The Silent War Page 6

  ‘Planes without pilots! Come off it Doll!’ Joe pushed his flat cap to the back of his head, and retrieved a dog-end from behind his ear. ‘Next t’ing yer’ll be tellin’ me is that they’re fillin’ up bombs with horse shit!’

  ‘Joe!’ snapped Doll. ‘Don’t be so coarse!’

  This time Sunday did laugh. All in all, she liked the Mooneys; they were always good for a laugh, despite Doll’s doom-laden forecasts of death and destruction. However, despite her efforts to dismiss all thoughts of the war from her mind, Sunday was also concerned about the possibility of a renewed aerial bombardment by the Luftwaffe, this time from pilotless bomber planes. It was true what her mum had said. The newspapers were full of speculation about Hitler’s last-ditch stand, and how his new retaliatory secret weapon had been designed to turn the tide of the war in his favour. Sunday still had painful memories of those dark days during the Blitz, when life and death for everyone was balanced on a knife’s edge. She remembered how her poor mum had come home during the early hours of every morning, tired out after a night of trying to help and comfort the victims of endless aerial bombardment. To Sunday, her mum was a saint, and so were all her mum’s Salvation Army pals who always did so much for everyone in return for nothing. And as she stood there on the corner of Hornsey and Tollington Roads, staring up at the quiet dignity of the surrounding houses and shops, their windows still covered with the criss-cross patterns of protective sticky tape, in her mind’s eye she could still see all the carnage and havoc that covered the streets after a night’s bombing, and the sounds of children crying, people calling out for help, and the incessant drone of enemy planes as they passed over on their way to the next point of destruction. Could it really happen again, she asked herself?

  ‘We have to be going now, Doll,’ Madge said. ‘We’ve got to get the shopping done for the weekend. We’re going to get Sunday a new pair of shoes.’ She suddenly realised that Sunday’s attention was miles away. ‘Are you ready, dear?’

  For a moment Sunday didn’t respond. She was busily exchanging smiles with little Barry, the Mooneys’ six-year-old, who was Sunday’s favourite because he always seemed to be deep in thought.

  Madge had to repeat herself. ‘Sunday? Shall we go, dear?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Sunday, turning back to her mum. ‘Oh – yes. Righto.’

  ‘We’ve got to be off too,’ said Dolly, putting little Josie back into her pushchair. ‘If Joe’s late for the Arsenal, there’ll be all ’ell ter pay!’

  Joe didn’t bother to answer his wife. He merely grabbed hold of two of his younger children, and started to move off down Tollington Road.

  ‘See yer later then, Madge,’ called Doll, as she took hold of another child’s hand, and hurriedly pushed Josie’s pushchair off behind the rest of her family. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she called, over her shoulder. ‘Your friend sent ’is love. You know, that nice Mr Billings. We saw ’im just going in ter The Eaglet ter ’ave a drink wiv Jack Popwell. ’E said ’e’ll see yer at the service termorrow mornin’.’

  Madge tried not to look uneasy, so she smiled back at Doll, waved at her, and walked on in the opposite direction with Sunday.

  Madge and her daughter reached the back gates of Pakeman Street School before they said a word to each other. Finally, Sunday couldn’t resist asking the question: ‘Who’s Mr Billings?’

  Madge quickened her pace as she made her way along the road. ‘Oh, just one of the helpers up at Highbury,’ she said quite matter-of-factly. ‘He’s a nice man.’

  As they crossed Mayton Street and finally reached the traffic lights at Seven Sisters Road, Madge didn’t mention another word about Mr Billings. And as much as she was dying to know about Madge’s new ‘friend’, Sunday loved her mum too much to ask. For the time being at any rate.

  ‘Hallo, everyone. This is Henry Hall speaking – and tonight is my Guest Night.’

  Whilst Sunday was waiting for the light bulb at the side of the microphone to turn from green to red, her heart was thumping so loud she thought it would be heard all over the country. So by the time Henry Hall himself spoke into the microphone, and then turned around to conduct his BBC Dance Orchestra in his opening signature tune, she thought she would die from excitement.

