Sunday looked blank.
‘Flying Fortress. They’re really big guys.’
Sunday kind of understood, or at least pretended to.
‘Erin told me about the tough time you’ve been having,’ he continued, now gaining more confidence. ‘I mean, about the flying bomb and all that.’
Sunday lowered her eyes, and sipped her tea.
The young airman touched her arm with his hand, which prompted her to look up again. ‘War can be hell at times,’ he said, talking directly at her again. ‘I guess the only thing we can be grateful for is we’re still alive.’
Sunday smiled, and half nodded in agreement. Then, for another moment or so, the two of them sipped from their cups in silence.
On the other side of the room, the tea lady was in animated gossip with some of her village friends, whilst washing up cups and saucers in a bowl of hot water. Despite its vast size, the chapel was quite a dark place, and the only real light available was coming from a solitary electric light bulb dangling from the high beamed ceiling.
Sunday was taking in the rather plain and simple surroundings of the old chapel, when the young airman eventually spoke to her again. ‘You’re probably wondering where I learned how to use sign language?’
Sunday felt herself tense again, but she smiled blandly.
‘My mother was deaf,’ he said. ‘From the day she was born. Never heard a damn thing all her life.’
Sunday tried to disguise her interest.
‘When I was born, the doctors thought there was a chance I’d be exactly the same. But it didn’t happen. Nor to my kid sister. Just Ma. Poor old Ma.’ He sipped the dregs from his cup of coffee, and put the cup down on to a chair. ‘Still, she led a full and active life. Never heard anything, so she didn’t know anything any different. Better that way, I guess. What you’ve never had, you don’t miss. But, at least we were able to talk to each other – in a manner of speaking, that is. Thanks to these, of course.’ He held up his hands in front of her. ‘Ma gave me my first alphabet sign lesson when I was just six years old. I learnt the British two-handed SL as well as the American. Came as easy as using my own voice.’
Sunday felt uneasy. Still sipping her tea, she started to stroll around the room, which had once been the chapel gallery. The young airman strolled with her.
For a few moments, they stood together in quiet contemplation, staring up aimlessly at the church eaves. Both of them clearly had a great deal on their mind. Sunday was thinking about Jinx, who at this very moment would be breaking her crucial news to Erin, and at the same time she was also feeling an odd sense of affinity with the young airman standing next to her. It was the same for Sergeant Gary Mitchell. There was no doubt that he was drawn to this girl, this strange and distant creature. For some inexplicable reason, he had known it the moment she walked into the chapel, as though he had known her all his life.
The few moments’ silence came to an end when the young airman quietly turned to Sunday, and, facing her, said, ‘I’d like to see you again, Sunday.’
Sunday looked into his eyes. They were soft and undemanding.
‘If you want, I could help you. Like I told you, I know the British two-handed system as well as the one we use back home.’
Sunday looked puzzled.
‘You’re holding back, Sunday. There’s a whole world out there. You have to be part of it.’ He took hold of both her hands, and, despite the fact that the village ladies were still gossiping non-stop, his voice echoed gently in the hollow atmosphere. ‘Let me teach you,’ he said. Then, raising his hands in front of her, he whispered, ‘Let me teach you how to speak – with these.’
Sunday looked at him as though he was mad, and stepped back from him as though he was a threat to her.
‘I am not going to be deaf for the rest of my life,’ she said, her voice now raised so much that it spiralled up to the chapel roof. ‘They said I’d never hear again,’ she bellowed. ‘But it’s not true! It’s not true!’
With that, she put her cup down on to a chair, turned and rushed off down the stairs. Reluctantly, the young airman let her go. His inclination was to follow her, but his common sense warned him otherwise.
Sunday hurriedly left the chapel and disappeared on to the green outside.
The village ladies stopped talking abruptly and watched with absolute fascination at what they were sure must have been a lovers’ tiff.
When Sunday got back to the farm, a message was waiting for her to go and see Cloy. After the incident in the cowshed a few days before, she feared the worst, but whatever happened, she was determined that she was not going to let Jinx down. However, as she entered Farmer Cloy’s office, it was apparent that the interview was nothing to do with the cowshed incident, for there was also someone else in the room waiting to talk with her.
