The Silent War

by Victor Pemberton

  And what of Ernie? How would she ever be able to break free of him? What if he should turn up again and turn nasty on her? What could she say or do that would rid her of him for ever? Then she thought about going home after the war. How would she be able to settle down to life again in ‘the Buildings’, with her well-meaning mum and Aunt Louie? How would she be able to cope with the prospect of being deaf for the rest of her life? As she tossed and turned in her bed, unaware that Jinx was snoring loudly in the bed next to her, she suddenly yearned for someone she could confide in, a dad she could really call her own, not an adopted one, not just a face in a snapshot photo. And then she got to thinking about what her real dad would have been like, what he would have told her to do when she had such painful problems. And her real mum? Who was that strange creature who had turned her back on such a tiny baby? Who was this woman? What did she look like? So many questions. Why? Why? Why?

  As the long nights gradually began to get shorter, there were signs that the number of ‘doodlebugs’ and V-2s passing over from the coast were becoming fewer. During March, however, a handful of German bomber planes broke through the coastal defences and started to attack local airfields, including the Ridgewell Airbase. There were also warnings from the Civil Defence that small decoy bombs had been dropped in the area, and that local people should exercise the utmost caution if they came across such lethal weapons.

  During February and the early part of March, Sunday saw very little of Gary, for after his two-week furlough, he had very quickly been returned to his unit for active combat duties. However, whenever they did meet, Sunday spent a lot of the time trying to get to grips with her sign-language therapy. Gary turned out to be a determined teacher, and there were times when he became really angry with her increasing lack of concentration. This was never more apparent than on one occasion in the Forces’ Canteen in the Congregational chapel, when, in front of Jinx, Erin, and the girls from Cloy’s Farm, Sunday was displaying tantrums, protesting over and over again that she was sick to death of trying to learn sign language, and that it meant absolutely nothing to her.

  ‘Concentrate, Sunday!’ Gary scowled, taking hold of both her hands and slamming the palms together. ‘Think with your hands, for Chrissake!’

  ‘I don’t want to think with my hands,’ she snapped back. ‘I want to hear with my ears!’

  ‘You’re stupid!’ yelled Gary, straight at her. ‘I always took you for a bright young dame,’ he said, his own hands working frenetically to illustrate what he was saying. ‘But you’re nothin’ of the sort. You’re just plain stupid!’

  ‘If I’m so stupid,’ Sunday yelled back, ‘then why the hell d’you bother with me!’

  ‘Because I happen to love you, you stupid broad!’

  ‘I can’t learn sign language!’ insisted Sunday. ‘It’s just not in me!’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, girl!’ interrupted Jinx. ‘You’ve got a far better ’ead on you than all us lot put together.’

  ‘Mind your own business, Jinx!’

  Jinx was a bit taken aback by Sunday’s temper. ‘Well, pardon me for breathin’!’ she said.

  ‘Look here, you dumb blonde!’ growled Gary, grabbing hold of Sunday’s wrist. ‘D’you want to go around for the rest of your life living in a dark, silent world?’

  ‘I am living in a dark, silent world,’ blasted Sunday, whose own distorted voice was far louder than anyone else’s in the place. ‘I’m the one who’s got to live with it, not you.’

  ‘Sunday, you don’t have to live with it, believe me,’ Gary replied, trying to be more conciliatory. ‘Why can’t you realise how important it is for you to communicate in a language that people like yourself can understand?’

  ‘I can communicate!’ insisted Sunday. ‘In my own way!’

  ‘No, Sunday,’ Gary replied firmly, staring directly into her eyes. ‘Your way is not the right way.’

  Sunday tried to pull away from him, but he held on to her.

  ‘Look guys,’ said Erin, chewing hard on the remains of a cigar butt. ‘Don’t you think we could call a truce or somethin’?’

  ‘Keep out of this, Erin!’ snapped Gary.

  Erin hunched his shoulders in guilt. Now it was his turn to be snubbed.

  Sunday tried to struggle with Gary, but he suddenly grabbed hold of her arm, dragged her to the stairs, and led her outside the chapel.

  Jinx, Erin, and all the servicemen in the canteen watched them go in utter bewilderment.

  ‘Isn’t love won’erful?’ said Jinx, with a sigh.

  There was plenty of snow around on the Chapel Green outside, for despite a slow thaw, it was still cold enough to turn the surface of what snow remained into a hard, crunchy crust.

  ‘What’s got into you, Sunday?’ asked Gary, as he brought them both to a halt on the path between the chapel and two small white-plastered cottages. ‘Why won’t you make the effort?’

  Sunday tried to turn her back, but he walked around to make her look at him.

  ‘Sunday?’ he asked tenderly.

  Sunday slowly raised her eyes to look at him. ‘I don’t have the strength,’ she replied more calmly.

  ‘You don’t need strength to communicate,’ he said, once again talking with both mouth and hands. ‘You need faith.’

  Sunday lowered her eyes again, but Gary put his hand under her chin, and slowly raised it so that she couldn’t avoid looking straight into his eyes.

  ‘You’ve learnt the signs,’ said Gary, articulating carefully with his lips and hands. ‘Now be excited by them. Make them come to life as though they’re the most natural thing in the world. Use your eyes to see how beautiful these signs are – yes, and to hear them too. In my country, we can bring them to life with just one hand. OK, so over here it’s different. But whether you use one hand or two, at least you’re talking!’ To emphasise this, he held up both his hands, the palms facing towards her. ‘And believe me, Sunday – we can make our hands talk!’ he said. ‘All we need to do is to use our own thoughts, our own imagination.’

  Sunday suddenly tried to pull away from him again.

  ‘For Chrissake, Sunday!’ he snapped, struggling with her. ‘What the hell d’you want to do with your life?’

  Sunday immediately glared into his eyes. ‘Why are you doing this for me, Gary?’ she asked intensely. ‘Is it because of what you told me? Is it because of what you did to that child?’

  Gary was stunned by her response. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then stood back and asked, ‘Is that what you think, Sunday? Is that what you really think?’

  Sunday felt the blood drain from her body. What had she done? What had she said? ‘I – don’t know what to think,’ she replied.

  Gary turned and started to walk off.

  This time, it was Sunday who went after him. ‘How am I expected to know?’ she called. ‘After what you told me, I didn’t know what to think. I knew there was a reason. There had to be a reason.’

  Gary suddenly came to a halt, and swung round on her. ‘You stupid broad!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you understand that when two people love each other, they have no right to keep secrets! I told you because I love you!’ In the cottages on the side of the path, curtains were discreetly drawn apart as faces peered out to watch the lovers’ tiff.

  Gary, his brown leather shoes now covered in snow, strode off.

  Sunday had a brief moment of panic, so she let him go. What did he mean about ‘no right to keep secrets’? Was he trying to tell her something? Was it something to do with what his buddies had told him about Ernie Mancroft’s bragging in the pub at Ridgewell? If so, why hadn’t Gary come out with it? Why hadn’t he given her the chance to deny Ernie’s wicked lies? ‘Gary!’ she yelled, rushing after him and bringing him to a halt. Then standing right in front of him, she slowly raised her hands, and with great care and precision started to spell out some letters in sign language. ‘For–give me,’ she said, with hands and lips. ‘I love you, Gary.’

  They st
ared in silence at each other, until finally breaking into broad smiles. Then, quite impulsively, they threw themselves into each other’s arms, and hugged and kissed. Her head pressed firmly into Gary’s shoulder, Sunday breathed a sigh of relief, and she suddenly felt confident enough to tell him about Ernie Mancroft. But before she had a chance to do so, they were interrupted by a round of applause from Jinx, Erin, and all the GI canteen customers who had gathered around the chapel gate.

  And once again, Ernie Mancroft’s name wasn’t mentioned.

  A few days later, Sunday received an intriguing letter from her old mate, Bess Butler. It was a strange thing for Bess to do, for she had left school when she was fifteen years old and had hardly ever written a letter in her life.

  number 7

  deer sun

  thawt I woold rite you a letter to find out how you are geting on. I miss you a lot becos theres nobody else I can have such a good chinwag with like you.

  saw your mum and your aunt louie the other day. funny pair they are, never even pass the time of day with me but who cares I dont. trouble is thow your mum dont look too well these days shes ever so tired lookin. I woold be too if I lived with that old cow of a sisster of hers.

  anyway sun the reel reezon I am ritin this to you is to tell you somethin that I have done that you shoold know about. as you know Ive made quite a bit of cash out of my ‘work’ and as alf gets all he needs Im keepin some of it safe for you in a puddin basin in my kitchen cubbord. alf nos where it is so all you have to do is to ask him for it. its only fiftey quid but it mite come in handy sum time. mind you by the time you collect it there mite be some more becos bisness is very good these days.

  pleez dont be ofended sun. I want you to have this cash becos you are a good mate to me and Ive never dun anythin for you so let me do it. you meen a lot to me sun more than youll ever no.

  got to go now becos its time for my evenin shift! alf sends love as I do now and awlways.

  keep your warm drawers on mate.

  luv from bess. xxx

  Sunday read Bess’s letter several times before putting it in the same drawer in her bedside cabinet as the framed snapshot of her adopted dad. She loved the letter because she could almost hear Bess talking as she wrote it. But she had very quickly made up her mind not to take her old friend’s hard-earned fifty quid. Furthermore, as soon as she got back home, one of the first things she intended to do was to try to talk Bess into giving up her secret way of life. Earning her living in such a way was not only dangerous, but also humiliating for a woman who was one of the most generous and warm-hearted people Sunday had ever known.

  Young Ronnie Cloy was madly in love with Sunday. He didn’t know it of course, but she did. The other girls at the farm knew it too, but they were quite amused by it, and put it all down to ‘puppy love’. Despite that, Sunday respected the way the boy felt, for even though he was only fourteen, he had some feelings that were the same as anyone else who was several years older. There was also no doubt that she enjoyed going for walks with the boy, who knew every path, every pond, and every copse in the entire district. Her favourite walk was to the woods on the far side of the main road, where she and Ronnie would spy out on the great gathering of pheasants that were always breeding there. Sunday adored watching the beautiful creatures pecking around in the snow, the males with their colourful red faces, dark green heads, and long, pointed tails, and the brown-speckled bodies of the smaller female birds. She found it so difficult to understand why anyone should want to shoot them; they seemed to be such a natural part of the rural surroundings.

  Young Ronnie himself was in a brighter mood these days, gratified that Sunday clearly enjoyed his company a great deal. She also told him a lot about London, especially about Holloway and ‘the Buildings’ where she came from. But even as she chatted to him about her life back there, she felt uneasy, for it was making the big city seem far too attractive to the boy. This became only too apparent one Saturday afternoon when they were quietly watching a family of hares who were just emerging from their shallow nests in the snow.

  ‘When I go to London,’ Ronnie said, ‘I want to live near the zoo, so that every day I can go and see the animals.’

  ‘I think you’d soon get fed up going every day,’ replied Sunday, relying on Ronnie to help her keep her voice down.

  ‘Oh no I wouldn’t,’ he said, his voice soft and low, but lips moving succinctly. ‘I like animals better than people – most people that is, not all,’ he added, looking pointedly at Sunday. ‘The thing is, I get on well with animals. I’m not scared of them.’

  ‘But they’re scared of you,’ replied Sunday, as she watched a hare with long ears and legs emerging from the family nest.

  ‘Oh no they’re not!’ Ronnie was quite firm about that. ‘Animals know about me. All of them ’round here know I wouldn’t hurt them. See those hares over there?’

  Sunday turned to look at them. ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘If I stood up and went over to them,’ he said, once Sunday was reading his lips again, ‘they wouldn’t run away. Shall I show you?’

