‘Yes, dear,’ she replied. ‘My hubby’s a special constable down the Police Station. They heard there’s a V-2 come down there. Sounds like it’s done a lot of damage.’
She suddenly realised that her two guests were looking shocked and anxious.
‘I’m sorry, my dears,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s not anywhere near where you come from.’
Although the King’s Head pub at Ridgewell was ten miles or so away from Halstead, most of the people drinking in there had heard the explosion from the V-2 that had dropped there earlier in the day. In fact, the blast had been so powerful that some of the old timber-framed cottages had shuddered, as if in an earthquake. Despite the fact that V-1s and V-2s were still crossing the east coast every day and night of the week, the suddenness of the powerful Halstead bomb had shocked everyone.
‘Somebody’s got to stop those bastards!’ snapped Jinx, who was playing darts with Erin and some of the other crewmen from the base. ‘I thought this bloody war was supposed to be over. And yet Jerry keeps sendin’ those things over from France without anyone doin’ anythin’ about it!’
‘They ain’t comin’ from France,’ sniffed Erin, a smoking cigar butt protruding from his lips as he aimed his dart at a double eleven. ‘They’re hidden in underground bunkers on the Dutch coast.’
‘I don’t care where they are,’ Jinx grumbled, as she watched Erin remove his unsuccessful darts from the board. ‘Somebody’s got to find them and get rid of them!’
‘Fer Chrissake, Jinx!’ growled Erin. ‘What the hell d’yer think we’re tryin’ ter do day after day, night after night?’
‘That’s right, Jinx,’ said one of Erin’s buddies, who was lining up his own darts for a double six and a two. ‘It’s like lookin’ for a needle in a haystack. But we’ll find those goddamn rocket sites – sooner or later.’
‘I’m sorry boys,’ said Jinx, guiltily. ‘It’s all right for me to go on while you lot go out there and risk your lives. But finding those things later is going to be too late if they go on much longer like this. That rocket in Halstead was a real killer.’
‘’Scuse me, mate. Could I ’ave a quick word wiv yer?’
The young British soldier who had made his way across the bar to talk to Jinx waited until after she had thrown her third dart.
‘’Allo, darlin’!’ said Jinx, with a huge smile. She had already noticed the young conscript in rough British Army serge as soon as he had entered the bar. The place was usually so full of GIs from the base that it made a change to see a local on the scene, especially a good-looking local like this!
‘What can we do for yer, Tommy?’ asked Erin, sourly.
The ‘Tommy’ smiled and, without turning to look at Erin, continued to direct his questions to Jinx. ‘I was told yer work up at Cloy’s Farm?’ he said in a distinctive London accent. ‘I was wonderin’ whevver yer could give me some ’elp – ter find a friend of mine.’
‘I could be a friend, darlin’,’ quipped Jinx, mischievously, unable to take her eyes off the boy’s newly grown Clark Gable ’tache. ‘Where yer from?’
Erin glared at her, but only jokily. He had come to know only too well how his new wife liked to tease him.
‘Shoeburyness,’ replied the soldier-boy. ‘The barracks on the uvver side of Soufend.’
‘I know where Shoeburyness Barracks are, kiddo,’ interrupted Erin. ‘What’s the fascination with Ridgewell?’
Again the boy soldier answered to Jinx, without turning to look at Erin. ‘Like I said. I’m lookin’ fer this friend of mine – a very old friend. She’s in the Women’s Land Army. Gel named Collins? Know ’er by any chance?’
‘Sunday?’ gasped Jinx. ‘D’you mean our Sunday? Sunday Collins?’
‘Yeh, that’s ’er. Sunday Collins.’
‘Good ’eavens, boyo! ’Course I know Sunday. My best friend. Maid of honour at my weddin’! Erin!’ she said, all excited. ‘Get this boy a drink!’
Erin was relieved when the boy shook his head and said, ‘No, fanks. I’ve got one waitin’ for me at the counter.’
The boy’s intervention had clearly brought the game of darts to a halt. Even so, a small group of Erin’s buddies were gathered around, curious to see a ‘Limey Tommy’ in what they had considered to be their own out-of-camp pub.
‘So ’ow d’you know our Sunday?’ asked Jinx, desperate to know more about this boy, whose strong muscular build, dark cropped hair, and devastating smile were driving her mad. ‘You come from those “Buildin’s” she lives in? Up London?’
