Jinx slapped him one on the top of his head. ‘She’s already got one!’
Even though Sunday was concentrating hard on Erin’s lips, she found it hard going trying to read them. But he had a good face, a humorous one which reminded her a bit of Edward G. Robinson in a gangster film she’d once seen. Which meant, of course, that he wasn’t as young as Jinx! Sunday even detected a slight paunch beneath his short leather combat jacket.
‘Anyway,’ continued Erin, still looking Sunday over, ‘anytime you get too much flak from Mama baby here, you just—’
To Sunday’s surprise, the Bombardier’s lips suddenly stopped moving, and his expression changed.
‘Excuse me, miss. Can I buy you a drink?’
Sunday had no idea that someone was talking to her, for her back was turned towards the young airman. But she was able to read what the Bombardier’s lips were now saying.
‘The lady already has a drink, buster. Get lost.’
Sunday turned with a start. Standing behind her was a young American airman in uniform. He was black.
Sunday was at first taken aback. Apart from the pictures, it was the first black man she had ever seen. Once the fact had registered, she smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, not realising that her voice was raised. ‘Did you say something?’
The young airman had a stern, defiant look on his face. ‘I asked if I could buy you a drink?’
The Bombardier took a step forward, but was quickly restrained by Jinx. A sudden silence descended on the bar, as several groups of American servicemen turned to witness the exchange.
Sunday was puzzled and bewildered by the tension she could feel, especially from the Bombardier, who was sharing a look of mutual hate with the young black airman. Even Jinx was shaking her head at her, and she couldn’t understand why.
‘“Doodlebug!”’
Sunday didn’t hear the landlord calling from behind the counter, but it certainly broke the tension, for everyone suddenly made a wild dash for the door. Everyone that is, except Sunday herself, the Bombardier, and the young black airman, who stood right where they were, just staring at each other.
Before she knew what was happening, however, Sunday was led out of the bar by Ruthie and Sue, whilst Jinx had practically to force the Bombardier to go with her.
Outside the pub, the customers were looking up into the dark night sky, where the familiar droning sound of the ‘doodlebug’ flying bomb was echoing across the quiet unlit countryside.
Sunday couldn’t hear the deadly sound that she knew only too well, and she was hesitant about glancing up at the burning tail of the machine, with its fiery glow that was now reflected in the anxious eyes of all who were watching and waiting to see where it would fall. After all, it was not the first time Sunday Collins had ever seen a flying bomb.
It was, however, the first time that she had seen a black man.
Digging turned out to be Sunday’s least favourite type of work. For a start, Cloy’s Farm was a holding of eighty acres of land, and as Arnold Cloy himself was an independent farmer, the place possessed very few agricultural machines that would take the pain out of the many essential back-breaking jobs. And now that the winter frosts had set in, the clay soil was particularly hard to break down. However, Ronnie Cloy had confided to Sunday that some Italian soldiers from a nearby prisoner-of-war camp would soon be coming to the farm to help out on the land, so there was hope that the digging was only temporary.
‘I’m sorry about what happened at the pub last night, girl.’ Jinx was hoeing alongside Sunday, and had to tap her on the arm whenever she wanted to talk to her. ‘The Blacks usually keep themselves to themselves. Erin says that bloke’s an engineer or somethin’, doesn’t even come from the base. Anyway, it’s best not to get involved in all that.’
The incident had been on Sunday’s mind all night, and she was still bewildered by what had gone on between Erin and the young black airman. So she stopped digging for a moment and asked, ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Like I say – that Blackie.’
‘What about him?’
Jinx didn’t know why she felt awkward, but she did. ‘The Blacks and the Whites don’t get on. That’s why they keep them apart – in different camps.
Sunday was shocked. ‘Different camps?’ she said, totally horrified. ‘How can they do such a thing? I thought all the GIs over here were supposed to be American.’
Jinx didn’t quite know how to answer that one. But she tried. ‘Apparently it’s the same over there, Whites and Blacks at each other’s throats all the time. Chalk and cheese.’