  Sunday had no time to reply, for Ronnie was slowly raising himself up from the snow. Once he was standing, he looked out towards the hares, careful not to make any sudden movement. ‘See?’

  Sunday peered out cautiously between the snow-covered hedgerow. Once the huge hare had recovered from the initial surprise movement, Sunday was astonished to see the whole family resume their frolicking in the snow.

  Ronnie looked down at Sunday. ‘Animals are only scared of you if you’re going to hurt them. They know I’d never do that.’ He held out his hand for her. ‘Come on,’ he said quietly. ‘We can go a bit closer. But don’t make any sudden movement.’

  Sunday took hold of his hand, and he helped her to her feet. Moving very slowly, they gradually picked their way in the snow towards the hare family.

  ‘I reckon you’re going to be a vet when you leave school,’ whispered Sunday whilst they walked.

  Ronnie shook his head. ‘I’d be too upset,’ he whispered. ‘I wouldn’t like to see injured animals being put down. People don’t realise how many cats and dogs have been killed in the war. I once saw them pulling a dead spaniel out of a bombed house in Colchester.’

  As Sunday and Ronnie drew closer and closer to the family of hares, none of them seemed to take any notice. Coming as she did from the crowded streets of London, Sunday knew very little about wildlife out in the countryside. But what she had read was that hares were supposed to be some of the most timid creatures alive. When she and Ronnie finally came to a halt, they could see the huge buck hare quite easily, sitting up on his long hind legs, nose sniffing, as if in some kind of greeting. For a moment, Sunday and Ronnie stood absolutely still, just watching the huge grey hare, and trying to wonder what he was thinking about them.

  ‘He’s beautiful,’ said Sunday, doing her best to keep her voice low. ‘Why is he so tame?’

  Ronnie turned slowly to look at her. ‘Because he knows you’re with me. He knows you wouldn’t hurt him.’ He was now staring her straight in the face. ‘You wouldn’t – would you, Sunday?’

  Sunday shook her head.

  Ronnie smiled. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Don’t move.’

  He started forward slowly, very, very slowly towards the hare. Although Sunday couldn’t hear the crunching of his feet in the hard, icy snow, she could see the heavy footprints he was making.

  Ronnie eventually reached to within six or seven yards of the buck hare, who was still perched up on his hind legs, almost as though giving permission for the boy to approach. Very slowly, Ronnie lowered himself on to his knees, and carefully stretched out his hand towards the furry creature.

  At that moment, the sound of a rifle shot cracked through the air, and the huge buck hare was immediately cut down by the bullet, right in front of Ronnie.

  ‘No . . .!’ The boy screamed out in anguish, as the rest of the hare family went racing off in terror to
wards the nearby woods. ‘No, no, no . . .!’ Ronnie’s voice was echoing out across the snow-covered field, as he turned back to see his father at the hedgerow behind, with rifle still poised after firing the deadly shot.

  Although Sunday was unable to hear the shot, she was horrified to see what had happened.

  Ronnie, in deep pain and anguish, rushed forward to pick up the poor dead creature, which now had blood gushing out from the bullet hole. But it was too late. ‘He trusted me!’ the boy yelled out hysterically, holding the hare’s lifeless corpse high above his head. ‘He trusted me – and you killed him!’

  Farmer Cloy did not react at all to his son’s turmoil. He merely turned away and made off in a different direction.

  To Sunday’s consternation, Ronnie then dashed off, across the field towards the woods, shouting frenetically as he went, ‘He trusted me! He trusted me!’

  ‘Ronnie . . .!’ yelled Sunday, as she set off to follow the boy. ‘Come back Ronnie!’

  In the distance, the family of hares were scurrying off in all directions, desperate to find cover in the woods. Ronnie was doing his best to close in on them, but by the time he reached the woods, the hares had disappeared.

  ‘Come back!’ the boy called over and over again. His shrill, sobbing voice was echoing out across the snow-covered wheat fields. Then he also disappeared into the woods.