However great her joy, Sunday knew only too well that these idyllic few weeks couldn’t last for ever.
‘They’re sending us home, Sun – the whole 381. It’s not for a couple of weeks yet, but I’m in the first group.’
Sunday had been expecting Gary’s news ever since she was told about the death of President Roosevelt a few days earlier. Now that operational activities were winding down in Europe, it was apparently well known that the President’s successor, Harry S. Truman, was keen to get his armed forces back home as quickly as possible. Sunday knew that it would only be a matter of time before Gary was amongst them. It was inevitable.
Until this moment, everything had been quite magical. They had taken almost half an hour to cycle up to Gosfield Lake, where they stretched out on the grass banks and watched the locals rowing and sailing their boats. The sun was so hot that, like most of the other people lapping up the heatwave there, Gary had immediately stripped off to the waist, and Sunday had removed her dress to sunbathe in her bathing costume. Gary had been dreading telling her his news, and he only did so when the two of them were idly cooling their feet in the cold water of the rather murky lake.
‘I told them I wanted to stay behind,’ he said, his arm around her shoulders, and making sure she could read his lips. ‘They said it wasn’t possible. The war’s not over yet. I have to go back home first.’ He sighed, then added sourly, ‘I guess that’s the way of good old Uncle Sam.’
Sunday reacted far better than she ever thought she would. ‘There’s not much we can do about it,’ she said, trying to give him a reassuring smile. ‘If you have to go, you have to go.’
Gary waited a moment, then removed his arm from around her shoulder. ‘Then is that it?’ he asked.
Over these past months, Sunday had got to know Gary well enough to realise that whenever he started to talk to her in sign language, there was something bothering him. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I’m asking if you care about my going home? I’m asking if you care that we could be apart for quite some time?’
Although Sunday was getting used to Gary’s sudden mood changes, it still took her by surprise when his face tensed up, and his sign language was used with an aggressive slapping of fingers against his palms, or his fists were twisted on top of each other to show the white of his knuckles.
‘Of course I care!’ she said quickly, hurt that he should have even thought otherwise. Knowing that it would make him angry if she didn’t make the effort to reply to him in sign language, she held her up her hands, and slowly replied, ‘But what am I to think, Gary? It was bound to happen sooner or later.’
To her surprise, Gary suddenly took hold of both her hands, and held on to them. He had a stern expression on his face, and it worried her. ‘Sunday,’ he said, using only his lips to communicate with her. ‘Why haven’t you ever told me about this guy who’s been tailin’ you?’
Gary’s question came like a bolt out of the blue, and Sunday felt herself tense. She knew only too well that she could have avoided this moment, but only now did she realise how stupid she had been. In those few seconds of panic she asked herself why she hadn’t told him about Ernie Mancroft, and how he had pursued her obsessively even to the point of finding his way into the girls’ billet in the middle of the night to leave a snapshot photo of himself. ‘I’m sorry Gary,’ was all she could say. ‘I know I should have told you, but I just didn’t want you to get involved.’
‘Involved!’ Gary pulled his feet out of the water and knelt beside her. ‘Fer Chrissake, Sunday!’ he snapped, again using aggressive sign language. ‘A guy tells all my buddies you’re goin’ to marry him, and you tell me you don’t want me to get involved! Have you any idea what a jerk you’ve made me look?’
‘Gary, I’m sorry.’
‘No, Sunday,’ snapped Gary, his fingers slapping against the palms of his hands as he talked. ‘I’m the one who’s sorry. If somethin’s been goin’ on between you and this guy—’
‘No, Gary!’ insisted Sunday, grabbing hold of his hands. ‘There’s been nothing between me and Ernie Mancroft. Not now, not ever! I hate him. Can’t you understand that? I hate the very sight of him!’
‘Bullshit!’
