The Silent War Read online

  ‘I told you we should have gone down to the shelter,’ sobbed Louie, who for all her outward bravado was nothing but a bag of nerves. ‘That air-raid warning’s been on all day. We should have taken cover until the all-clear.’

  ‘Everything’s all right now, dear,’ said Madge, trying to calm her sister with a tot of brandy from a bottle she had kept since before the war. ‘Just take deep breaths and drink that down.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with people,’ persisted Louie. ‘Everyone’s so stupid. Just because there’s been a lull in the bombing, they carry on as though the war’s over. Of course it’s not over! It’ll never be over while Jerry’s using those – those terrible things against us.’ And with that, she burst into tears.

  Madge refused to wallow in her sister’s hysteria. She had more pressing anxieties of her own. ‘It wasn’t very far away, that’s for sure,’ she said, struggling to open the parlour window on which two panes of glass had been literally blown out of the frame. ‘Thank God we were in the bedroom when it happened.’

  When she finally managed to get the window open and lean out, Madge could see a scene of utter confusion in the backyard of ‘the Buildings’. People were running in and out of their flats, children crying, the ground covered with shattered glass and broken roof tiles, and the air was echoing to the sound of ambulance, police, and fire engine bells. In the middle of it all, Madge caught a glimpse of Doll Mooney helping some of the other residents to sweep up the broken glass. ‘Doll!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Up here, Doll!’

  Doll stopped briefly to look up. Some of her neighbours did likewise.

  ‘Where is it, Doll?’ called Madge, cupping her hands over her mouth in an attempt to be heard above the pandemonium in the yard below. ‘Where is it?’

  Doll couldn’t hear a thing. All she could do was shrug her shoulders and wave back.

  Luckily, Jack Popwell had heard Madge’s voice, so he quickly came out on to the small balcony below, just in front of his kitchen. ‘Wot is it Mrs Collins?’ he called, craning his neck up to see her.

  Madge leaned out as far as she dared on to her windowsill and called back down to him. ‘Where did it come down, Jack?’

  ‘Don’t know exactly. Did yer see it? I did. Ruddy ’orrible fing! Looked like a plane wiv its arse on fire – if yer’ll pardon the expression! Did yer ’ear its engine cut out?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ replied Madge, her stomach twisting with anxiety.

  ‘I reckon it come down ’round the Nag’s ’Ead somewhere. It was pretty close I tell yer!’

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  Madge left the window. As she did so, the all-clear siren wailed out across the rooftops.

  ‘About time too!’ complained Louie, who had finished her brandy, and was clearly hoping for a quick refill.

  Madge didn’t respond. She was already on her way out of the flat.

  In the backyard downstairs, the cleaning-up operation was in full swing. By the time Madge came out from the flats, small groups of neighbours were busily swapping stories about the flying bomb that had passed right above ‘the Buildings’ on its way to its point of destruction.

  ‘Does anyone know where it’s come down?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘It’s down ’Olloway Road somewhere, Madge,’ said Doll, who was secretly enjoying all the drama. Even so, she was only too aware of the reason for Madge’s anxiety. ‘Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure it’s nowhere near the Bagwash.’

  Although Madge always contained her real feelings, inside she was going out of her mind with worry.

  At this point, Lily Armstrong, another of Madge’s neighbours, came into the yard from the main road outside. She was a large woman, and was ashen after the ordeal of being caught out whilst shopping when the flying bomb came down. ‘I thought this bleedin’ war was supposed ter be over,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I don’t wanna go fru nuffin’ like that again as long as I live.’

  One of the women rushed forward and helped her with her shopping bag. ‘Oh Lil!’ she said. ‘Where were yer, gel?’

  ‘Down the Seven Sisters Road. I just got as far as Liptons, when all the windows blew out and Gord knows what. I tell yer, I’m lucky ter be ’ere terday!’

  ‘Where’d it come down, Lil?’ asked another woman, who was almost too scared to hear the answer.

  ‘Just up past the ’ospital,’ replied Lil. ‘They say the Bagwash caught a packet.’ The moment she caught sight of Madge, she could have bit her tongue off.

