moment, Sunday just watched her friend as she rocked to and fro with laughter. She liked Bess too much to care whether she was taking the piss out of her. Besides, she admired this woman so much. For her age, she was such a good-looking woman, and even though she wore too much make-up, she had a wonderful milk-white complexion, blue eyes, and a full bust that needed very little help from a bra. Sunday knew, of course, that Bess’s hair was dyed dark brown, but as she had never seen the original colour, she had no idea what it actually was.

  Bess gradually stopped laughing, and fixed her young friend with an affectionate smile. ‘’Ow old are yer now, Sun?’

  Sunday hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Seventeen! God – are yer really? It don’t seem possible.’

  Bess picked up her own cup of tea from the floor, got up from the sofa, and walked across the room to the window. As soon as she got there, she swung around to look at Sunday. ‘Don’t be a nark, Sun,’ she said, firmly. ‘If yer mum ’as got a boyfriend, then good luck to ’er. Every woman should ’ave a boyfriend, no matter ’ow old she is, no matter if she’s married or not. Why should fellers ’ave all the fun? Women ’ave a lot ter offer, Sun. Don’t you ever ferget that.’

  For one brief moment, Sunday felt embarrassed, and she had to lower her eyes. What Bess had said was obviously what Bess herself had always felt. The fact was, Bess was a woman with – a reputation. She loved her husband – yes, that was without doubt. But everyone in ‘the Buildings’ knew
about her other life, the life she led down ‘the Dilly’, Piccadilly Circus in the West End, where she had been seen night after night ‘on the game’ outside the Stage Door Canteen, where she was available for any well-paid American serviceman who wanted a good night out. Bess had never confided in Sunday as to why she had to do such a thing, and Sunday had never asked. But the only person who didn’t seem to know what was going on was Bess’s old man, Alf, who was now prematurely retired on account of ill health, and who had always been under the impression that the bread his missus was earning came from all-night work as a receptionist at a posh West End hotel.

  Bess was soon aware of Sunday’s discomfort. She crossed to the parlour table, stubbed out her half-finished fag, took out another one from the packet, and quickly lit it. ‘Tell me somefin’, Sun,’ she said, briskly, fag in lips, one elbow resting on her hand. ‘Are yer still a virgin?’

  Sunday looked up with a start. If it had been anyone else asking her that sort of question – anyone, even her own mum – she would have exploded. But because it was Bess, she had no hesitation at all in answering. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not.’

  Bess paused a moment before continuing. ‘Does that worry yer?’

  Sunday looked surprised. ‘No. Why should it?’

  ‘No reason. Oh, don’t worry, I ’ad my first session when I was a good bit younger than you. It’s all right if yer enjoy it, if yor careful.’ Without realising what she was doing, she went back to the ash-tray and stubbed out her newly lit fag. ‘The only fing is, it’s not worf takin’ chances, Sun. If yer take chances, well—’ For her own reasons, Bess made a point of avoiding Sunday’s look. ‘I don’t ’ave ter tell yer, do I?’

  After an odd, brief silence between them, Bess went across to Sunday, and crouched down on the floor beside her. ‘This lot ’round ’ere reckon yor a bit of a wild’un. Wot d’yer reckon, Sun?’

  Sunday grinned. ‘If that’s what they think, let them think it.’

  Now Bess grinned too. ‘Good fer you, gel,’ she said, taking hold of Sunday’s hands, and clasping them into her own. ‘But look, wot I’ve said to yer before still goes. If yer ever want ter talk ter me about anyfin’ – anyfin’ at all – yer will do so, won’t yer?’

  Sunday’s grin broadened at once into a beaming smile. She nodded a very definite yes.

  Bess squeezed Sunday’s hands, and also smiled. ‘’Ave a fag,’ she said, taking the packet and offering her one. ‘No. Take the packet,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where they came from.’

  Chapter 4

  Sunday liked to have a good time. That was something she had never denied. It was true what Bess Butler had told her, how a lot of people in ‘the Buildings’ had thought of her as a bit of a ‘wild’un’. But in Sunday’s opinion, it wasn’t her fault. Apart from the fact that she had been brought up by two elderly women instead of her own mum and dad, the war had prevented her from having the freedom to do all the things a girl of her age would like to do. Everything was hard to get – decent clothes, make-up, nice food, lots of little luxuries like eau de cologne, paper and envelopes, even empty milk bottles had to be handed back because there was a shortage of glass, and she was not even allowed to leave the wireless set switched on for too long in case it wasted the valves. Yes, life for a teenager during wartime was not only hard, it was unnatural. Unnatural because she was forced to act and think like an adult, and thinking things out for herself was something Sunday was always reluctant to do. It was like being asked to make a decision. Why should someone of her age be expected to do things like that. Surely decisions were the responsibility of old people, like her mum. She couldn’t bear being told by people to ‘grow up, and stop behaving like a child’. If making decisions was being ‘grown-up’, then Sunday wanted no part of it. Anyway, the war had deprived her of her childhood, a fact which she deeply resented. Most times she was at war with the world, and that included her own friends.