‘It’s true, I tell you!’ Sunday was now agonising, and didn’t know how to convince Gary. ‘Ernie came looking for me whilst you and me were down at Thorpe Bay.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he wants me. He’s always wanted me – ever since we worked together in the Bagwash. I’ve tried to get rid of him. Time and time again I’ve told him to go away and leave me alone, but he just won’t ever give up.’
‘Tell me just one thing, Sunday,’ said Gary, staring straight into her eyes. ‘Did you ever give this guy any reason to believe that you wanted him?’
Sunday slowly shook her head. ‘I’ve never given Ernie Mancroft anything but a passing smile.’
For a moment or so, Gary stared straight at her. Then he sat back on his heels, and tried to work things out in his mind. ‘If what you’re sayin’ is true,’ he said eventually, ‘we have to do somethin’ about it.’
Sunday shook her head. ‘You’ll never stop Ernie. He’s dangerous, Gary. Believe me, he’d kill anyone who got in his way.’ She also sat back on her heels. ‘I’m very scared of him.’
The two of them were now facing each other.
Gary leaned across and took hold of her hands, held on to them, and looked directly at her. ‘Watch what I’m sayin’, Sun,’ he said, talking gently with his lips only. ‘As long as I’m around, you have no need to be scared of anyone, OK?’
Sunday nodded.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘There are jerks like this all over the place. The world’s full of ’em. But if we let ’em have their way, then they’ll take over. The fact is, we’re not goin’ to let them take over.’
Sunday tried to speak, but he put his finger to her lips and stopped her.
‘We can only do that, Sun, if we trust each other. But I have to know what’s goin’ on. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?’
Again Sunday nodded.
Gary drew closer, and with one finger cleared a few strands of her strawberry-blonde hair which had dropped across one of her eyes. ‘You remember when I told you about what happened to me when I accidentally killed that kid back home?’
Sunday nodded.
‘Well, that was a secret that I had no right to keep from you.’ He looked deep into her eyes, and smiled reassuringly. ‘You have to treat me the same way, Sun, because if we keep things from each other, there’s no trust.’ He moved even closer, held on to her hands, and talked calmly and firmly. ‘Lemme tell you somethin’,’ he said. ‘I hate the guy that’s been doin’ these things to you. But he won’t win, because I won’t let him. If he shows up again, I wanna know about it. Do we have a deal?’
Sunday smiled, and once again she nodded. Gary leaned forward and kissed her full on the lips.
The mother of the family nearby was shocked, and with both hands averted her kids’ eyes from the disgraceful behaviour of the half-naked GI and his shameless English girlfriend.
‘Kissing in public!’ the local village woman said to herself. ‘What is the world coming to!’
Mario Giuseppe Lambini much preferred the English summer to its winter. Not that it was officially summer just yet, for it was still only April and although the trees and hedgerows were gradually showing new buds, they remained obstinately stark and bare against the hazy spring sky. But Mario loved to feel the parched earth beneath his one good foot, and as he made his way along the narrow public footpath which ran by the edge of Cloy’s newly ploughed wheatfield, it made him think of the dusty paths of the Tuscan countryside back home in his native Italy.
When he reached the door of the barn, he hesitated. He knew he was breaking the rules because Cloy had forbidden prisoners of war any direct access to farm buildings on his land without his permission. But, as this was Mario’s last day
in Ridgewell, he was willing to take the risk. He had no need to knock on the door, for Sunday, who was looking out of the window when he approached, came to the door immediately.
‘Mario,’ said Sunday. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lady,’ he answered, with a broad smile which revealed a perfect set of solid white teeth. ‘I come to say addio.’
Although she hardly knew the young Italian, Sunday felt a twinge of sadness. ‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘I had no idea you were going so soon.’ She came out of the barn, closing the door behind her. ‘Does this mean you and your friends are going home?’
‘Tomorrow,’ replied Mario.
Sunday gave him a warm smile. ‘I’m very happy for you, Mario.’
The young Italian smiled back shyly at her. During the few occasions the two had spoken together, Mario had told Sunday a lot about where he came from, and his yearning to see his wife and two young children again. Although she had always found it quite difficult to understand what he was saying, she could tell how much he had missed his homeland. In many ways, Sunday thought Mario should have been a writer or an artist, for when he talked, his hands were so full of expression as he described the red earth in the hills above the town where he was born, and the olive trees, and the small streams that dried up completely during the summer months. She also realised what it meant to him to lose his foot during a war in which he had never wanted to play a part. In that respect, both he and she shared the same anguish.
‘Please, lady,’ Mario said, as they moved out into the warm sunshine. ‘Before I go, I ask you one question.’ They came to a halt, but he continued to look directly at her. ‘The first day – in the snow. With the cows, and the sheep. You speak with me. For why?’
Sunday looked puzzled. ‘But – why shouldn’t I speak with you? You were helping me with the sheep. All I said was thanks.’
Mario shook his head. ‘No.’ He pointed to his temple, and said, ‘For me, you say much more. You say, everything is OK, Mario. You say, I have no hate.’
Sunday watched him intently. Whatever it was that this young Italian felt he had gained from the few words they had spoken together, the look of hope in his eyes couldn’t fail to move her.
‘Addio, lady,’ he said, stretching out his hand for hers. Sunday offered it to him, and to her surprise, he took it with both his own hands and kissed it.
‘I will not forget you – lady,’ he said, letting go.
‘Goodbye, Mario.’
The young Italian gave her one final look, turned, and slowly made his way back towards the footpath.
For a moment or so, Sunday watched him go. When he was finally out of sight, it suddenly occurred to her that she had never even told him her name.
The beach at Thorpe Bay was very different from the last time Sunday and Gary had been there. Although it wasn’t quite as hot as during the recent heatwave, there was a warm, hazy sun, and now that the last curls of barbed wire had been removed, the sandy beach itself was overflowing with day-trippers.
This was the last weekend in April, and also the last couple of days that Sunday and Gary would spend together before his return to America on Monday morning.
At the Hotel de la Mer, Mrs Baggley was delighted to welcome the return booking of her American gentleman and his young lady. As she told her ‘hubbie’, if people are satisfied with nice clean board and lodgings, then they’ll always come back. No doubt that was the reason why she felt perfectly justified in increasing her daily rates for B and B and evening meal by one and sixpence.
Despite the warm, muggy weather outside, Sunday and Gary spent most of Saturday afternoon in their room making love. For almost two hours they said hardly anything at all, and as they joined their bodies together as one, the joyous sounds of the beach drifted up to the open window of their first-floor room, and smothered them with happiness. When it was all over, they just lay there, resting on their sides towards each other, studying every single feature of their two faces – eyes, nose, lips, forehead, ears. They were two people in love, hopelessly, irretrievably in love, and for these few precious moments, there was no one else but them in the whole wide world. And yet, in the cold light of reality, Sunday knew only too well that this could be the last time she would ever see Gary, for once he had gone back home to America, it would be only too easy for him to forget. However, no matter what she thought in her heart of hearts, this particular moment belonged to her.
That evening, after one of Mrs Baggley’s meals of toad-in-the-hole, mashed potatoes and red cabbage, Sunday and Gary made their way down to the beach. The day-trippers had long since gone, and all that remained now were one or two local residents walking their dogs, and a few elderly people taking in the warm evening air. Sunday and Gary strolled right round the complete curve of the bay, then ended up squatting on their heels at the rear of the beach with their backs to the promenade wall. It was an idyllic place to be at such an hour, for there was still plenty of daylight left as the hazy sun gradually turned into a huge ball of fire, and slowly dipped lower and lower into the sea. It was also an idyllic setting for the words Gary had been rehearsing all day.
‘Sunday,’ he said, sliding himself around on the sand to face her. ‘What d’you say we get married?’
Sunday gasped and clutched a hand to her mouth.
Just in case she hadn’t understood, he repeated what he had said in sign language.
‘Well, what d’you say?’ was his next question.
Too shocked for the moment, she just stared at him in disbelief. Then she used her hands to reply. First, the letter H, for which she tapped four fingers of her right hand against the palm of her left hand. For the letter O she used the forefinger of her right hand and tapped it against the index finger of her left hand. Finally, she entwined the fingers of both hands to show the letter W.
‘How?’ asked Gary, repeating the question with his own sign-talk. ‘How d’you think! We find a preacher and get ourselves married.’
‘What, now? Before you go away?’
‘Why not?’
Sunday found herself blushing. She had never considered acting so impulsively in her whole life. ‘It’s not possible,’ she replied, with lips and hands. ‘There’s no time.’
‘Are you telling me – you’re not interested?’
Sunday shook her head. ‘No. That’s not what I’m telling you. But we can’t, Gary. Not yet. I’m under-age, and, anyway, it wouldn’t be fair.’
‘Fair!’ protested Gary. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘It wouldn’t be fair to you because when you get home, you might not get the chance to come back here again. And it’s not fair to me because . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Because, after you’ve been home a while, you might want to change your mind.’
‘Sunday,’ he protested again, ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, Gary. And I want to marry you,’ she replied. ‘But not until the war’s over. Not until you come back.’ Once she had finished sign-talking, she lowered her hands into her lap, and leaned her head back against the promenade wall.
Gary crawled back towards her side, and put his arm around her shoulders.
The sun dipped into the horizon, leaving the sea a burning, dark red. For a few moments, the two of them sat there, eyes closed, feeling the last warmth from the crimson sunset. Then Gary opened his eyes again, leaned across, and kissed Sunday full on the mouth.
‘Have it your way, you obstinate young broad,’ he said, once he came up for air. ‘But I’ll be back. With a ring, and a preacher, and a ticket on the Queen Mary. I promise you, Miss Limey Collins – I’ll be back.’ And with that, he bent down to kiss her once more.
‘Wotcha, Sun!’
As Gary looked up with a start to find the silhouette of a young man standing between them and the rich-coloured sky, Sunday’s eyes sprang open.
‘Get ’round quite a bit, don’t yer, mate,’ the young man said coldly.
Sunday leapt to her feet immediatel
y. ‘What are you doing here, Ernie?’ she snapped angrily. ‘Just what the hell d’you think you’re doing here!’
By this time, Gary had also raised himself up from the sand. ‘Sunday?’ he asked.
‘Aren’t yer goin’ to introduce me to yer friend, Sun?’ asked the young man, in a barbed voice.
‘Ernie Mancroft, I presume?’ asked Gary.
‘I told you to keep away from me, Ernie,’ shouted Sunday. ‘I begged you! Why do you have to keep following me around everywhere? I don’t want you! Can’t you understand? I don’t want you!’
Sunday’s raised voice attracted the attention of an elderly couple, who were taking an evening stroll along the promenade just above them.
‘Not very friendly, are yer, Sun?’ said Ernie, who had clearly shed his army uniform, and was wearing an open shirt and old flannel trousers. ‘It’s no way ter treat the man you’re goin’ to marry.’
‘Go away, Ernie! Leave me alone!’
‘You heard what the lady said, feller,’ warned Gary. ‘Now why don’t you call it a day, and get the hell out of here.’
‘Ask ’er to show you the engagement ring I bought ’er,’ said Ernie, quite calmly.
Sunday gasped, as Gary swung her a stunned look.
‘Liar!’ she yelled. Then she turned back to Gary. ‘This is what he does all the time,’ she spluttered. ‘He tries to drive me mad by telling one lie after another about me!’
‘Did he buy you a ring?’ asked Gary, with uncertainty.
‘Of course he didn’t! He’s made it up just to cause trouble between you and me!’
The Silent War Page 28