  Shocked and grim-faced, the entire group of women turned to look at Madge.

  A few minutes later, Madge was halfway along the Holloway Road, and passing the Nag’s Head. Her legs felt like jelly, and she felt sure they would give way beneath her at any moment.

  As she crossed the main road, she hardly noticed that the traffic lights had been blown out by the bomb-blast, and what little traffic there was had become stranded in the aftermath of the explosion. Hardly one shop window had survived the blast, and she was walking on broken glass, fallen chimney pots and masonry everywhere. On the other side of the main road, the staff of the imposing Gaumont Cinema building were busily sweeping up their own broken glass and fallen wall tiles. Even patrons from the matinée performance were helping out, and despite the interruption, the familiar wartime ‘BUSINESS AS USUAL’ placard was already on display.

  As she drew closer to the Bagwash, Madge’s heart was thumping hard, for in the distance she could see the fleet of emergency services lined up along the main road, which had been completely blocked off by the full force of the explosion. As she passed the Royal Northern Hospital, doctors, nurses, and a team of volunteers were out on the pavement clearing up bomb-blast damage. Others were guiding stretcher-bearers towards the site of the explosion further along the road.

  Only when Madge arrived there herself did she realise the horror of what had happened. She came to an abrupt halt at a police cordon set up by special constables who had sealed off the area with rope and ahead of her was a scene of absolute carnage.

  Madge’s blood turned to ice as she stared at the huge pile of wreckage that was once Briggs Bagwash. The dust from the building’s collapse had still not settled, and it was partially obscuring the vast team of rescue workers, dogs, and volunteers who were frantically trying to dig out any survivors. Madge was too stunned to cry. Her first action was to pull up the rope and make her way straight to the pile of wreckage.

  ‘Can’t come back ’ere, missus.’

  Madge found herself being held back by a special constable.

  ‘Please,’ Madge begged. ‘My daughter’s in there.’

  The constable put his arm around Madge’s shoulders. ‘It won’t do any good, darlin’,’ he said, holding her to him as sympathetically as he could. ‘There’s nuffin’ left of the place.’

  ‘Isn’t anyone alive?’ Madge asked, her eyes pleading for just one word of hope. ‘Anyone at all?’

  The constable tried a weak, comforting smile. ‘Too early ter say yet, darlin’. Just say yer prayers.’

  As the constable spoke, two stretcher-bearers brought out a victim, covered over completely with a red hospital blanket.

  Madge didn’t know what to say, or to think. The only thing the lifelong Salvationist could do was what she had done every day of her life. Dropping to her knees, she closed her eyes and clasped her hands together.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, in a voice only barely audible. ‘Oh dear, dear God. Please don’t forsake me. Not now. Not now.’

  On the far side of the wreckage a young hospital nurse picked something out of the debris.

  It was a chunky rolled-gold bracelet.

  Chapter 6

  It was a beautiful day, sun streaking through the branches of the big oak trees, their heavily veined rich green leaves shimmering in the bright sunshine. Ducks preening themselves along the sides of the lake. Greedy seagulls swooping down for the bits of bread that Sunday was casting into the water. Her mum was there too, kneeling
on the grass, knitting Sunday a thick woolly jumper. Unfortunately, Aunt Louie was also there, lying flat on her back, eyes closed. Every so often, Sunday watched her, fascinated by the thin trail of smoke from her cigarette, which was curling up into the cloudless blue sky to form strange animal-shaped patterns. And all around, people were strolling about in their Sunday best, mums and dads with babies in prams, young men arm in arm with their girlfriends, small children on scooters and tricycles, and elderly couples watching it all from the comfort of a park bench, reliving their lives all over again. Finsbury Park had never looked more radiant. It was a beautiful day. A perfect day for everyone – especially a child. Sunday was seven years old. And yet – something was not quite right. There was no sound. Sunday couldn’t hear the ducks and seagulls fighting over her scraps of bread. She couldn’t hear the other children laughing and yelling as they played hide and seek with each other around the boat house. And she couldn’t hear what her mum was singing to herself, even though she knew it must be one of her favourite hymns. But there was something more. The surface of the lake – it looked different. No longer the blue reflection of the sky above, but a dark grey, and then black. And then a face. The face of a man – a young man, staring at her from beneath the surface. Gradually, it was rising up out of the water. It was horrifying. It was unreal. It was – Ernie Mancroft. Sunday screamed out as loud as she could. But no sound. She couldn’t hear her own scream. No sound! Ernie was laughing at her. And again – she screamed!