  Oddly enough, however, Sunday did occasionally feel remorse, and after two weeks of almost totally ignoring Pearl, she tried – and failed – to find a way of making it up with her. Not that Pearl was even remotely responsible for any bad feeling between them. After all it had been Sunday who had taken umbrage when Lennie Jackson had turned up at the Athenaeum that Saturday night. The reasons for Sunday’s jealousy were plain and obvious: Sunday wanted Lennie; Lennie wanted Pearl. That’s all there was to it. Of course, deep down inside, Sunday knew who was to blame, but she would never have the strength to admit it. And so, as always happened when she went quiet on someone who had upset her, it was left to Pearl to make the first move.

  ‘’Arry Smike was askin’ after you, Sun.’

  At first, Sunday pretended that she hadn’t heard Pearl talking to her. ‘Oh – sorry. Did you say something?’

  It was the morning teabreak at Briggs Bagwash, and most of the ‘Baggies’ were outside in the stable-yard, taking the opportunity of a few minutes’ fresh air in the warm sunshine.

  Pearl tried again. ‘’Arry Smike. Yer know – that Air Force boy down the Afenaeum that night. The jitterbug – remember?’

  Sunday paused a moment, as though that evening was no more than a distant memory. ‘Oh – him,’ she replied, grandly. ‘Where d’you see him then?’

  ‘Turns out he lives in the next street ter me. Lives wiv ’is mum and dad and ’is two bruvvers.’ With only a few minutes left to spare before Ma Briggs terminated the teabreak, Pearl blew at the tea in her chipped white mug to cool it. ‘Sounds like ’e really fancies yer,’ she said, peering at Sunday over the cup as she sipped the tea.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Sunday was determined to show indifference.

  ‘’E wants us ter go out wiv ’im. You an’ me. An’ I can bring Lennie.’

  Sunday froze.

  ‘Apparently ’e’s got an aunt who works as a part-time usherette up the Finsbury Park Empire. ’E says ’e can get us some tickets for Tuesday week.’

  Sunday sipped her tea. ‘What’s so special about Tuesday week?’

  Pearl looked up with a surprised start. ‘Yer mean yer don’t know? It’s the broadcast. It’s comin’ live from the featre.’

  ‘What broadcast?’ asked Sunday. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘’Enry ’All’s Guest Night!’ Pearl looked at Sunday as though her friend had been living on another planet all her life. ‘Didn’t yer read about it? It’s been in all the papers – well, the Islington Gazette anyway.’

  Sunday was suddenly interested. Henry Hall at the Finsbury Park Empire! A chance to see not only a real band on the stage, but to be present at a broadcast performance of one of the most famous programmes on the wireless. ‘How much are the tickets?’ she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  ‘Fer free!’ said Pearl. ‘’E says ’e can get us seats downstairs in the stalls. Just fink of it, Sun. I’ve only ever bin upstairs in the gods. I’ve never been down in the posh seats.’

  And neither had Sunday. By the time Ma Briggs appeared at the back door, she had agreed to make up the foursome with Pearl and Harry.

  The one fly in the ointment was Lennie Jackson.

  Doll and Joe Mooney hardly ever went shopping together. Joe hated trailing his wife with a bunch of kids in tow, and then having to stand outside Sainsbury’s whilst she gabbed with one of the assistants on the cheese counter. But this was a special occasion, for within the next few days their youngest, Josie, was having her third birthday. Luckily, they soon found a toy car for the birthday girl. It came from the Children’s Department in the North London Drapery Stores in Seven Sisters Road, although a bit on the expensive side at two shillings and sixpence. A toy car was an unusual choice, but Josie much preferred the presents her brothers got to the dolls and toy kitchen sets that were supposed to be so beloved by little girls.

  Sunday and her mum bumped into the Mooneys as the family were making their way along Hornsey Road on their way back to �
�the Buildings’. The Mooneys lived in the same block as the Collinses, but on the floor below. They had the reputation of being like rabbits because they had already bred four kids, and as good Catholics, chances were they had every intention of completing a football team.

  ‘Looks like it’s all over bar the shouting,’ bleated Doll Mooney, who, with all her hair pinned on top of her head, was only as tall as her husband. ‘Did you hear it on the eight o’clock news this morning? They reckon the invasion’s comin’ any minute.’

  Sunday could have screamed. She was sick to death of hearing about the invasion. Yes, she had heard it on the wireless that morning, and she couldn’t care less. In fact, she was far more interested in what the Radio Doctor had to say about gall bladders than whether and when the Allies were going to land in France.

  ‘I shall pray for them every night,’ sighed Madge anxiously. ‘When I think of what our boys went through at Dunkirk, it sends a chill up my spine.’

  Two of the Mooneys’ older kids started laughing and playing tag with each other. Sunday wanted to laugh with them, but even she thought it was hardly the moment to do so.

  ‘Cut it out you two!’ snarled Joe Mooney, in his rich Irish brogue. It was his only contribution to the idle pavement gossip, for he had a wandering eye for any bit of skirt that happened to pass within a hundred yards or so.

  ‘The fing I’m really worried about though are these secret weapons they keep talkin’ about.’ As Josie was beginning to grizzle, Dolly had to pick her up out of her pushchair and hold her in her arms. ‘They’re sayin’ if it’s true, this time ’Itler could blow up the ’ole of London.’

  ‘’Itler’s got no secret weapons,’ growled Joe. ‘It’s all bluff.’

  ‘I don’t know, Joe,’ said Madge. ‘The papers are full of it.’

  ‘Planes wivout pilots. That’s wot I read.’ Doll was doing her best to keep little Josie’s fingers from prodding her in the eye.