‘Somefin’ like that,’ was all the boy would tell her. ‘Where is she now?’ he asked. ‘Know where I can get ’old of ’er?’
‘You’re out of luck, boyo,’ replied Jinx. ‘At this precise moment, she’s otherwise engaged!’
This comment brought hoots of dirty laughter from Erin and his buddies, which somehow spread to the rest of the customers in the bar. The rowdiness immediately prompted one of the locals to start playing the pub’s piano, and in no time at all, everyone started singing ‘Bless ’Em All’.
The boy soldier was not amused, and continued to stare at Jinx with a fixed look of suppressed anger.
‘Take no notice of this lot,’ said Jinx, knowing only too well how the Yanks always tended to take the piss out of anyone who wasn’t one of their own. Then leaning closer, so that he could hear above the singing, she said, ‘Sunday’s gone away for the weekend. Won’t be back ’til tomorrow night.’
‘Fanks a lot,’ replied the boy soldier. ‘When yer see ’er, could yer tell ’er I’ve bin lookin’ for ’er.’
‘My goodness!’ purred Jinx, who was beginning to irritate Erin by pretending that she fancied this guy. ‘Sounds like you’re a really good friend of our Sun,’ she quipped, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.
‘Oh yeah, we’re good friends all right,’ replied the boy, coolly. ‘As a matter of fact, me an’ Sun are goin’ ter get married.’
The shilling that Gary had put into the gas fire meter was lasting longer than he and Sunday had thought, for their sparse bedroom in the Hotel de la Mer was far more snug and warm than they had dared to expect when they first arrived. For Sunday, this had been one of the happiest days she had had for such a long time. She had even enjoyed the journey down from Ridgewell, during which she and Gary had had to change trains twice and wait endlessly in the freezing cold on bleak railway station platforms for their connections. But the best part had been taking a taxi from Southend along the seafront, and feeling the excitement swell up inside her stomach as the broken-down old banger gradually made its way towards the holiday resort of her dreams – glamorous, exotic Thorpe Bay. And if Mrs Baggley’s evening meal of boiled chicken, boiled potatoes, boiled carrots, and boiled greens hadn’t been exactly the dream menu of all time, well even that went down a treat on a frozen winter’s night.
But the best part of the dream was just lying there in Gary’s arms, and feeling the warmth of his body against her own. The huge double bed with its rock-hard mattress may not have been the most comfortable in the world, but at least it was warm, with their feet sharing the heat from a hot-water bottle, and a thick eiderdown to cover their naked bodies right up to their shoulders. Making love with Gary was not like anything Sunday had experienced before, mainly because it really was love, and not just sex. Before they even started to do anything, Gary had gently caressed her body, planting his kisses on her mouth, her ears, her breasts, and her stomach. And she did likewise to him, exploring as much of his flesh as she dared, moving her lips sensuously over the stubble on his face and chin. And when he finally lowered himself on to her, she gave herself to him willingly, utterly convinced that this man really loved her, and that she loved him more than any other person in her entire life.
After it was over, they lay back together in each other’s arms for what seemed like hours. The room was not entirely in darkness, for they were bathed in a bright white glow from a wintry moon, which was bursting through the windows an
d transforming night into day. Sunday hoped that these precious few moments would never end. Unfortunately, however, it was not to be.
‘Sunday.’ Without warning, Gary suddenly sat up in bed and looked down at her. ‘I have to tell you something.’
Sunday was unable to read what he was saying, because his face was turned away from the direct moonlight. Realising this, Gary turned on the small bedside lamp.
‘There’s something I want you to know,’ he said, pulling himself up into a position where Sunday could watch his lips.
Even though the combination of electric and natural light was dazzling her eyes, Sunday could see the anguished expression on Gary’s face.
‘I once killed someone,’ he said, staring straight into her eyes. ‘It was a long time ago.’
A cold chill shot up and down Sunday’s spine. Slowly, she pulled herself up. ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked.
For a brief moment, Gary carried on staring at her, finding it almost impossible to say what he knew he would some time have to say to her. Clearly agonising, he pulled back the sheets, and got out of bed.
Sunday watched him in bewilderment as he retrieved his uniform trousers from a hardbacked chair, and started to put them on. All the joy she had succumbed to over the past few hours started to evaporate as she saw his naked buttocks gradually disappear into the well-tailored army-issue trousers.