‘It’s all racial discrimination,’ said Sue, taking off her gloves for a moment to rub some warmth into her hands. ‘You’d never catch that sort of thing happening over here.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ called Ruthie, over her shoulder. She was just ahead of the others, and having a hard time breaking down a huge lump of rock-like clay. ‘My father used to work out in the West Indies. He said the English always considered the Blacks inferior.’
‘Well they are, aren’t they?’ asked Jinx. ‘I mean, what I heard was that their minds can’t move faster than a bloody snail.’
‘That’s not fair, poor buggers,’ said Sheil, chiming in whilst sipping a cup of hot tea from a vacuum flask.
‘Don’t be such a hypocrite,’ said Sue, putting on her gloves again. ‘They’re different to White people, everyone knows that.’
Sunday, who had been trying to follow what was being said, felt uneasy and slightly disgusted. ‘That man last night. He wasn’t different – well, not really. He was nice. He only wanted to buy me a drink.’
‘Yes, and all the rest, girl!’ griped Jinx. ‘You’d soon find out ’ow nice ’e is if ’e got you round the back of the pub on your own on a dark night!’
With the exception of Sunday, all the girls roared with laughter. Even Maureen joined in with a huge beam on her face, despite the fact that she hadn’t taken in a word of what anyone was talking about.
Sunday had a sinking feeling inside. She found it difficult to understand why everyone was being so unfair about the black man, who seemed to be no more troublesome than half the blokes she used to knock around with back home in Holloway Road. In fact, she’d trade Ernie Mancroft in for him any day of the week.
A few minutes later, Jinx, Ruthie, Maureen, and Sue made their way back to the barn for lunch, leaving Sunday and Sheil to follow on in their own time. Before they put down their shovels, the two girls watched the rapid progress of a V-2 rocket as it streaked across the gaps in the dismal grey sky, leaving in its wake a long thin trail of exhaust. Neither girl said anything. But they were both thinking a great deal. Thinking about the rocket’s final destination, and how many more people’s lives it would destroy.
After a moment or so, Sunday was the first to speak. ‘What will you do after the war, Sheil?’
Sheil hesitated a moment, then turned to look at her. ‘I can’t fink that far ahead,’ she said. ‘I can only fink of today.’
‘Don’t you want to get married?’
Sheil grunted wryly. ‘I’m not the marryin’ type.’
‘Why not?’
Sheil looked away briefly, then turned back again. ‘Because the only man I ever loved was me bruvver.’
Sunday was more curious than shocked.
‘We used ter sleep in the same bed tergevver,’ she said, looking straight into Sunday’s eyes without any trace of anxiety or guilt. ‘We din’t do nuffin’ though – if yer know wot I mean. We just cuddled up tergevver, that’s all. ’E was a year younger than me. Got killed wiv me mum and dad in the bomb.’ She turned her eyes away to stare aimlessly across the horizon. ‘’E was a lovely feller. I miss ’im like ’ell.’
Sunday knew exactly what Sheil felt. She didn’t know how or why, only that she felt an affinity with this strange little creature, with her mousy hair that was short and uncared for, tiny breasts that were barely noticeable beneath her chunky knitted sweater, and well
ington boots that were one size too big for her. There was something about Sheil that reminded Sunday of Pearl, about the close bond of friendship that had always existed between the two ‘Baggies’. Was it the grief she still felt, the loneliness, the despair of not having Pearl around any more to confide in? As she and Sheil stood together and felt the frosty air biting into their flushed cheeks, a large flock of green-and-white-coloured birds swooped down low and skimmed the field just ahead of them, finally coming to rest on a mutually agreed site where they immediately began the arduous task of beaking the muddy soil. Sunday couldn’t hear the strange little call they were all making, and had no idea what they were actually searching for. But, like herself and Sheil, she knew it had to be for something.