  The first house evening performance at the Finsbury Park Empire was stuffed to capacity. Every seat in the place was taken from gods to stalls, for Henry Hall’s Guest Night was one of the most famous programmes on the wireless. For half an hour, the whole country would be tuned in to what was happening on the stage of that very same music hall where, during the war years, Sunday had seen and heard some of her favourite dance bands. And for the first time in her life, she was seeing it from the posh seats – to be precise, from the centre of the third row, front stalls. And what a night to be there, after the announcement earlier in the day that the Allies had launched their eagerly awaited invasion of mainland Europe!

  It was also only the second time she had met Harry Smike, and she really quite liked him. He wasn’t, of course, as sexy and good-looking as Lennie Jackson, but she did have to admit that he had a smile that was quite titillating. The two boys were sitting on either side of the girls, so that during the show after the broadcast, Sunday and Pearl could exchange intimate chitchat about their boyfriends without being overheard.

  Henry Hall himself clearly warmed to the heady atmosphere his show always generated, and his tall, gangly figure, immaculate in black tie and dinner suit, blended beautifully with the red plush, gold-tasselled stage curtains, which tastefully matched the stall and dress-circle seats, and the ornate gold-leaf stuccos around the stage boxes. Although he seemed to Sunday to be a shy man, when Henry Hall raised his baton, the sounds coming from his talented band of musicians sent Sunday into a state of total ecstasy. And the moment he made a reference to ‘our gallant boys who are now fighting the Nazis on French soil’, the place rocked with thunderous cheers. Sunday also clapped hard and long with the rest of the audience as each ‘guest’ appeared, especially those who sang, but she even laughed at the special guest, Jeanne de Casalis, whose ‘on the telephone’ act as the dithery ‘Mrs Feather’ was a great favourite with everyone.

  During the broadcast, Sunday had been so carried away by the excitement of the occasion that she hadn’t realised that Harry Smike was not only holding her hand, but squeezing it. On one occasion, whilst a marvellous young singer called Dorothy Squires was singing ‘You’ll Never Know’ with her husband Billy Reid at the piano, Harry even leaned across and kissed Sunday on her ear. By the time the half-hour broadcast had come to an end with Henry Hall’s familiar fade-out song, ‘Here’s To The Next Time’, Harry had snaked his arm around Sunday’s shoulders.

  After the end of the first house show, Sunday and Harry came out of the theatre with Pearl and Lennie, and they all went to have a drink at the pub by the railway bridge just near the Tube Station. Considering it was a weekday, the place was absolutely crowded, and the two girls had to wait on the pavement outside whilst the two fellers fought their way through to the counter.

  ‘Listen, Sun,’ yelled Pearl, trying to be heard above the rowdy singsong coming from inside the pub. ‘I’ve bin wantin’ ter say ’ow sorry I am – about wot ’appened down the Afenaeum the uvver Saturday night.’

  All of a sudden, Sunday felt awful. She was the one who should be apologising, not Pearl. It happened every time. If ever she, Sunday, was in the wrong, she could never bring herself to say so. And even now, as she looked at Pearl’s dumpy little face all racked with unnecessary guilt, she couldn’t actually put into words what she really wanted to say. So she made do with, ‘Forget it, Pearl! It doesn’t matter.’ She had to shout really loud, for the singsong inside had been replaced by loud, boozy cheers.

  Pearl waited for the row to calm down before speaking again. ‘It does matter, Sun,’ she said. ‘Lennie ’ad no right ter take me off an’ leave you on yer own. It was – ’orrible. I told Lennie.’

  ‘Stop apologising, Pearl,’ Sun
day said brusquely. ‘You’re always apologising. I’ve forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Well, I ’aven’t, Sun. I ’ate it when you an’ me fall out. You’re the best friend a gel could ever ’ave. An’ that’s the ’onest troof.’

  Sunday felt as though she wanted to curl up and die. Just for once why couldn’t she say that she was the one to blame, not Pearl? Why couldn’t she say that she was the one who walked out in a huff that night, because she was jealous – jealous that Lennie Jackson fancied Pearl and not her? How could she treat her best friend with such disdain? Pearl was more like her sister, she trusted her, she loved her. In fact, after her own mum, she probably loved Pearl more than anyone else in the whole world.

  ‘Don’t drink it too fast, gels,’ said Lennie, calling from the pub door. ‘You ain’t gettin’ anuvver one ’til turnin’-out time!’

