The Silent War

by Victor Pemberton

  ‘They’re supposed ter be good Catholics,’ Jack continued, milking the drama for all it was worth. ‘Wot is it this time? Baby number five? Or is it six?’

  ‘Disgusting!’ snorted Aunt Louie.

  ‘Wait till the Pope ’ears about this one!’ quipped Jack, roaring with laughter at his own joke.

  ‘Oh Jack,’ was Madge’s only comment. ‘I wish you hadn’t brought such sad news on Christmas morning.’ With that, she collected the three breakfast plates, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  As she watched her go, Sunday noticed for the first time that her mum was limping badly. It worried her, for although Madge had suffered from phlebitis for some years, it had never affected her movements as much as this.

  ‘It’s what I’ve always said,’ said Louie cryptically. ‘Never trust a man. He’ll stab you in the back as good as look at you.’

  Jack looked quite put out. ‘Come off it, Miss Clipstone,’ he sniffed. ‘We ain’t all the same, yer know. Anyway, it’s probably just a flash in the pan. Doll and Joe ain’t stupid. It’ll all come out in the wash.’

  Louie lit one of her rolled cigarettes, sending a cloud of bitter-smelling smoke across the breakfast table. ‘If I had a husband who went sleeping around with whores, he’d be out of my front door quicker than he came in.’

  Jack came back at her in a flash. ‘Yeah, well there ain’t much chance of that, is there, Miss Clipstone?’ he snorted indignantly. ‘I mean yer don’t ’ave no ’usband.’ Then added pointedly, ‘Nor ever likely to.’

  Before she went off to her Christmas morning service, Madge handed out a few presents from around the Christmas tree. Jack was delighted to be given a shaving brush from Madge and a safety razor from Louie. Sunday bought her mum a new pair of carpet-slippers, which she had managed to buy without coupons from a shoe shop back in Halstead, and for her Aunt Louie, an ounce of her favourite tobacco for rolled cigarettes. To her surprise, Aunt Louie gave her a pair of warm gloves, which she had actually bought with her own ration book in Woolworth’s. Madge had bought two presents for Sunday. One was a beautiful leather purse from Jones Brothers’ Department Store just across the road. But the second present was more unusual, for it was a photograph of Sunday’s adopted father, mounted in an ornate brass frame which Madge had bought for a shilling at the Salvation Army Christmas Jumble Sale. Sunday spent several moments looking at the snapshot portrait of the man who had died so many years before. It was a strangely youthful-looking face, and after what her mum had told her about him, he was clearly a good and decent man. And yet, there was something that worried her about the photo.

  It made her want to ask questions about her real father.

  Holloway Road on a Christmas morning was pretty much like it was on most other days. Not so many people around perhaps, but, despite the endless bomb-blasts during the 1940 Blitz, and now the V-1 and V-2 campaigns, everything looked exactly the same as always. As she made her way to the Salvation Army Hall up at Highbury, there was a moment when Sunday couldn’t help wondering what this great inner London road to the north looked like during the days when Queen Elizabeth I stayed in the Nag’s Head Inn and hunted deer in The Hollow Way. Sunday tried to picture what must have once been green fields bordered by dense woods, and the Virgin Queen galloping on horseback through this rural idyll on the outskirts of her capital city. For a brief moment, a smile came to Sunday’s face as she pondered on what the old Queen would have thought of ‘The Hollow Way’ Road of today, with its myriad shops, tall terraced houses, council estates, cinemas, pubs, and a railway bridge that spanned one of the busiest parts of the road outside the Tube Station. And as she strolled along the ice-cold pavements, acutely aware of the seductive smells of Christmas dinners roasting in ovens, her mind contrasted the colourful well-trodden streets of her own part of London with the wide, open spaces of agricultural Essex, and the people who toiled on the land there. And then she thought of Jinx and Erin, and the girls with whom she was sharing a new and different life. But most of all she thought about Gary, and what he had meant to her, and why fate had continued to treat her so unfairly.

  When she reached the Regent Cinema, it saddened her to see how squalid the outside of the place had become. She remembered the times when she was taken to the Saturday morning kids’ film shows there, the serial Westerns and thrilling adventure epics. And in her mind’s eye she could still see the narrow auditorium, and the steep rake of the rows of seats that swept down towards the stage, so that anyone sitting anywhere near the front had to crane their necks to look up at the screen. Sunday still cherished memories of those wonderful, glorious times at this now painfully neglected old picture house, and the days when she could hear as well as see.

  Next door to the cinema, she stopped briefly to look at a poster outside the Northern Polytechnic, which announced an impending production by the Amateur Operatic Group of The Mikado. But just as she was about to move on, she found herself facing an all-too-familiar figure.

  ‘Merry Chris’mas, Sun!’

  It was a shock for her to see Ernie Mancroft again.

  ‘It’s good ter see yer again, Sun,’ he said. As usual, he was without a topcoat, though, despite his strong physique, he had to blow into his cupped hands to warm them up. ‘Yer aunt told me yer was comin’ ’ome for the ’olidays. She said yer was bound to go up to the ’All for yer mum’s Chris’mas service.’ For a moment, he just carried on looking at her, hoping for a reply. ‘Come on, Sun. This is Chris’mas. Ain’t yer got nuffin’ ter say ter me?’

  Sunday shook her head. ‘Ernie, we’ve got nothing to say to each other,’ she replied. Subconsciously, her gloved hands were moving about wildly in a simple attempt to illustrate what she was saying. ‘I’m grateful for what you did, but that’s all in the past now. You’ve got your life to live, and I’ve got mine.’ Sunday hated having to talk this way, especially on Christmas Day, but if she was going to prevent Ernie pestering her for the rest of her life, she just had to say it.

  Ernie smiled. ‘I’ve bin called up,’ he said, adjusting the white scarf around his neck. ‘Goin’ off first fing in the New Year.’

  ‘Good luck to you, Ernie.’ Sunday made a move to walk on.

  ‘I wanna see yer again, Sun,’ he said, blocking her path.

  ‘I don’t want to see you, Ernie,’ Sunday replied firmly. ‘Why can’t you understand that? Why can’t you understand that you and me have nothing in common – absolutely nothing?’

  Ernie’s smile disappeared. He looked crushed. ‘I’ve never loved anyone before, Sun,’ he said, with almost a look of pleading in his eyes. ‘Everyone deserves ter be loved, one way or anuvver.’

  As they stood there, a cheerful family of two adults and three children hurried by, all clutching wrapped-up presents, and all clearly on their way to a relation for Christmas dinner. ‘Merry Christmas!’ yelled the smallest of the children, a greeting that was immediately taken up by the rest of the family.

  Sunday smiled weakly, but as she hadn’t heard them, she didn’t answer.

  ‘Look, Sun,’ Ernie continued, ignoring the family as they made their way past them. ‘This war’s cut up a lot er good people – ’specially you, I know that. But we all ’ave ter ’ave somefin’ ter cling on to. Know wot I mean?’

  Sunday tried to move on again, but this time Ernie gently held her back by taking hold of her arm.

  ‘D’yer remember that first time, Sun?’ said Ernie, talking directly at her, determined to make sure she was taking in what he had to say. ‘That first time we met – down the Bagwash? Yer give me the eye – remember?’

  Sunday stared in disbelief at him. ‘Ernie, what are you talking about?’

  ‘You an’ Pearl was out the backyard tergevver, ’avin a good ole chinwag about Muvver Briggs. I came fru wiv a big bundle of washin’, an’ as I passed, I give you the eye, an’ you turned ’round an’ smiled at me.’ He was staring hard into her eyes, desperate for some kind of recognition. ‘Yer do remember – don’t yer
?’

  Sunday’s body tensed. Suddenly it all came back to her. Yes, of course she remembered. But she had dismissed it from her mind long ago. Inside, she was tearing herself apart for being so stupid. Why, why, why had she been so stupid? Why had she let herself lead Ernie on like that?

  ‘Ernie, please listen to me,’ she said. ‘I was wrong to do that. I was wrong to let you think that – whatever you thought I meant. You’ve got to understand something,’ she continued, not realising that as she spoke her voice was raised again. ‘You talk about what the war’s done to people. Well, you’re right. It has cut them up. But in my case, it’s also taught me a lesson. It’s taught me to grow up. If I looked at you in the way you say, then I was being dishonest. The person who did that to you, Ernie, doesn’t exist any more. Please understand that, Ernie. Please try to forgive me.’

  Once again, she tried to move away. But this time, Ernie dug his fingers into her arm, and held it in a steel-like grip.

  ‘Just who d’yer fink you are anyway?’ he growled, reverting to the type of mood Sunday was more accustomed to. ‘Miss High-and-Bleedin’-Mighty, Miss Cut-Above-Everybody-Else-in-the-’Ole-Wide-World! Not good enuff fer the likes of you – is that it?’

  ‘No, Ernie!’ protested Sunday, trying to pull away. ‘That’s not what I’m saying . . .!’

  ‘Lemme tell yer somefin’, Miss Sunday bloody Collins. I got me pride – see! I got the right ter be loved just the same as anyone else. Now yer may not fink yer love me, but I know different. I need yer, Sun,’ he said, pulling her close and exchanging a pulverising contact with her eyes. ‘An’ you need me.’ He released his grip on her and stood back. ‘Don’t ever ferget that, Sun. ’Cos wherever yer are, I’ll find yer. Whatever yer do, I’ll be there.’ He made a move to go, but suddenly stopped and turned back briefly to look at her. ‘Yer shouldn’t muck around with people’s feelin’s, Sun. It’s dangerous.’

  Sunday watched him stride off down the street. However, he had only gone a few yards when he stopped again and turned. ‘Oh, an’ by the way – Merry Chris’mas!’

  With his hands in his trousers pockets, Ernie Mancroft hurried off, and within a few moments he had disappeared out of sight, turning off down Hornsey Road.

  Sunday watched Ernie go. This time, she wasn’t angry, just sad. But most of all – she felt guilty.

  By the time Sunday had reached the Salvation Army Hall, the Christmas morning service had already begun. So she found a seat at the back of the Hall and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as she possibly could.

  The Hall itself was beautifully decorated, with lovely coloured paintings of the Nativity done by children from the Sunday school, and home-made paper chains draped across the stage and all around the walls. As ever, the huge Christmas tree was most impressive, and was lit by the same lights that had been used since Sunday was a little girl. Soon after she entered, everyone stood up to sing a Christmas carol, but as she couldn’t hear the words, she had no idea which carol it was. But she soon found the order of service sheet, and it took her very little time to feel the mood and tempo of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’. It was an odd experience for her, for practically every Christmas morning of her young life she had come to this Hall and joined in the hearty festive singing with all her Salvation Army aunts and uncles. Now, like so many other things, she could only hear the music and words of the carols in her own memories.

  On stage, the band was clearly at full throttle, and it was easy for Sunday to pick out her mum, whose cheeks were puffed out at the mouthpiece of her euphonium. Sunday always got a lot of fun out of watching Captain Drew conducting the band as though it was some vast symphony orchestra, and now that she was unable to hear anything, it had given her a greater awareness of certain things that she had taken for granted all her life. The energy that the singing had radiated throughout the Hall was somehow a potent force, a force of inspiration. Salvationists loved music, they loved to sing and play their instruments, and most of all they rejoiced in sharing it with each other. Sunday’s own mum had been a perfect example of what true dedication was all about. Madge had devoted years of her spare time in the service of poor people, of people who had lost their way in life and had nowhere to go, and the only reward she had ever received for her unselfish contribution had been to bring up Sunday as her own daughter. As she stood there, watching all those Christmas worshippers sway to and fro to the carol music, Sunday thought about her mum. In fact, she thought about her now more than ever before.

  When the carol came to an end and everyone sat down, Sunday was able to catch a fleeting glimpse from behind of a white-haired man who was seated just a couple of rows in front of her. It was her mum’s ‘gentleman friend’, Mr Billings. And a couple of rows in front of him was Jack Popwell from ‘the Buildings’. Seeing so many familiar faces all around her gave her a feeling that she was spending Christmas with a far bigger family than she had ever been used to. In some ways, it helped to erase some of the guilt she felt about the turbulent meeting she’d just had with Ernie Mancroft. Colonel Faraday then stood up to give the Christmas Day address. As he was so far away and she was unable to read his lips, Sunday couldn’t understand what he was saying. So it gave her a chance to come together with her own thoughts. Seated next to her were an elderly couple who absolutely fascinated Sunday because they were holding hands all the way through the service. But then, she thought, why shouldn’t elderly people hold hands if they want to? Surely there should be no age limit between two people who love each other?

  For the next few minutes, the Hall remained quite motionless, listening in rapt attention to the homespun message from the portly, ruddy-faced Salvation Army Colonel. Most years, this was always the part of the service when Sunday spent much of the time scanning the Hall for something – anything – that would take her mind off all the boring words that always seemed to be bouncing off the high ceiling. But not today. Today was quite different. At this precise moment, Sunday seemed to be assessing her own life, and what the future would hold for her once this seemingly endless war was behind her. She closed her eyes. The first and only image she saw – was Gary. He was sitting opposite her at that table in the Sergeants’ Mess, his short, wavy blond hair catching the glow from an electric light bulb dangling from the ceiling above them. And she could see that smile – that devastating, mischievous smile, caressing and comforting her, and bringing a warm flush to her pallid cheeks. ‘I want to tell you something, Sunday.’ Gary’s words suddenly entered her head, and whirled around in a soft but distant echo. ‘I’ve known girls in my time. But none of them has been like you.’ Sunday, her eyes closed tightly, leaned forward in her chair, head bowed low. In her mind, she was reading those lips, watching those hands make words that she wanted desperately to understand. ‘. . . I’m warning you, next Christmas – you’re mine.’ Gary’s words were haunting her. She tried so hard to imagine what his voice would have sounded like. Would his accent have been soft and gentle, or clear and sharp? If only she could have heard it with her own ears, just once. If only. It was also hard to believe that Gary was not right there beside her now, willing her to stop feeling sorry for herself and urging her to get on with her life. But it was even harder for her to believe that she would never see that face again, nor read the lips and hands that would remain a burning image within her for the rest of her life. As she sat there, hunched up in her seat, she felt her stomach start to shake. Everything inside her was telling her to cry, to release all the frustration and sense of loss that she was unable to cope with. But the tears just wouldn’t come. Like all the emotions she had been born with, tears were elusive. ‘Oh, by the way. I almost forgot.’ Once again, Gary’s voice soared through her troubled brain. ‘Since I won’t be seeing you again before Christmas, this is for you.’

  The moment she heard those words, Sunday’s hand dug deep into the pocket of her duffle coat. Slowly, she brought out the small packet that Gary had given her and asked her not to open until Christmas mornin
g.

  Opening her eyes, she looked down at the present, and after holding it tightly in her hand for a moment, opened it. Inside she found a jewellery box containing a gold locket surrounded by mother-of-pearl and set on a fine gold chain. In the centre of the locket was a tiny snapshot photograph of Gary in cap and uniform. He was smiling. It was a typical mischievous Gary smile.

  Sunday placed the small locket in her palm, and after studying it closely for a moment, she closed her hand tightly around it.

  At long last the tears came. And it helped.

  Chapter 15

  So far, it had been a lousy Christmas for Doll Mooney. For a start, the week before she had trudged the streets of Holloway to find a turkey, but because there weren’t many of them around this year, she had to make do with a chicken that looked as though it had died of old age. Then on Christmas Eve, the kids had kept her awake half the night waiting for Father Christmas to come down the blocked-up chimney with their presents. And if that wasn’t bad enough, just as she was getting to sleep, her husband Joe, who had come home blind-drunk from the Nag’s Head, tried to have sex with her. Already two months gone with her fifth, she soon put a stop to that! Luckily, however, Joe always managed to sober up fairly quickly after a night out, and at the crack of dawn Doll was relieved when he went off to an early-morning Mass at the Roman Catholic Church in Upper Holloway. Anyway, once the old-age pensioner bird had been devoured by an army of hungry mouths, Joe was off again. Doll knew where he was going, but pretended she didn’t. So once he’d gone, she sent the kids off to play with their pathetic wartime toys in their own bedroom, got rid of her own mum and dad for an afternoon nap in her and Joe’s bedroom, and then settled down herself to a cup of tea and a piece of Woolworth’s Christmas cake with Sunday, who had just popped in for a quick visit.

  ‘’E’s got this woman up at Stepney,’ Doll gabbled, as she smoked a Gold Flake fag, sipped some tea, and ate a piece of fruit cake all at the same time. ‘Conductress on the buses, can you believe! I mean, yer’d fink ’e could do better than that. Someone wiv more class at least!’ She roared with laughter at her own joke, then flicked her fag ash into her saucer which was balanced precariously on the arm of the sofa where she was sprawled out.