On Saturday, Sunday had the afternoon off, so she decided to stroll down to the village shop and buy herself a new tablet of soap. Since she had arrived at the farm, she had got to know the shopkeeper, Ken Johnston, quite well. He was a lovely, rotund man, who seemed to have a perpetual smile on his face every time Sunday saw him. The only problem was that he had a moustache, and for one reason or another, Sunday found that difficult when trying to read his lips. Therefore, whenever Sunday came in to buy something, he usually had a few scraps of paper ready so that he could write down anything that she couldn’t understand. Sunday was always amazed whenever Ken failed to ask for her ration book, especially for soap, which had often been in short supply back in London during the war. But then, she soon got used to seeing more things available in Ken’s shop than she ever saw back home. In the countryside, people ate well.
‘So, ’ow d’you reckon you’ll make out with the Ities?’ asked Ken, ringing up the penny bar of soap on his till.
Sunday looked puzzled. What the hell did he mean?
As usual, Ken obliged, and scribbled down, Italians. POWs. Then he looked her straight in the face, and said, ‘I ’eard they’re bringin’ some of ’em over to your place on Tuesday.’
Sunday gradually understood, and nodded her head. ‘Good,’ she answered. ‘We could do with some help.’
‘Lazy lot though, them dagos. Got to keep an eye on ’em – if you know what I mean.’
Sunday did know what he meant, and because Ken was a bit of an ‘old woman’, it brought a smile to her face. ‘We’ll keep an eye on them all right, Mr Johnston,’ she replied. ‘No need to worry about that.’
Ken smiled back, delighted that he had mastered the art of communication without resorting to too much scribbling.
Sunday picked up her soap, slipped it into the pocket of her warm uniform topcoat, and turned to leave.
‘’Ang on a moment, Sunday,’ he called softly. Taking something out from beneath his counter, he came round and discreetly popped it into one of Sunday’s coat pockets. It was a one-ounce bar of plain chocolate. ‘Mum’s the word, eh, dear?’ He took a quick glance out through his shop window to make sure that he wasn’t under surveillance by M.I.5, then quickly returned behind the counter.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Johnston,’ said Sunday, who was really very touched by his gesture. ‘It’s very good of you.’
As soon as Sunday got outside the shop, it started to rain. Luckily, she had her umbrella with her, and as she rarely seemed to go anywhere these days without wellington boots, she wasn’t too worried about getting wet.
It was almost twenty minutes’ walk back to the farm, so she decided to take the short cut along a small back road that bordered the airbase. For Sunday, walking in the rain had now become a whole new experience. No longer could she hear the raindrops pelting down on to her umbrella, like the time when she went to listen to her mum playing in the band at the Salvation Army meeting. Even if there was thunder rumbling across the entire sky, she wouldn’t hear it. There was no longer any threat, no longer any menace. The momentary feeling of despair suddenly turned to anger, and in a fit of bitterness and rage she took down her umbrella, turned her eyes up towards the sky, and walked along with the rain pelting down on to her face.
Whilst she was hurrying along the narrow muddy path, the rain was driving down so hard that she could hardly see where she was going. Soon, a stream of water came rushing down the path against her wellington boots, and she had a struggle to keep her balance on the slippery mud. A thin veil of rain mist gradually covered the bare trees, and after a moment or so she couldn’t even see any of the USAF planes in front of their hangars in the distance. With her headscarf now saturated, she put up her umbrella again. But as she did so, she was unable to hear the rapid approach of a motor vehicle just turning round the bend on the path ahead of her.
There was a sudden screech of brakes, followed by the angry wail of a motor horn.
Sunday looked up, and just managed to dodge out of the way as the US Air Force jeep skidded in the mud alongside her.
‘You stupid broad!’
The young airman who leapt out of the jeep looked as though he was going to hit Sunday. But his outburst was caused more by anxiety than anger.
‘Don’t you ever look where you’re goin’? You could’ve been killed stone-dead!’
With both of them now soaked to the skin, Sunday just stared at the airman with total disinterest.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, for Chrissake! Say somethin’!’
Sunday had no idea what he was ranting on about. All she could see was a face distorted in anger. So she decided it was safer to ignore him, and continue on her way.
The young airman watched her go in sheer disbelief. There he was, practically up to his knees in mud, rain soaking his cap and uniform, and she just walked on as though she had nothing to do with the whole darned thing.