  The two fellers, hot and sweaty after their battle to squeeze past the crowd of drunks inside the pub, finally reached Sunday and Pearl with their drinks held high over their heads.

  Harry smiled at Sunday, and gave her the glass of lemonade she’d asked for. ‘I wish you’d ’ave somefin’ stronger than that,’ he said, standing as close to her as he possibly could. ‘Makes yer relax,’ he added, with a cool smirk on his face.

  ‘I know,’ replied Sunday. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  All four laughed, including Lennie, who had his drink in one hand and his other arm around Pearl’s waist. ‘Yer know, I really enjoyed that ternight,’ he said. ‘Old ’Enry puts on a pretty good show, don’t ’e?’

  ‘Well don’t sound so surprised,’ Pearl said, scoldingly. ‘Some people’d give their right arm to get in ter see that show. Fanks ever so much, ’Arry. It was a real treat.’

  ‘Any time,’ replied Harry, who, not to be outdone by Lennie, now had his arm around Sunday’s shoulders. ‘Fank my Aunt Lil, not me.’ Sunday turned her face away when he tried to kiss her on the side of her lips, but when she saw Lennie doing the same thing to Pearl, she turned back again, and virtually forced Harry’s lips against her own.

  Although there was now a crowd on the pavement outside the pub, nobody took any notice of the two servicemen snogging with their girls. Across the road, the audience was just flowing out of the majestic Astoria Cinema, and almost immediately bus queues had formed on either side of the Seven Sisters Road, whilst hordes of people hurried across to catch late-evening trains from Finsbury Park Tube Station.

  Once Lennie had pulled away from Pearl he used the back of his hand to wipe her dark red lipstick from his lips, allowing them both to take a swig of their drinks. Harry took a little longer to pull away from Sunday. Although she knew he would make a meal of it, she did nothing to discourage him, as long as she could be quite sure that Lennie could see everything she was doing. What she didn’t notice, however, was that someone else was also interested. In fact, that same person had been watching her every movement from inside the pub ever since she had arrived.

  It was Ernie Mancroft.

  ‘Last orders please, ladies and gents!’

  The landlord’s voice was used to yelling above the din of his rowdy customers, so it easily reached the pavement outside.

  Lennie quickly downed the last dregs of bitter from his pint glass. ‘Feel like a fill-up, ’Arry? One fer the road?’

  ‘No fanks, mate,’ replied Harry, after draining his own glass. ‘Don’t fink I could cope wiv gettin’ back to that counter.’

  ‘Come on!’ Lennie was already collecting the girls’ empty glasses. ‘I’ve got ter make the best of me last night.’

  Sunday swung a startled glance at him. ‘Last night?’

  ‘Yeh. I’m on postin’ termorrer.’

  Sunday immediately switched her glance to Pearl.

  ‘I’m tryin’ ’ard not ter fink about it,’ sighed Pearl, who looked thoroughly miserable.

  ‘Does that mean . . .’ Sunday asked, tentatively. ‘Is it the invasion?’

  ‘You don’t ask questions like that,’ replied Lennie, half scoldingly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cos I can’t answer them.’

  Harry put one arm around Sunday’s waist, and leaned his head on her shoulder. ‘Yer know wot they say, Sun. Careless talk costs lives.’

  ‘There’s too many lives been lost in this war already!’ snapped Sunday. ‘It’s time it was all over!’

  ‘Well there’s no chance of that,’ snorted Lennie, with a wry chuckle. ‘Not ’til we do somefin’ about it.’

  Sunday’s outburst had turned a few heads, but she was much too upset to care about what any of them were thinking. Ironically enough, it was Harry who latched on. Several times during the evening he had noticed the way Sunday had been taking sly looks at Lennie, and her outburst had confirmed to him that the guy she fancied most of all was Private Lennie smartarse Jackson. But Harry made up his mind that he was not going to let Sunday spoil Pearl’s last evening alone with Lennie, so he quickly suggested that the two couples split up and go their separate ways.

  Sunday’s farewell handshake with Lennie may have seemed convincing to her, but inside she felt like bawling her head off.

  The night air smelt as sweet as perfume. Everything was so fresh, so bursting with life, and now that the pubs had closed, the stench of beer was gradually losing its battle against the smell of freshly cut grass in the nearby park, and the distant approach of another glorious early summer’s day.