‘Miss Collins,’ said Farmer Cloy rather formally. ‘I believe you’ve already met this lady, Mrs Jackson, from Divisional Headquarters WLA. She’s come up from London to have a few words with you. Please sit down.’
As she sat in the usual chair on the other side of Cloy’s desk Sunday’s heart sank. The woman in the uniform of an official of the Women’s Land Army was one of the board who had interviewed her when she applied to do the job of working on the land.
The woman brought up a hard chair, and placed it directly beside Sunday, so that the girl could see her as she talked. ‘Sunday,’ she said, lips moving laboriously slowly, ‘our information is that you have not responded to any of the requests made by Colchester Hospital for a therapy training appointment. Is that correct?’
Sunday sighed and nodded.
‘Why is that? Can you tell me?’
Sunday paused before answering. ‘I can understand without having to learn sign language. It’s not necessary.’
The woman official stiffened visibly and leaned closer towards Sunday. ‘Please watch me, Sunday,’ she said precisely. ‘And watch me clearly. When the WLA gave you the opportunity to take up work on the land, it was on the strict understanding that you avail yourself of therapy which is essential to your communication progress. You were sent to this farm because Mr Cloy here wants to do his best to help those with disability problems. There are two other girls working with you who are cooperating, and you must do the same. Do you understand what I am saying?’
Sunday nodded reluctantly. But she was curious. She already knew about Maureen, the mute girl, but who was the other ‘disabled’ girl who was taking therapy?
‘Let me ask you one thing, Sunday,’ the woman continued. ‘Why are you so hostile to the idea of learning further communication skills? Can’t you understand that it is for your own protection?’
‘It would be a waste of time,’ insisted Sunday. ‘I’m not completely deaf.’
The woman was taken aback by Sunday’s remark, and exchanged a puzzled look with Cloy. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Are you telling me that you have – partial hearing?’
Sunday took a deep breath and replied, ‘Yes.’
The woman exchanged another look with Cloy. ‘Sunday,’ she said, trying to appear as understanding as possible. ‘Sunday, I have spoken to Mr Callow, your specialist, several times, and he has assured me that there is absolutely no possibility at all that your hearing will be restored. You should know that you are now registered as a disabled, deaf person.’
‘No!’ snapped Sunday, suddenly rising from her chair. ‘I’m not deaf! I won’t be deaf! I’m going to hear again! I won’t be dictated to! I won’t!’
The woman official felt distressed. She stood up and, taking hold of Sunday’s hands, said, ‘This is difficult for you, Sunday, but if you are going to put your life together again, you must face up to the truth.’
Sunday tried to pull her hands away, but the woman held them tight.
‘Remember this, Sunday,’ she said, facing her directly. ‘We gave you three months’ probation here, three months to find your way back into the community. Now it’s up to you whether you c
arry on working with the WLA. If you don’t, then we shall have to say that this experiment has failed. It’s up to you, Sunday. It’s up to you.’
Chapter 12
Early in December, there were ceremonies and parades throughout Essex to mark the stand-down of local Home Guard units. But despite the fact that many of the stringent wartime restrictions were gradually being lifted, the war itself was far from over, for flying bombs and V-2 rockets were still causing persistent havoc in East Anglia and London. Also, the skies above Ridgewell and all the surrounding villages were constantly filled by armadas of American Flying Fortress bomber planes, heading out towards the Continent on dangerous missions to obliterate the enemy’s V-1 and V-2 launch pads in Holland, and to back up the Allied invasion which had now crossed the River Rhine in the very heart of Germany itself.
It was still very cold, and the snow around Cloy’s Farm was now frozen hard. But for several days there had been no more heavy snowfalls, which gave Sunday and the other girls the chance to get on with their farm duties, consisting mainly of looking after the livestock. Many a time, however, Sunday and Maureen found themselves being rugby-tackled to the floor as the other girls heard the drone of a stray flying bomb suddenly cut out, and end up with a loud explosion in some distant field. It was lucky that Sunday could never hear the frequent barrage of ack-ack guns from the base that were always targeting the ‘doodlebugs’ or V-2 rockets as they passed overhead at regular intervals day and night. But there were many times when she lay awake at night, watching the endless flashes of gunfire as they filtered through the blackout curtains and lit up the barn.
However, these days Sunday had more on her mind than flying bombs and rockets. The best news was that as soon as Jinx had told her GI Bombardier about the baby she was expecting, he had asked her to marry him. And furthermore, he wanted to do it as soon as possible, before Christmas. Jinx, who had gone through so much anguish and torment about what she had done, was overjoyed by the responsible way in which Erin had taken the news, and especially the exhilaration he had shown at the prospect of being a father. And Sunday’s estimation of the Bombardier immediately soared, for until that moment she had thought of Erin as nothing more than a gangster from the wrong side of Jersey City.
Sunday’s own problem was now her main cause of concern. The visit from the WLA official, which had thrown her into such a panic, meant that unless she made an effort to improve her communicating skills, her days at Cloy’s Farm were numbered. And yet, the moment she agreed that she had any future need to learn about sign language and everything else about living as a deaf person, it meant that she had accepted that she was going to remain deaf for the rest of her life, and that was something she had vowed never to do. However, as each day passed, the reality of her situation was becoming only too clear. The truth was that she had not heard even the faintest sound since before the explosion at Briggs Bagwash, and despite her initial determination to hear, she now had very little confidence of ever doing so again. So why was she holding back from improving her quality of life? Was it fear of doing something so alien to her? Was it the feeling that she was having to step back in time by going back to school to learn something? Or, more likely, was it just stubborn pride? Whatever it was, Sunday knew that if she wanted to grasp this opportunity of learning how to stand on her own two feet without her mum and Aunt Louie watching her every move, she had to think rationally. But how?
On these Saturday winter afternoons, Sunday had taken up young Ronnie Cloy’s invitation to let him show her around the place. She found him great company, for he seemed to have such a love for everything he did that, even though half the time she couldn’t catch everything the boy was saying, he somehow always managed to communicate such enthusiasm for wanting to share with her everything he knew.
‘I once saw the Home Guard take this German pilot prisoner. Actually there was two of them, but the other one got killed when his parachute didn’t open and he crashed down through the roof of the old Dairy near Clare.’
Ronnie was in a sprightly mood. For the past hour or so, he and Sunday had been on a trek through the woods around the village, and he was greatly enjoying his role as a country guide. At times, Sunday found it hard going, for the snow had turned to ice, and they spent a lot of the time trying to avoid falling over.
‘We’ve had a lot of bombs ’round here, you know.’ Only occasionally did Ronnie forget to look directly at Sunday as he talked to her. ‘’Specially when the war started. They had a big one over near Meadows Farm, and quite a lot at Halstead. We had a flying bomb at Hedingham,’ he said, as they climbed a snow-covered stile, and then added ghoulishly, ‘and a rocket that killed loads over Chelmsford.’
Sunday forgave him for the way he related the morbid details of local air-raids. She knew only too well that all boys his age had a morbid fascination with war, even that snotty-nosed lot back at ‘the Buildings’. To them, death and destruction was all part of one big adventure. Nonetheless, it did cross her mind to wonder how he would cope if he were to live much closer to the daily human tragedies of war, in a town or city, like London.
They trudged across a wide stretch of field, their feet leaving deep imprints, and crunching in the snow as they went. When they reached the edge of some thick woods, Ronnie came to a halt and paused for a moment. Turning round to gaze out at the snow-covered landscape behind them, he said, ‘This is my favourite view. I always come here when I want to get away from Dad.’
The sun was just managing to squeeze out from behind the clouds, and quite suddenly the whole scene before them was transformed into a dazzling glare.
Sunday relished the moment of warmth on her face, which prompted her to pull down the hood of her duffle coat. ‘Don’t you like your dad?’ she asked Ronnie.
