The Silent War Page 9

  Sadly, Madge Collins was no help at all to her daughter. Despite the endless flying bomb raids that were now taking place every day of the week, she never missed a visit. But after sitting with Sunday for just a few minutes, and making unsuccessful attempts to communicate with her, the poor woman’s eyes would well up with tears, which meant that she had to spend the rest of the hour holding Sunday’s hand and saying prayers to herself. After a time, Sunday began to dread her mum’s visits. Not because she didn’t want to see her, but because she only made things worse. Some of the neighbours from ‘the Buildings’ also came to see her, but they weren’t much help either, for they always used the visiting hour as an excuse to have a good old chinwag about the war, and to slag off Churchill and Roosevelt for giving Hitler the chance to use his flying bombs on poor old ’Olloway. Doll Mooney didn’t improve matters either and had to be restrained by the Ward Sister, because she was convinced that the only way to communicate with Sunday was to shout at her. Nonetheless, Doll meant well, for she bought Sunday a lovely sixpenn’th of white daisies from the florists’ shop in Caledonian Road, and also a tasteful ‘Get Well’ card from herself, Joe, and the kids.

  Sunday’s spirits were temporarily raised, however, when one evening she received a visit from Bess Butler. Madge had only just left the ward when she arrived, and as Bess knew only too well that Sunday’s mum had never approved of her, she made quite sure there was no chance of them coming face to face.

  Sunday’s expression lit up when she saw Bess approaching her. The older woman looked dressed to kill, for she was already made-up for her night’s ‘work’ outside the US Servicemen’s Club in the ‘Dilly’. ‘’Ow d’yer like me new pong?’ she asked Sunday, after kissing her on the cheek, and practically gassing the poor girl with the overpowering smell of perfume.

  Sunday shrugged her shoulders and smiled weakly. Although she had guessed what Bess was saying, she hadn’t watched her friend’s lips moving.

  ‘It’s called “Moon Over Miami”,’ she said, her scarlet lips working hard to form the words. ‘’Ad ter work ’ard fer that, I can tell yer,’ she said. ‘Well let’s face it, we ’ave ter look after our GI boys, don’t we?’

  Although Bess chuckled at her own joke, Sunday could only smile. It was a tired, strained smile, and it worried Bess.

  ‘Yer’ve ’ad a rough time, Sun,’ Bess said, sitting on the edge of Sunday’s bed facing her young mate, who was propped up in a chair. ‘It’s about time we brought some colour back inter them cheeks, gel.’ As she spoke, she gently pinched Sunday’s cheeks, and gave her one of her great big comforting smiles. But in her stomach, she felt desperately concerned for the girl. ‘Yer don’t know what the bleedin’ ’ell I’m goin’ on about, do yer, mate?’

  Sunday looked puzzled.

  Bess leaned across, and took hold of one of her hands. ‘Watch me, Sun,’ she said. And as she spoke, she used a finger from her other hand to point at her lips.

  Sunday understood. She lowered her eyes and focused on Bess’s lips.

  ‘Everything’s – going – to be – all right,’ said Bess, trying as hard as she could to signal the words. ‘Can yer – understand me?’

  Sunday looked absolutely blank.

  Bess took hold of both of Sunday’s hands. ‘Watch, Sun,’ she said, making intense eye contact. ‘Just watch me – please.’

  Sunday was doing her best to concentrate.

  Before continuing, Bess used the tip of her tongue to touch her thick red lipstick. ‘I said – it’s going to be – all right. Yor’ll get fru this – I promise yer will.’

  Sunday screwed up her face in anguish. Unable to follow what Bess was saying, she pulled her hands away, and buried her face in them.

  ‘Sun!’

  Bess waited a moment. Then she reached into her handbag, and brought out her small bottle of ‘Moon Over Miami’. She unscrewed the top, took hold of one of Sunday’s hands, poured some of the perfume on to the back, and gently smoothed it in.

  Sunday slowly looked up at Bess. There was a suggestion of tears in the middle-aged woman’s eyes. Bess gave Sunday a saucy wink, and raised the girl’s hand up to her nose.

  Sunday immediately smelt the strong aroma of the perfume on the back of her hand. Gradually, her face broke into a radiant smile. Then she looked up at Bess. ‘It’s – lovely.’

  Bess bit her lip again. The bottom row of her teeth was now smeared with lipstick. Overcome with emotion, she broke into a broad grin, threw her arms around the girl and hugged her. Although Sunday’s voice sounded odd and strained, at least she was making the effort to speak.

  At the end of the third week, Sunday left hospital. As she stepped out with her mum into the warm July sunshine, the world around her seemed to be a totally different place. It was a silent world, where she could see everything but not hear it. All the familiar sounds must have been there – the electric hum of the trolleybuses, people’s shoes hurrying along the pavements, a horse’s hooves clip-clopping ahead of the groceries delivery van, motor-car horns, an ambulance with bell ringing as it left the hospital on another emergency call. But most of all – people. People just talking to each other as they passed by. Sounds that had been such an everyday part of Sunday’s life. Sounds that she had taken for granted; they were always there all right, but they had never seemed important before. Not until now. And even though she could feel a cool breeze blowing through her hair, she couldn’t hear it. It wasn’t the same any more. Not until she could hear again. And she was determined to hear all those things again. After all, the specialist had conveyed to her that an operation might possibly restore the hearing in one of her ears. As far as Sunday was concerned, there was no such thing as ‘possible’. She would hear again. There was no doubt in her mind about that.

  Under normal circumstances, it was less than ten minutes’ walk back to ‘the Buildings’, but to Sunday it seemed like hours. She felt totally disoriented, as though she found it difficult to keep her balance. The doctors had warned Madge that until Sunday had got used to walking without being able to hear, she might feel a little giddy, so for the entire walk back home, she linked arms with the girl and kept a firm grip on her.

  They had hardly reached the Nag’s Head when Sunday became aware that people everywhere were looking upwards, scanning the sky in every direction. She felt herself tense. Had the air-raid siren sounded? How would she know – how would she ever know that she should take cover? She had thought about it all the time she had been lying in her hospital bed. The memory of what had happened to her at the Bagwash on that ill-fated morning nearly a month before had heightened her awareness of the fact that flying bombs were now plunging down on to London practically every day of the week. Her nervousness had turned to sheer terror, for she realised that from now on, she would have to rely on other people to warn her of the approaching danger.

  ‘Come on gels! Get yerselves under cover!’

  Sunday could see that the Special Constable was talking to them, but as his face was turned away from her she couldn’t read his lips.

  ‘Over here, Sunday!’

  Again, Sunday didn’t hear what her mum said to her, but she felt her arm pull her into the doorway of a shoe shop.

  ‘Down, Sunday! Get down, dear!’

  Madge pulled Sunday down into a crouching position, and they both shielded their heads with the small suitcase of clothes Sunday had brought with her from the hospital.

  As they crouched there, Sunday could see everyone else scattering for any cover they could find. It was a bizarre, unreal sight. But it was enough to send a chill through Sunday’s entire body.

  Within a few minutes, her attention was drawn to a young boy sheltering with his older brother in the next doorway. He was shouting excitedly, and pointing up at the sky. Soon, other people were doing the same, whilst others crouched for cover, and, for all the good it would do, shielded their heads with their hands.

  And then Sunday saw it. The long black shape with its burning,
murderous flame billowing out behind, approaching high above Holloway Road from the direction of Highbury Corner. She had never seen a flying bomb in daylight before, and somehow it looked even more menacing than at night, with its sinister shape and clipped wings. Once again she felt herself tense. She could see, but not hear. And yet, that droning, throbbing sound of its engine was tearing into her mind. How soon would it be before those few moments of dreaded silence heralded the inevitable explosion?

  She did not have to wait too long. The ‘doodlebug’, as Londoners had now nicknamed the flying bomb, rapidly disappeared over the rooftops of Seven Sisters Road, and within seconds Sunday felt the ground vibrate beneath her.

  Aunt Louie was very unpredictable. Although Madge knew what an emotional person she was, Louie had always been careful to conceal her true feelings. But on the day Louie heard about the explosion at Briggs Bagwash, she was quite inconsolable. For two days and nights she practically lived in her bedroom, spending most of the time sobbing her heart out and trying to study form in the Sporting Times. Charitable as she was, Madge secretly put her sister’s grief down to guilt. During all the years when Sunday was growing up, Louie had never said one kind or encouraging thing to her, which clearly turned the child against her at an early age. But, even though she had never attempted to visit Sunday in hospital, she had made up her mind that as soon as her young niece came home, she was going to make amends.

  ‘Hallo, Auntie,’ bellowed Sunday, in her strange new way of speaking.

  Louie turned one cheek towards Sunday, and allowed her niece to kiss it. ‘You’re feeling better then, are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m much better, thanks.’ Ever since Bess had helped her to start reading people’s lips, Sunday had made rapid progress. ‘Once I’ve had the operation I’ll be as good as new.’

  ‘Then there’s no need for you to shout like that, is there?’

  Madge swung a glare at her sister. ‘Louie!’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ snapped Louie. ‘She’s got to learn to speak properly. It’s no good shouting.’

  Despite understanding precisely what Aunt Louie had said, Sunday did not take offence. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘You see, I can’t really hear myself. You’ll have to tell me when I’m shouting.’

  Sunday’s reasonableness irritated Louie. She grunted and sat down at the parlour table.

  ‘I’m going to make us a nice cup of tea,’ Madge said, quickly. It was always her way of changing the conversation. Then, making quite sure Sunday could read her lips, she added proudly, ‘I’ve made you a bread pudding. Jack Popwell got me some dried fruit on the black market.’

  Sunday’s face lit up as her mum disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘She’s going round the bend, you know.’

  As Sunday wasn’t facing her aunt as she spoke, she hadn’t heard what she had said.

  Louie waited for Sunday to sit down opposite her at the table before speaking again. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Now she was the one who was raising her voice. ‘I said, I think your mother’s going round the bend.’

  Sunday looked puzzled.

  ‘You don’t know the half of what’s been going on around here.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Auntie?’

  ‘Her gentleman friend, that’s what I mean!’ She took out her tin of tobacco and started to roll a cigarette. ‘He’s been coming round here. She thinks I don’t know. But I do.’

  Although Sunday couldn’t understand every single word her aunt was saying, she did just manage to make out the words, gentleman friend. ‘D’you mean Mr Billings?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea what his name is,’ replied Louie sourly. ‘All I know is that every time I go to the pictures on a Wednesday afternoon, she’s had him round here. You can always tell when a man’s been inside the place. You can smell ’em.’

  Before she arrived home, Sunday had also had good intentions about being nicer to her Aunt Louie. But she really didn’t like the way that this woman was talking about her mum. ‘Honestly, Auntie,’ she said, trying to make sure that the level of her voice was not raised too much, ‘I don’t think it’s any of our business who mum sees – do you?’

  Louie stopped licking the gummed edge of her cigarette paper for a moment, and leaning across the table, replied, ‘I don’t care who she sees,’ she snapped. ‘It’s what they get up to that worries me.’

  For a brief moment, Sunday said nothing. Then suddenly, she roared with laughter. The sound she was making was very odd, and not a bit like the way she used to laugh before her loss of hearing. But she found it hilarious that her aunt was suggesting that Madge was having some kind of passionate affair with someone from the Salvation Army. And the more she thought about it, the more absurd it seemed.

  ‘Oh you can laugh,’ growled Louie indignantly, making quite sure Sunday could read her lips. ‘But just wait ’til he asks her to marry him. Then you’ll laugh on the other side of your face!’

  To Sunday’s astonishment, her aunt got up from the table, turned, and stormed off in a huff to her bedroom.

  Despite all Aunt Louie’s good intentions, nothing had changed.

  Chapter 7

  Ernie Mancroft looked at himself in the broken piece of mirror that was propped up on a ledge above the stone sink in the scullery. He liked what he saw, good strong features, a pug nose, and piercing dark eyes that almost perfectly matched his hair and pencil-thin moustache. The cut above his left eye was still a bit raw, and as he dabbed it with one of his fingers he still marvelled at the way he had managed to survive the blast from that ‘doodlebug’ explosion down the Bagwash. But then Ernie was one of life’s survivors. When he was only six years old he was beaten up by some of the kids down his street, but when he got home his old man had warned him that if he ever allowed such a thing to happen again, he’d kick him out of the house. Ernie never did allow it to happen again. Since his mum had died of consumption when he was a small kid, Ernie was brought up by his punch-happy old man and his four elder brothers, and it was they who had taught him how to use his fists. In fact, he became a ‘bruiser’ in every sense of the word, always trying to prove himself by bashing up anyone who dared to cross his path, who ever dared to come between him and his girl. And Sunday was his girl. That’s why he’d shielded her from the falling debris with his own body. That’s why he’d saved her life.

  Now once he’d togged himself up in a white shirt and tie and the only suit he’d ever possessed, he left the filth and grime of his old man’s house in ‘The Bunk’ up Campbell Road, and strutted briskly along Tollington Road.

  On his way to ‘the Buildings’, Ernie Mancroft reckoned that it was about time Sunday Collins knew that she owed him one.

  During the few days since she left hospital, Sunday had made very little effort to adjust to her new silent world. She spent most of her time sitting at the window of her tiny bedroom, staring down into the backyard below, watching the neighbours entering or leaving their flats, kids laughing and chasing each other and kicking their football against a back wall. And as she watched, in her mind she tried to hear the sounds that were being made, and what those sounds used to be like before her eardrums had been blown in by the flying bomb explosion. It was extraordinary how lonely she felt, even when people were trying to communicate with her.

  Her worst problem was not being able to hear the air-raid siren, so Madge had to make arrangements that whenever she and Aunt Louie were out at the same time, either Jack Popwell or Doll Mooney would let themselves in with their spare keys, and take Sunday off to the downstairs shelter. Sunday absolutely hated having to rely on other people to protect her, and several times she refused to leave the flat despite the danger. And although she was gradually getting to grips with lip-reading, the effort of doing that thoroughly depressed her. Worst of all, of course, was the fact that she was unable to listen to the wireless. Her mind was endlessly tuning in to all her favourite programmes, especially those featuring music by
the big bands. Every so often her foot would tap out a rhythm, and for a few exhilarating moments she could imagine that she was gliding around the dance floor back at the dear old Athenaeum. The summer was passing by, but the hot sun outside was wasted on her. The only thing that could sustain her now was the hope that once she’d had her operation, her hearing would at least be partially restored.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

  Although Sunday couldn’t hear Louie talking to her, she could feel the tips of her aunt’s bony fingers tapping on her shoulders from behind.

  ‘A visitor.’

  This time, Sunday was able to read Louie’s lips. And her heart sank. She hated people calling on her, with that sickly look on their faces which always meant that they felt sorry for her. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  Louie, now getting used to the laboured sound Sunday was making as she spoke, shrugged her shoulders, and left the bedroom.

  Sunday left the window, and slowly made her way to the parlour.

  ‘Wotcha, Sun. Good ter see yer, mate.’

  Sunday froze as Ernie Mancroft beamed across at her. Her first instinct was to turn around, go back into her bedroom and lock the door. But she stood her ground. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked nervously.

  For a brief moment, Ernie was taken aback by her distorted speech. Then he relaxed, and took a confident step towards her. ‘I’ve missed yer, Sun,’ he said, his face breaking into a fixed grin. ‘I couldn’t come and see yer in ’ospital. Didn’t feel too good after that bang. You know ’ow it is.’

  ‘If you speak too fast, she won’t understand you,’ scowled Louie, moving off towards her own bedroom door. ‘She can only read your lips.’ She opened the bedroom door, and turned. ‘So it’s no good if she can’t see your face.’ With that, she disappeared into her room and closed the door behind her.