Gary searched around for a cigarette. He found one, lit it, then went to the fireplace to crouch in front of the antiquated gasfire. Sunday waited a moment, then got out of bed, put on her old towelling dressing-gown, and kneeled in front of him.
Gary inhaled as much smoke as his lungs could cope with, and exhaled the residue. When he looked up again, he was face to face with Sunday, so he rested his cigarette in a small glass ash-tray in the hearth. ‘When I was sixteen,’ he said, his hands suddenly bursting into life with sign language, ‘I used to have a motor-cycle. My dad bought it for me. It was his way of helping me grow up like a real guy.’ He picked up his cigarette again, pulled on it, and blew out a funnel of smoke away from Sunday’s face. ‘I didn’t really want the bike. I just didn’t feel right on it. But Dad wanted me to have it. It was his way of tryin’ to stop me foolin’ around with poetry.’
Sunday was puzzled. She had been trying hard to follow the signs Gary was making, but frequently returned her attention to reading his lips. ‘Poetry?’ she asked.
‘I like to read it,’ he said. ‘An’ I like to write it. Pretty dumb for one of Uncle Sam’s Army Air Corps, huh?’
Sunday didn’t really understand what he meant, so all she could do was to shrug her shoulders.
Gary exercised his fingers before explaining. ‘In my dad’s eyes, poetry doesn’t add up to being a guy in a guy’s world. And Dad should know,’ he added bitterly. ‘He’s been pretty much of a roughneck all his life.’
He picked up his cigarette from the ash-tray, and pulled on it. ‘Anyway,’ he said, stubbing it out unfinished. ‘I got to usin’ the goddamn thing more an’ more, because that’s what my old man wanted me to do. Until one evening, I had one hell of a bust-up with him, and the only way I could get the steam out of me was to go out on his bike, and tear the guts out of it. Trouble was, it was raining hard, and the roads were full of grease and mud and hell knows what else. So when I turned this sharp bend, just past Mr Peterson’s service garage, a truck came out of nowhere, headlights blazing straight into my eyes. All I remember is that I swerved, and my hands just kind of – left the bike handles.’ For a moment, his hands stopped moving, and his eyes were too distraught to meet Sunday’s. But he continued as suddenly as he had stopped. ‘There was this kid,’ he said. ‘A girl. Not more than ten or eleven years old . . .’
Sunday grabbed hold of his hands, and stopped them from talking. She knew the rest and didn’t want to know any more.
The light from the gas fire was flickering now, and when Sunday looked down to see how low the flames were on the mantles, it was obvious that the shilling’s worth of gas was at last running out. So she reached for the tap at the side of the fireplace and turned it off.
Whilst she was doing this, Gary got up from the floor and strolled across to the window. Sunday joined him, put her arm around his waist, and leaned her head against him.
As they stood there, they were flooded with ice-cold moonlight, which turned them into two ghostly, statuesque figures. ‘Tell me about the poems you write,’ said Sunday, as they looked out on to the bay, with the sea bathed in light but calm and still as a pond, no gales, not even a breeze.
Gary paused before answering. Then he turned and looked at her. ‘I killed someone, Sunday. A kid who hadn’t even begun her life.’
‘It was an accident,’ Sunday replied, looking directly into his eyes. ‘You must have killed an awful lot of people in this war. You and every soldier, or sailor, or airman. Some things are meant to happen.’
Gary suddenly pulled away and turned to face her. ‘It’s not like that, Sunday,’ he said tensely. ‘That’s why I had to tell you. If I’m asking you to love me, you had to know.’
‘Well now I do know,’ replied Sunday, trying to reassure him. ‘Gary, we all have things that we have to live with. But you can’t go on blaming yourself for the rest of your life.’
‘That kid!’ Gary snapped, grabbing hold of Sunday’s hands and holding them in a vice-like grip. ‘She was from the local Deaf School. Don’t you understand? She was like my own mother. She was like you. And I killed her!’
Sunday suddenly felt like she looked, a stone-cold statue bathed in dazzling white moonlight.
Outside, the bright flame of a V-2 rocket headed towards the bay from the open sea, and darted high across the black sky, only just missing the galaxies of tiny twinkling stars that did their best to impede its journey.
Not many people saw it, nor wanted to. But they knew it was there.
Chapter 18
Ernie Mancroft’s visit to the King’s Head at Ridgewell caused quite a stir amongst Sunday’s pals at Cloy’s Farm, and by the time she had got back from her weekend with Gary, the place was buzzing with rumours. Sunday was horrified to hear that Ernie had called on her, and absolutely furious to be told by Jinx that he had presented himself as her future husband. But the person she blamed most of all was her Aunt Louie, who had stirred up all the trouble in the first place by giving Sunday’s address to Ernie.