  Sunday’s eyes sprang open with a terrified start. The first thing she saw was a window. It was dark outside, but rain was streaming down the glass panes. She tried to move. But her body was aching all over and burning-hot. She was lying in bed, but not her own bed, and she was soaked in perspiration.

  It was several minutes before any logical thoughts formed in her mind. Yes, she was Sunday Collins all right. But she wasn’t seven years old. She was seventeen, a young woman, a beautiful young woman, with all her life ahead of her. But who were these people peering down at her, dabbing the sweat from her forehead, smiling sweetly, sympathetically. Why couldn’t she hear what they were saying to her? A nurse. A man in a white jacket. A doctor? Hospital? This was a hospital? And then she remembered. Slowly she remembered. The Bagwash. The sound of the flying bomb. The explosion. The screams. The silence.

  ‘You’re all right, Sunday. Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Sunday had no idea what the doctor – if that’s what he was – was saying.

  ‘You’ve had a terrible experience, Sunday,’ said the nurse, who was holding Sunday’s left hand, and stroking it tenderly. ‘We’re going to get you fit and strong.’ She turned briefly to look up at the man in the white jacket. ‘Isn’t that right, Doctor?’

  Despite the feeling of numbness throughout her body and limbs, Sunday was getting irritated that she couldn’t hear one single word they were saying. ‘What did you say?’ she said, but she couldn’t hear her own voice either. ‘Why d’you have to whisper?’

  The doctor and nurse exchanged an odd look.

  Only then did Sunday realise that her head and ears were swathed in bandages.

  ‘Just try to lie still, Sunday.’

  The man in the white jacket was using his lips in an exaggerated way to try to form the words.

  ‘You’ve got a lot of cuts and bruises, Sunday,’ he continued, using his own hands to illustrate what he meant. ‘And a nasty bang on the back of your head. A few days’ rest and you’ll be fine.’

  As the nurse spoke, Sunday was very aware that she was using her tongue and teeth to spell out the words. And her lips were making the most extraordinary contortions. ‘It’s amazing how you survived at all, Sunday,’ she said, a broad sympathetic smile on her saintly face. ‘If it hadn’t been for that boyfriend of yours—’ She sighed deeply. ‘It’s too awful to think what might have happened.’

  It was a good thing Sunday was unable to read the words being formed by the nurse’s lips.

  At that moment, Sunday’s attention turned to the ward she had been taken to. Her eyes were still not focusing accurately, but through the cloud she could just see the rest of the patients in their beds, some of them with legs or arms suspended on pulleys, others heavily bandaged, and several of them with drip-feeds and oxygen masks. She was clearly in a casualty ward, although she was still too disoriented to know which hospital the ward was in. Distressingly, one or two beds were completely curtained off, and only then did memories of those last few terrible moments at the Bagwash start flooding through her brain: the droning sounds throbbing in the sky above, the silence, the rush of air, and the astonishing sensation of being caught in the middle of a gigantic explosion, followed by a complete blackout. From that moment on, however, she couldn’t remember a thing. Oh, if only Pearl were there to tell her.

  At that moment, Sunday felt someone kissing her gently on the cheek. Although it was painful to turn her head, her spirits rose when she saw who was stooped over her. ‘Mum,’ she said, tearfully, without being able to hear the sound of her own voice.

  ‘Oh Sunday.’ Madge was gently stroking her daughter’s hand as she spoke. ‘My dear, dear baby. Our Lord has answered my prayers.’

  Sunday had no idea what her mum was saying. All she knew was that tears were running down the poor woman’s cheeks.

  ‘We’ll have you home in no time,’ said Madge, holding Sunday’s hand with both her own, and finding it very difficult to be brave. And her face crumpled up in tears as her tongue and lips tried to form the words, ‘I love you so much, Sunday.’