  June was Sunday’s favourite month, for the days were long and the nights were short, and that meant not having to go to bed early like a good little girl. Sunday didn’t want to be a good little girl. In fact, it was the last thing in the world she ever wanted to be, despite the fact that her mum couldn’t get to sleep whenever Sunday was out even a minute after ten o’clock at night. So she didn’t feel a moment’s guilt when, after leaving Pearl and Lennie, she had readily accepted Harry’s invitation to go for a stroll.

  By eleven o’clock, the streets became deserted very quickly. Here and there a drunk was being helped home by his mates, or a van would turn up to collect the day’s fill of pig-swill bins from some of the back streets. And as they made their way along Seven Sisters Road towards Manor House, Sunday and Harry were suddenly startled by an unseen figure shouting, ‘Put yer light out missus! Don’t yer know there’s a war on!’ Although the offending light was quickly extinguished, the disturbance set a dog barking, who in turn provoked a network of panicked messages to practically every dog in the neighbourhood.

  Although Harry strolled along with his arm around Sunday’s waist, her thoughts were miles away. They were with Lennie Jackson, who, she imagined, was probably at that very minute snogging with Pearl in some back alley, and doing things which Sunday would much prefer he did to her. A whole range of emotions flashed through her mind, from bitterness to rage, and to the dread that if Lennie were to be killed taking part in the invasion, she would never see him again.

  As they dawdled idly along the main road, Sunday and Harry could hear distant laughter coming from the RAF and Army crews in the adjacent Finsbury Park who were keeping a constant watch on the barrage of crafty silver balloons which floated silently on the ends of their steel cables in the skies above, acting as a stockade against any hostile aerial attack. On such a still night, the laughter seemed a strange sound, for it seemed to have no reason, no logic, no place in time.

  Sunday suddenly felt the urge to go into the park, but as the gates were always closed to the public at sunset, there was no way in. But Harry, excited by the thought of getting Sunday all to himself in there, told her that if she would be prepared to walk with him to the other side of the park, he knew a gap in the wooden fence that had replaced the old iron railings, which had been taken away at the beginning of the war to be used for scrap metal. Sunday agreed without hesitation, and once they had passed Manor House Tube Station and made their way down Green Lanes opposite Harringay Stadium, they soon found Harry’s gap in the fence along Endymion Road.


  It was pitch-dark down by the park lake, and the chorus of tetchy ducks trying to get some sleep on the island in the middle was a sure sign that they had not taken too kindly to the approach of night intruders. As she and Harry made their way towards the tea pavilion, Sunday was acutely aware of the sounds their feet were making on the narrow gravelled paths. Although it was too dark for them to see the vegetable allotments that before the war had been beautiful flower-beds, Sunday could smell the early spring onions planted there amongst the potatoes, cabbages, carrots and all the other necessary vegetables that were so vital in keeping people fed during the ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign.

  As they walked, Harry kept his arm firmly around Sunday’s waist, as if making sure that she wouldn’t change her mind and try to get away. After a while, he ventured to lean across and kiss her on the cheek, but when he kissed her full on the lips, he was only too aware that her response was pretty half-hearted. ‘Sorry it’s not the Army, eh Sun?’ he whispered mockingly.

  Sunday abruptly pulled her mouth away from him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Come off it, Sun. I wasn’t born yesterday, yer know. If Lennie Jackson was ’ere now, yer’d be feelin’ a bit different, wouldn’t yer?’

  Sunday pulled loose from him brusquely. They had come to a halt in a small clearing just behind the tea pavilion. ‘You know your trouble, don’t you, Harry?’ she snapped, a raw nerve clearly exposed. ‘You’ve got an inferiority complex!’

  Harry wasn’t at all put out by Sunday’s anger. In fact, it amused him. ‘I watched yer down that pub. Couldn’t keep yer eyes off ’im, could yer?’ He moved closer to her. Although it was far too dark for him to see anything more than the outline of her figure, he knew that she was standing with her back to the timber planks lining the pavilion walls. ‘Tell me somefin’, Sun,’ he said in a low, mischievous voice. ‘Wot’s Private Jackson got wot I ’aven’t?’