‘Forget all about ’im, girl,’ was Jinx’s advice, as Sunday washed out her smalls in the bathroom sink. ‘If ’e comes back—’
‘Not if, Jinx,’ interrupted Sunday. ‘When. You don’t know Ernie. He’s persistent.’
‘Stop worryin’ yerself, girl!’ insisted Jinx. ‘If ’e turns up again, we’ll just tell ’im to bugger off back where ’e comes from.’
Sunday shook her head. ‘There are things you don’t know about him, Jinx.’
Jinx let out a dirty laugh. ‘I know that if it weren’t for Erin, I’d be shackin’ up with that lovely bit of arse quicker than I could get me drawers down!’
For once, Sunday couldn’t share Jinx’s sense of humour. ‘He’s not like that, Jinx,’ she said, turning from the sink to stare directly at her. ‘Ernie’s got a thing about me. He’s always been so – possessive. There was a time once when he nearly killed someone I was going out with. I tell you, he scares me, he really does. I’ve often thought that he could kill me too.’
Sunday’s concern persuaded Jinx to take things more seriously. ‘Look, girl,’ she said, putting her arm around Sunday’s shoulder, ‘if anyone ever tried to harm you, we’ve got enough fellers ’round ’ere to deal with ’im.’
Again Sunday shook her head. ‘Ernie’s made of iron, Jinx. Back home he was always getting involved in brawls with people, then beating them up till they had to go to hospital.’
‘But, honey,’ replied Jinx, picking up on some of Erin’s slang, ‘he won’t stand a chance against that lot at the base. They’ll make mincemeat out of him!’
Sunday was still shaking her head. She was unconvinced. ‘Let me tell you something, Sun,’ said Jinx, caringly. ‘No ’arm can ever come to you as long as you’ve got someone to love you. An’ you’ve got Gary now.’
Sunday thought about this for a moment, and about what Gary had told her in the bedroom at the Hotel de la Mer the previous evening. Yes. Until that moment she had been absolutely sure that Gary did love her. But now she questioned why he loved her. Was it for herself, or was it guilt for having killed someone who was handicapped, just like herself?
‘’E’ll look after you, girl,’ Jinx said reassuringly. ‘Gary Mitchell is one hell of a nice bloke. Mark my words – ’e won’t let you down.’
Sunday did her best to feel reassured. But it wasn’t going to be easy. Especially when Gary heard about Ernie Mancroft.
Towards the end of January, the blizzards which had ravaged East Anglia for so much of the winter gradually began to ease off. There was still plenty of snow, in some places drifts up to four feet deep. In Ridgewell, the villagers were getting tired of having to dig themselves out every morning, and at the Base snowploughs were in constant use on the runways. Sunday also began to worry more and more about her mum, for in her letters Madge had talked about the endless gas and electricity cuts caused by the bad weather, and how difficult it had been for everyone in ‘the Buildings’ to keep warm. But the thing that was worrying Sunday most of all, however, was knowing only too well how her mum would be sacrificing her own personal comforts in favour of her sister, Louie. In fact, even when she had been home during the Christmas break, Sunday had noticed how her aunt had ignored the Government’s appeals to use as little bathwater as possible, and continued to have her regular evening bath filled to the brim with piping-hot water.
These were difficult times for Sunday. Since the start of the New Year, so much seemed to have happened to her. What with Gary’s return from the dead, that revealing weekend away with him at Thorpe Bay, and the worrying thought that Ernie Mancroft was determined not to leave her alone, her mind was in turmoil. Sooner or later, Gary’s buddies were bound to tell him about Ernie’s appearance at the pub in Ridgewell, and his assertion that he and Sunday were going to get married. How was she going to be able to explain Ernie’s actions to Gary? Would he ever believe her? And what about Gary himself? Could she really trust him? Or was he merely trying to use her to ease his own feelings of guilt? What would happen if he were to ask her to marry him? Would she really want to go all the way to America and start a new life amongst the type of people she had only ever seen at the pictures? Surely it just wouldn’t make sense, it wouldn’t be natural. And if Gary wasn’t the person she thought he was, what would happen if he left her alone in a strange country, with no way of getting back home?
The Silent War Page 24