‘Goddamn Limey!’ he yelled. Then he got back into his jeep, slammed the door, and started to move off. Unfortunately, however, the wheels were now stuck in the mud.
By this time, Sunday was well on her way back to the farm. She didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder at the hotheaded airman who had nearly knocked her down.
‘Stupid Yanks!’ she said to herself. ‘Think they own the country!’
Chapter 10
24 November 1944
Dear Sunday, You may or may not be interested to know that your poor mum has been injured by a V-2 rocket that fell on a pub up near Hackney.
Aunt Louie’s scribbled note shocked Sunday. For the past week or so, she had suspected that something was wrong, for, since she left home her mum had written to her twice a week, but during the last week she had heard nothing. So, once she had got Jinx to clear compassionate leave with Farmer Cloy, she was back on the village bus to Braintree, and then the train to Liverpool Street.
During the journey, Sunday imagined all the worst possible things that might have happened to her mum. Every day the newspapers were full of reports about V-2s dropping on all parts of London, and despite the insistence that casualties were light, she knew only too well what it was like to be buried alive in falling debris from one of those devastating explosions.
Doll Mooney was the first person Sunday saw as she entered the backyard of ‘the Buildings’. And, as usual, Doll was full of high drama and pessimism. ‘I don’t know ’ow we survive, ’onest I don’t,’ she said, trying to keep an eye on her two eldest kids who were making snowballs from the first light fall of the winter. ‘I tell yer, Sun, I’m sick of it. One minute they tell us the war’s practically over, and then all of a sudden these bleedin’ rocket things start it all over again.’ Then she wiped her running nose with one finger, and asked gloomily, ‘Did yer ’ear about the one that came down on Smiffield Market? Loads er people copped it, poor devils. Terrible!’
Luckily, Sunday hadn’t taken in half of what she had been saying, for most of the time Doll had forgotten to let Sunday lip-read.
A few minutes later, Sunday had climbed the stone steps, and was letting herself into the flat with her own key. What she found inside was hardly what she had been expecting.
‘Sunday! Oh . . . oh . . . Sunday!’
Madge was
out of her chair at the tea table in a flash, and throwing her arms around Sunday in a warm, tight embrace. ‘Oh, my dear, dear little girl!’ she whimpered, over and over again, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘I’ve missed you so much. Let me look at you.’
She stood back to look at Sunday, her eyes streaked with tears. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. They said on the wireless it’s the coldest winter in fifty years. Is your bed warm? Have you been wearing enough clothes?’
‘I’m all right, Mum,’ said Sunday, embarrassed by the fuss, and surprised to find the old lady looking so well, with only a few signs of cuts and bruises. Once again, Aunt Louie had exaggerated. But the moment Sunday had entered the parlour, her attention had been drawn to the elderly man who had got up from his seat at the tea table.
‘Oh – I’m sorry, dear,’ said Madge, only just realising that she hadn’t introduced her visitor. ‘This is a very good friend of mine – Mr Billings.’ She turned to the grey-haired man still standing by the table, and held out her hand towards him. ‘Stan,’ she said rather shyly. ‘This is my daughter, Sunday.’
Mr Billings came across, and shook hands with Sunday. ‘Lovely ter meet yer, young lady,’ he said, making quite sure Sunday could see his tongue and lips moving. ‘Yer mum’s told me so much about yer.’
Sunday tried hard to smile, but she found it difficult. All she could bring herself to say was, ‘Hallo.’
‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home, dear?’ asked Madge uneasily. ‘I’d have got things ready.’
Sunday felt odd, a mixture of hurt and resentment. ‘Aunt Louie wrote that you’d been injured in a rocket explosion up at Hackney.’
Madge sighed. ‘Oh dear. Auntie shouldn’t have done that. We were having a Bible meeting in the local Army Hall. But it was several streets away. I just got a little shook up, that’s all.’
‘Actually, yer mum was very brave,’ interrupted Mr Billings. ‘All the windows blew in. She was blown off her feet, poor thing.’
‘Don’t be silly, Stan,’ said Madge. ‘I was perfectly all right.’
The Silent War Page 13