  Her mum’s odd behaviour was beginning to unnerve Sunday. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying,’ she said, not realising that her own voice was raised. ‘Why can’t I hear you?’

  Madge swung a quick glance to the doctor, hoping for some kind of help. But the doctor, aware that Sunday was watching everyone’s reactions, was careful not to indicate anything by his expression. However, the look in his eyes warned Madge to be cautious.

  ‘Where’s Pearl?’ Sunday asked, suddenly. ‘I want to see Pearl.’

  Madge bit her lip anxiously, and squeezed her daughter’s hand tightly.

  Sunday was panicking. Her whole body felt as though it was burning up. ‘What’s going on!’ She had no idea she was shouting out loud. ‘Why can’t I hear you?’ She was breathing faster and faster. ‘I want to see Pearl!’

  Sunday’s shouts caused everyone in the ward to swing an anxious glance towards her bed. Madge leaned over, and tried to soothe her by gently stroking her face with her fingers.

  And then Sunday felt pain, a searing pain which engulfed her entire body from head to toe. Inside her head, she could feel a thumping sensation as though someone was pounding her with a sledgehammer. But most of all, it was the sudden feeling of intense pressure deep inside her ears that really scared her; it felt like someone’s fingers were pushing hard into them, tearing through her temple and almost touching her eyes. The only release she had was to scream out in pain at the top of her voice.

  Her panic was so great, she hardly felt the needle that was being pushed into her arm.

  It was several days before Sunday had regained enough strength to be transferred to the Ear, Nose, and Throat Ward which was in a separate wing of the Royal Northern Hospital. Once the bandages around her head had been removed, she was immediately subjected to a series of exhausting tests which would determine the extent of the injuries to her ears. For Sunday it was a painstaking, depressing experience, for since that first moment of regaining her faculties, she had had to come to terms with the agonising reality that she was unable to hear anything more than low, distant humming sounds. The flying bomb explosion had not only perforated her eardrums, but had also caused serious infections to both her middle and inner ears. And despite a specialist’s assurances that there might be the possibility of an operation to partially restore the hearing in one ear, Sunday was shrewd enough to know that the prospect was bleak. And if that wasn’t bad enou
gh, she was getting more and more concerned that no one could tell her anything about what had happened to Pearl. It was finally left to Madge to break the news. Pearl was dead – killed in the flying bomb explosion together with five other ‘Baggies’. Ma Briggs was amongst the dead.

  Sunday was devastated. Pearl was her friend, her very best friend. They were like sisters, always laughing and joking together, always standing up for each other whenever Ma Briggs tried to throw her weight around. For at least a day after she was told, Sunday had refused to believe what had happened. Not to Pearl. Not to her friend. It had to be a mistake, it just had to be. OK, so Pearl was chubby. But she was strong. She was really strong. If she’d been buried under that wreckage, she’d never have just given up – and died. As she lay in bed, her pillow soaked with tears, all Sunday could do was to keep repeating Pearl’s name to herself over and over again. ‘Pearl. Pearl. Pearl. Pearl. Don’t do this to me, Pearl. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me.’

  The trauma of coping with Pearl’s death, together with the prospect of being deaf for the rest of her life, was too much for Sunday. Even though she was full of drugs to combat the pain in her head and ears, her mind was in turmoil, and, despite the strenuous efforts of her doctors and nurses, she refused to cooperate in trying to learn even the most basic ways to communicate, such as reading and writing messages on a note-pad at the side of her bed. She spent most of the time sitting in a chair in the day room at the end of the ward, with a fixed stare at all the activity around her – movement, doctors and nurses talking to their patients, a WVS helper serving tea from a trolley, exchanging a comforting word with a seriously ill air-raid victim, patients sitting up in bed listening through earphones to the Home Service on the wireless. Nothing different about any of it, except that she couldn’t hear the voices, couldn’t hear the laughter, couldn’t even hear the shuffling of feet on the bare lino floor of the ward. She was living in an alien world, a world that was stark and unreal, like the nightmares she was now having every night. She wanted no part of it. She wanted things to be like they used to be, when she and Pearl went dancing up the Athenaeum every Saturday night. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare!