The Silent War

by Victor Pemberton

  Sunday was amazed how calmly Doll had reacted to Joe’s unfaithfulness. ‘When did you find out about all this, Doll?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, right back last summer I knew ’e was ’avin’ a bit on the side. In fact, ’e’s always ’avin’ a bit on the side – lots er bits. That’s the trouble wiv Joe – sex-mad!’

  ‘But don’t you mind?’

  ‘Wot’s the point?’ Doll replied, unwittingly dropping a few currants on the floor as she munched her piece of cake. ‘Joe’s always ’ad an eye fer a bit of crumpet – even when I first met ’im. Men are like that. Always got an itch in their trousers.’

  Sunday found it a bit difficult to follow Doll, because as she spoke she had a habit of turning away. ‘But if he’s unfaithful,’ she asked, ‘why don’t you just kick him out?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sun,’ Doll spluttered, her mouth full of cake. ‘Why would I do that when I love ’im?’

  Sunday was bewildered. Most people in ‘the Buildings’ had always known what an odd couple the Mooneys were, but how could Doll humiliate herself by holding on to this man?

  ‘I look at it this way,’ Doll continued, putting her feet down on the floor and sitting up straight on the sofa. ‘Joe’s been a good farver to ’is kids, never lets ’em want – nor me neiver, come ter that. But if yer try ter tie ’im down, yer’ve lost ’im. An’ the trouble is, I don’t want ter lose ’im.’

  As Sunday watched Doll pulling on her fag and again flicking the ash into her saucer, it suddenly occurred to her what an attractive woman Doll must have been in her younger days. But after four kids and another one on the way, she had let herself go, for these days she hardly even bothered to put a comb through her straight shoulder-length brown hair; her whole appearance suggested neglect and a lack of interest in how she looked.

  ‘But surely you can’t keep going on having kids, knowing Joe’s out with other women all the time?’ asked Sunday.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry, Sun,’ replied Doll instantly. ‘This is the last – make no bones about that! I told ’im last night, from now on ’e’s got ter tie a bleedin’ knot in it!’

  They both laughed, but as they did so, there was the sound of a rumpus coming from the kids’ bedroom.

  Doll leapt up from the sofa, rushed across to the bedroom door, and called, ‘You lot wake up yer nan and grandad, and I’ll separate all of yer from yer bleedin’ breff!’

  Although Sunday couldn’t read exactly what Doll was saying, she had a pretty good idea, and it made her laugh.

  ‘I’ll tell yer somefin’, Sun,’ Doll said when she returned. ‘This war does funny fings ter people. I mean, a few munffs ago we fawt it was all over. An’ then these bleedin’ planes wiv their arses on fire come along. Then the rockets. An’ suddenly, we’re all back ter square one. I tell yer, I’ve not seen people so fed up – not since the Blitz.’ She sat down on the sofa again, and curled her legs up beneath her. ‘Yer know, it’s not bin easy fer my Joe.’

  Sunday put down her cup and saucer on a small table beside the armchair she was sitting in. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Bein’ Irish an’ all that. Sometimes ’e feels like a square peg in a round ’ole. ’Specially durin’ wartime. If ’e ’adn’t bin a Caffolic, I fink ’e’d ’ave gone off ’is chump. Some people in the Buildin’s don’t go a bunch on the Paddys. They reckon they should’ve bin interned for the duration of the war, like the Jerrys and the Dagos.’

  Sunday knew exactly what Doll meant. When the war broke out, it was common knowledge in ‘the Buildings’ that certain residents resented the presence of some Irish people who lived in the district, suspecting them of having sympathy with the Nazis. It was because of this prejudice that the likes of Joe were often treated with suspicion, and never allowed to work near ‘sensitive’ wartime establishments.

  ‘Anyway, Joe knows I’ll never desert ’im,’ Doll continued, lighting up another fag. ‘As long as he goes on lovin’ me, ’e can ’ave as many flings wiv ’is women as ’e wants.’ She pulled deeply on her fag, held the smoke briefly in her lungs, then exhaled very, very slowly.

  ‘But if the time comes when I stop lovin’ ’im,’ said Doll, ‘it’ll be a very different matter.’

  On Boxing Day there was a brief fall of sleet. It didn’t last long, and the moment the sun popped out from behind grey clouds, there was a quick thaw, and the roads and pavements glistened with a slippery, wet surface.

  After a midday meal, Aunt Louie went off to play cards at a Ladies’ Bridge afternoon at a house up in Liverpool Road. So Sunday agreed to go with her mum to Archway Central Hall, where the Salvation Army were giving a tea party for people who had been bombed out of their homes, and also for the usual sad crowd of down-and-outs. Madge and Sunday were collected by Mr Billings, who took them in his old Morris Minor car, but it was a tight squeeze in the back seat because Sunday had to share it with one of her Salvation Army ‘aunties’, who had to bring along two aluminium teapots and a bucket full of party balloons, paper hats, and song-sheets. On the way up Holloway Road, Sunday took a wistful look out at the poor old Gaumont Cinema, once the pride and joy of the entire neighbourhood, but now reduced to an empty shell thanks to the ‘doodlebug’ which had landed on its roof during the previous August.

  The party itself turned out to be far less solemn than Sunday had expected, for most of the people there were determined to have a good time. She even joined in the knees-up with a group of elderly people who had been bombed out of their homes by a V-2 rocket which had fallen on nearby Grovedale Road. The fact that she couldn’t hear the piano playing made very little difference, for all she had to do was copy what everyone else was doing. But, as much as she entered into the spirit of things, it was no patch on the good time she’d had on Boxing Day afternoon the previous year, when she and Pearl had paid ninepence each up in the ‘gods’ at the Finsbury Park Empire, where, alongside a theatre full of kids and their families, they hissed the villains and cheered the heroes in the annual Christmas panto, Babes in the Wood.

  To Sunday’s surprise, one of the elderly guests at the party turned out to be Pearl’s grandmother. The old lady was a real character, a widow for over twenty years who had lived for the best part of her married life in a terraced house in Grovedale Road.

  ‘Pearl thought the world of you,’ said the old lady, who soon discovered the secret of speaking close and directly at Sunday, whilst clinging on to the girl’s arm. ‘She told me so just a couple er nights before she got killed down the Bagwash.’

  ‘I thought the world of her too,’ replied Sunday. ‘I miss her so much.’

  The old lady smiled at her. Despite her age, she had young eyes, and in many ways they reminded Sunday of Pearl herself. ‘I want ter tell yer somefin’, dear,’ she said. ‘Can yer keep a little secret?’

  Sunday nodded and allowed the old lady to pull her closer so that she could smell the pickled onion she had just been eating with her cheese sandwich.

  ‘The night she come ter see me, she told me she was gettin’ engaged. Not official like, she was too young fer that. But she said she was in love wiv this boy, and that ’e’d asked ’er ter marry ’im. D’yer know the boy I mean? ’Is name was Lennie Jackson.’

  Sunday felt her stomach turn over. Of course she knew Lennie Jackson, and she suddenly felt consumed with guilt that she had ever wanted Lennie for herself.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘I used to know him.’

  ‘She never told her mum, yer see,’ said the old lady, trying to straighten her party hat which was already torn halfway through. ‘That’s the trouble wiv that daughter of mine. Too busy finkin’ of ’er own problems ter worry about ’er own kiff and kin. My dear lil’ Pearl.’ The old lady’s eyes were misting up, and she had to dab them with her handkerchief. ‘I was the only one she could talk to, the only one she could confide in.’ She looked straight at Sunday again. ‘’Cept you, of course, Sunday. In ’er eyes, you was always special. Like ’er own sister.’


  The old lady took hold of Sunday’s hands, and squeezed them in a firm grip. Then Sunday threw her arms around her, and they hugged each other.

  Behind them, Madge and her Salvation Army friends were leading the party-goers in a spirited rendering of ‘Nearer My God To Thee!’

  But as for Sunday, still hugging the old lady, she felt closer to Pearl than she had done since they had last met.

  Soon after Sunday had returned home to the flat, her mum and Aunt Louie had a blazing row. This was a new experience for Sunday, for she could never remember a time when her mum had even dared to answer her domineering elder sister back. The trouble started when Madge decided to bring Mr Billings back for a cup of tea and a Spam and pickle sandwich. Louie, in a sour mood after losing two shillings and threepence at her ladies’ card-playing afternoon, bitterly resented what she saw as an intrusion into the family’s privacy on a Boxing Day evening. However, Madge was having none of it, and temporarily putting to one side her Salvationist ideals about love and compassion, told Louie that if she, Madge, wanted to have a visitor in her own home, she certainly wouldn’t ask her sister first. Poor Mr Billings was most embarrassed by the whole incident, and offered to leave, but Madge practically ordered him to take no notice of ‘the slight misunderstanding’ between herself and her sister, and to stay right where he was. Although Sunday couldn’t take in everything that was going on, she thoroughly enjoyed the tough battle of wills between the two women. In fact, it cheered up her Boxing Day no end!

  Early that evening, Sunday was able to slip away from home so that she could call on her old friend, Bess Butler. But when she eventually arrived at the corner flat on the third floor of ‘the Buildings’, it was Bess’s husband, Alf, who peered around the front door.

  ‘Come in!’ Alf said, his face brightening up the moment he recognised Sunday on the doorstep.

  As soon as she entered the flat, Sunday smelt greens boiling in the kitchen. It was a pungent smell, sour and overpowering.

  ‘My Bessie got me a nice pig’s trotter up the Cally Market on Christmas Eve. Got a lot er meat on it. Not bad for a tanner, eh? I’m goin’ ter ’ave it wiv boiled potatoes an’ some nice spring greens.’

  Sunday always found Alf such an affable old boy. In all the years she had known him, she had never heard him complain or criticise anyone. The only problem was, he had not really mastered the way of talking directly at her, and spent a lot of the time correcting himself with, ‘Oh, sorry, Sun. What I was sayin’ was . . .’ and then having to repeat everything he said.

  ‘’Fraid she’s gone off ter work,’ he said, disappointed that Sunday didn’t have the time to share the pig’s trotter with him. ‘Dunno wot I’d do wivout that gel,’ he added, adjusting the jet-black toupee that had never really fitted him. ‘Werks every night of the week, summer an’ winter, never any time off ter relax.’ For a moment he looked downcast, and shaking his head, said, ‘She shouldn’t ’ave ter do it, yer know. She shouldn’t ’ave ter spend ’er life supportin’ a useless old fart like me.’

  Sunday felt deeply for him. She knew only too well how inferior Alf had always felt because he was so much older than Bess. ‘You mustn’t talk like that, Alf,’ she said, trying to reassure him. ‘Bess wouldn’t do it if she didn’t love you.’

  Alf, trying not to be upset, took a deep breath. ‘Trouble is, my Bessie’s got an ’eart of gold. Night work at an ’otel ain’t easy werk, y’know – oh no. But she don’t care ’ow ’ard it is, as long as the money keeps comin’ in.’

  Sunday lowered her eyes. She prayed Alf Butler would never know the truth about where that money really came from.

  There was something unreal about Piccadilly Circus on Boxing Day evening. It was like a Jack-in-the-box that was straining to be let loose before its time. Lying at the heart of London’s West End, ‘the Dilly’ was clearly impatient to have its highly dazzling neon lights restored after such a long blackout, and although there had recently been some easing of restrictions, until there was no longer any danger of further enemy air-raids, a return to its full glory had to be delayed.

  Sunday hadn’t been ‘up West’ for over a year, when she and Pearl had queued for nearly an hour outside the tiny Ritz Cinema in Leicester Square to see Gone with the Wind, which seemed to have been running at the same place all through the war. As she made her way up the steps from Piccadilly Circus Tube Station, there were hordes of people around, either queuing up for the evening film performance in front of the exotic façade of the London Pavilion, or just strolling along Coventry Street heading off in the direction of Lyons Corner House and all the cinemas in Leicester Square, and the posh West End theatres in and around Charing Cross Road. Winding her way in and out of the crowds, Sunday was practically engulfed by men in uniforms from Allied and Commonwealth countries, and as she brushed shoulder to shoulder with GIs who were kitted out in their superior-styled khaki uniforms and peaked caps, she thought of Gary, and the sinking feeling inside her stomach reminded her that she would never see him again.

  By the time she reached the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus, Sunday was already keeping her eyes open for Bess Butler, for this was Rainbow Corner, the club for American servicemen, once the site of one of London’s most famous restaurants, Del Monico’s. As she expected, there were young girls and women of all ages hanging around the place, most of them on the make for a good dinner and a one-night stand. Earlier in the day, when she had made up her mind that the one person she was desperate to see was Bess, it depressed her to think of what she might find. She also knew that she was taking a chance by calling on Bess at such a time, for although Bess had often confided in Sunday about how she was earning her money, it was quite a different thing for her to make an appearance during her older friend’s ‘work hours’.

  It was nearly nine o’clock when she passed the Rialto Cinema and the bombed-out entrance of what was once the fashionable Café de Paris. The winter cold was biting deep again, so she pulled the hood of her duffle coat over her head and pushed her hands deep into her pockets. In her search for Bess, she peered into every shop doorway, every back alley, and at the face of every woman who passed by. Realising that she herself was being paced by two servicemen from New Zealand, she took a sharp turn into Windmill Street, and after crossing over Shaftesbury Avenue, found herself in the seediest part of Soho.

  Outside the Windmill Theatre, a long queue of servicemen had formed on the pavement, waiting to see the latest girlie revue. Sunday hurried past as quickly as possible. Not far away she approached a pub, which was jammed to suffocation, with a crowd of GIs overflowing on to the pavement outside. Watching them from a vantage position on the opposite side of the road were two white-helmeted US military policemen, so although Sunday couldn’t hear what the men outside the pub were saying, she was grateful that they were somewhat subdued. At that moment, she caught her first glimpse of Bess, who was with two or three other women, laughing and drinking with the GIs in the middle of the crowd. For several minutes, Sunday tried to catch Bess’s eye, but every time she did so, some of the GIs did their best to get her to join them.

  ‘Sunday!’

  Bess finally noticed her, left the crowd, and hugged her.

  ‘Oh God, Sun!’ she said with incredulity. ‘I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! What yer doin’ ’ere, mate?’

  When Sunday looked at her old friend, she was shocked to see how gaunt she had become. And despite the bitterly cold breeze, Bess was wearing only a flimsy above-the-knee party dress, with her hair piled on top of her head, and thick sticky make-up plastered all over her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bess,’ Sunday said. ‘I’m going back to the country the day after tomorrow. I just had to see you.’

  Bess hugged her again. ‘I’ll just get my coat,’ she said, not forgetting to speak directly at Sunday. ‘Let’s get away from this lot.’

  It was fairly deserted along the Victoria Embankment down by the River Thames. The only people
around were the ‘regulars’, the tramps who slept out rough in all weathers. Although it wasn’t even ten o’clock, most of them had already taken up residence on any spare bench that was still unoccupied, and the rest of them stretched out either on the open pavement, or beneath the railway bridge at Charing Cross. Sometimes there was a fight amongst them, usually when a kind passer-by had offered one of them a penny for a cup of tea or the remains of a half-eaten sandwich. Others, who occasionally roamed the streets at night, had often been victims of the air-raids, dying on the pavement where they lay, buried beneath the debris of a bombed building.

  ‘I love walkin’ down ’ere,’ said Bess, ‘especially at night. It’s always so – cut off from everythin’. No hassle, no bobbies ter move yer on. I love the peace.’ She turned to Sunday, who was warming her hands on the mug of tea Bess had just bought her at the all-night refreshment stall. ‘Actually, I’ve scored down ’ere a coupla times. I even ’ad this official. Come from the LCC over there at County ’All. Randy old sod ’e was. Still, ’e paid well.’

  Sunday was just able to make out what Bess was saying, for they were standing directly beneath a rather dim lamplight on an open parapet overlooking the river. Just being in Bess’s company again cheered Sunday up no end, for she was the one person to whom she could pour her heart out. And that is exactly what she did, recounting everything that had happened to her since she arrived out at Ridgewell, and how wonderful it was that, after meeting Gary, her life had taken on such a new meaning, only for her to be devastated again by his being lost in action.

  ‘Yer know somefin’, Sun,’ Bess said, after peering down into the fast-flowing river beneath them. ‘All me life I’ve tried ter keep on the move – just like that river down there. Stand still an’ I’m finished.’