The boy swung a look at her. ‘Are you joking!’ he spluttered, his face crumpled up in disdain. ‘He thinks I’m a cissy. But I’m not!’
‘Why does he think that?’ asked Sunday, curious.
‘’Cos I don’t like living on the farm,’ he answered. Then he took out a packet of chewing-gum, and offered her one. ‘Gum?’
Sunday looked surprised. She hadn’t seen chewing-gum for a long time. So she took one.
‘We get lots of it from the Yanks,’ he said, his mouth already moving rapidly as he softened the gum with his teeth. ‘They give us a lot of things – sweets and stuff. My dad’s always on the fiddle. Gets petrol off the ration, and all sorts of buckshee things.’
Sunday had guessed as much the moment she saw that half-finished bar of American candy on Cloy’s desk. ‘Why don’t you like living on the farm, Ronnie?’ she asked, her voice even more difficult to understand as she chewed the gum.
‘I don’t like seeing things killed,’ he said, before stooping down to roll himself a snowball. Then looking up, he added, ‘Pigs and chickens. I give them names. They’re like pets to me. Then he sends them all off to be slaughtered.’ He stood up and threw his snowball as far as he could. ‘D’you know what he did once?’ he said, turning back to Sunday again. ‘He brought a chicken out into the yard, and told me to watch. Then he cut off the poor thing’s head right in front of me. I couldn’t bear it. He knew I couldn’t. That’s why he did it. I ran away.’
Sunday felt a wave of maternal fondness for the boy.
‘D’you know why I come here?’ Ronnie asked.
Sunday shook her head.
‘See that house over there?’ he asked, stretching out his hand and pointing with one finger across the field. ‘That red house – just to the left of that big tree that’s bending over to one side.’
Sunday nodded. She could see the house he was indicating on the far side of the field in the distance, distinctively red-coloured, the only one set in the middle of a row of white distempered cottages with thatched roofs.
‘I used to come here with my dog, Rupert. He was a golden Labrador. We used to have a smashing time. While I spent the time looking at the house and wondering why it was the
only one painted red, Rupert used to sniff around for rabbits. I like that house. I like it ’cos it’s different.’ Ronnie sighed. It was the only time he revealed his true feelings. ‘Dad made me get rid of Rupert. He said he didn’t want him chasing the pheasants. Dad doesn’t like things that move. He just has to shoot them. By the way,’ he asked, ‘are you a Cockney?’
Sunday was taken aback by the boy’s sudden change of mood. ‘In a way – yes,’ she replied, a little flustered. ‘But I wasn’t born close enough to the sound of Bow Bells.’
‘I knew some Cockneys once,’ said Ronnie, stamping the heel of his wellington boot on the hard crust of the frozen snow. ‘There was this man, used to live over Toppesfield way. Came from this place called Walthamstow, or somewhere like that. ’Course, they weren’t real Cockneys, but they liked to think they were ’cos he used to have a pub, spoke all sort of funny-like.’
The boy’s observation amused Sunday.
Ronnie responded to Sunday’s smile with a smile of his own. ‘I like you, Sunday,’ he said without any awkwardness. ‘Will you be my friend?’
This remark confirmed to Sunday what she had begun already to know. In his own adolescent way, the boy was attracted to her.
‘We are friends, Ronnie,’ she replied, holding out her hand to shake his.
Ronnie beamed brightly as he shook hands eagerly with her.
Suddenly, however, there was an explosion in the distance, which caused the ground to shake, and snow to come cascading down from the branches of the leafless trees. In one swift movement, Ronnie seized hold of Sunday, dragged her to the ground, and shielded her with the upper part of his own body.
As soon as the ground and snowfall had settled, Ronnie helped Sunday to sit up.
‘Sorry about that, Sunday,’ he said, worried about how she would react. ‘In the distance, over there. Can you see?’
Sunday looked to where the boy was pointing, and in the distance she could see a tall funnel of smoke rising up from the snow-covered landscape.
The Silent War Page 16