The Silent War

by Victor Pemberton

  Told Ma all about you. Everything about you. She said you sounded pretty good. I said pretty good? Sunday is sensational! Anyway, both she and Pops are looking forward to meeting you, my sister Jane, too. Once we get the rest of this war over, I’ll be back to kidnap you!

  It was only when Gary mentioned ‘the rest of this war’, that she remembered that although it was all over in Europe, there were still the Japanese to contend with. For a moment or so, that brought a sinking feeling inside her stomach, for she hoped that, after all Gary had been through, the war for him would now be over. But by the time she had read eighteen pages of Gary’s handwriting, she felt so cheered, it gave her the determination to think positively. And after she had kissed his scrawled signature on the last page, she was thrilled to see that there was still more to come.

  PS Hope you’re keeping up with the sign-talking.

  Don’t let me down now!

  PPS Some lines from Keats (he’s a Brit, like you!)

  just so’s you know that I’m mad about you!

  I cannot look on any budding flower,

  But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips,

  And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour

  Its sweet in the wrong sense:– Thou dost eclipse

  Every delight with sweet remembering,

  And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.

  Don’t forget me, Sun!

  Sunday hadn’t been to the Royal Northern Hospital since she was an outpatient at the Ear, Nose, and Throat Clinic. But her letter from Gary had spurred her into making an appointment with the Rehabilitation Officer, in the hope that she could receive some guidance about future career prospects. She knew it wasn’t going to be an easy time to look for work, for now that the war in Europe was over, demobilisation was going to be a top priority for servicemen who were anxious to return to their old jobs. It was also not going to be easy to place someone who was so severely disabled.

  Helen Gallop, the ENT Rehabilitation Officer, turned out not only to be very helpful, but she also had one or two friends who lived in ‘the Buildings’.

  ‘First of all,’ she asked, using lips and hands, ‘how’ve you been getting on with your sign language?’

  Sunday demonstrated by answering with both lips and clear and precise signs, ‘Difficult. But I’m doing my best.’

  ‘Excellent! Splendid!’ replied Helen. As the temperature was in the eighties outside, she had a small electric fan on the filing cabinet behind her, which helped her to cope with the perspiration on her forehead, which she wiped frequently with her handkerchief. ‘You’ve obviously had a good teacher.’

  Sunday had liked Helen on sight, because she was not much older than herself, and, unlike some people Sunday had come across, hadn’t treated her like some kind of freak.

  Helen took off her spectacles, and put them down on to the small desk in front of her. ‘What sort of work would you like to do most of all, Sunday?’ she asked.

  Sunday shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘No idea at all?’ asked Helen.

  Again, Sunday shrugged her shoulders. ‘I had no idea that I was going to be deaf for the rest of my life.’

  ‘What did you want to be – before what happened to you?’

  ‘I wanted to teach dancing.’

  Helen’s face lit up into a bright smile. ‘Really?’ She got up and brought the electric fan across to her desk so that Sunday could feel its benefit too. ‘What kind of dancing?’

  ‘Anything. Dance-hall stuff, I suppose.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ Helen said. ‘If that’s what you want to do, you should do it.’

  Sunday sat up straight in her chair. ‘Pardon?’ she asked, puzzled.

  ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t teach dance if that’s what you want to do.’

  Sunday thought she hadn’t understood properly, so, looking a bit taken aback, she asked, ‘How?’

  The office was small and airless, and Helen sipped from a glass of water before continuing. ‘Do you like children?’ she asked, with both lips and hands.

  Sunday, puzzled, thought a moment. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Why?’

  Helen perched on the edge of her desk. ‘Teaching children can be quite rewarding. Especially children like yourself.’

  Sunday was now even more puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Deaf children, Sunday. There’s a school for deaf children in Drayton Park where you could be a great help.’

  The word ‘deaf’ upset Sunday. ‘But I’m no teacher,’ she answered.

  ‘You don’t have to be. They’re all quite young – mostly nursery age. All you have to do is to be with them, and be their friend.’ Then she added pointedly, ‘Teaching them how to dance would be a wonderful thing. It would be a way to show them that they’re no different from anyone else.’

  Sunday hesitated. It seemed such a crazy thing to ask her to do. And yet, wasn’t that exactly what Gary had done for her back at the Base Christmas Dance? He gave her the confidence and determination to carry it through, and she did it.

  ‘What d’you say?’ asked Helen, eagerly awaiting Sunday’s response. ‘Think it’s worth a try?’

  Sunday hesitated briefly, then nodded her head.

  Helen broke into a broad grin. ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing Sunday’s shoulder. ‘The pay’s not much, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll be doing something really worthwhile.’ She got up from perching on the corner of her desk, and returned to her seat. ‘Whatever happens, I promise you you’ll not regret it.’

  A few minutes later, Helen walked Sunday out towards the hospital reception. Before Sunday left, they stopped briefly.

  ‘By the way,’ said Helen, feeling confident enough to know that Sunday could understand her rather fast sign language. ‘What’s all this I hear about Ernie Mancroft?’

  Sunday did a double-take. ‘What d’you mean?’ she asked rather tentatively.

  ‘One of my friends in “the Buildings” told me about what happened down at Thorpe Bay. Is it true he was picked up by the Army, absent without leave?’

  Sunday nodded warily.

  ‘Then how come the court martial found him not guilty?’

  Piccadilly Circus was looking very different from the last time Sunday had been there. Clearly VE Day had injected new life into the place, for people were milling about in the hot May sunshine, more cars and taxis were circling the boarded-up Eros site, and more neon signs such as GREYS TEA and GORDON’S GIN had joined the illustrious legends of BOVRIL and SCHWEPPES TONIC WATER.

  When Sunday came up the steps of Piccadilly Circus Underground Station, the afternoon heat hit her like a steaming kettle, and she was glad that she had worn only a flimsy cotton dress instead of her well-worn lemon-coloured blouse and dark brown slacks. The pavements in Coventry Street were burning-hot, and she was not to know that behind her, in the Circus itself, some crank was trying to fry an egg on the steps below Eros.

  Although it had been a couple of days since she’d had her interview with Helen Gallop, the news about Ernie Mancroft was still haunting her. How could he possibly have been let off by the Military Court who had tried him? Not only had he been AWOL, but he had stalked her right out to Ridgewell and Thorpe Bay, and also made an unprovoked attack on Gary. She was scared, really scared. If Ernie came looking for her again, he could be out to kill her.

  But at this moment, her mind was on other things. Bess Butler was still missing, and something had to be done about it. That was why she had returned to the West End, to seek out some of Bess’s old haunts, to try to find some clue. In Sunday’s mind it just wasn’t possible for someone like Bess to disappear without trace. Someone must have seen her somewhere, sometime, and if they were hiding her, there had to be a reason.

  At Rainbow Corner, the usual groups of girls were hanging around the main entrance. Sunday thought some of them looked younger than ever, despite the fact that they had tried to disguise their age by plastering their faces with thick, greasy make
-up. After a few minutes of sizing them up from a respectable distance, she decided whom she would approach first.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Sunday said, hoping that the young teenage girl with black hair piled on top of her head could understand her fractured speech. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ replied the girl, acidly, resentful that Sunday was trying to move in on her ‘pitch’.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Sunday continued. ‘I’m looking for my friend. She – works around here. Older than you.’

  ‘Look, mate,’ snapped the girl, pulling on a fag and leaving thick lipstick on it. ‘If you’re tryin’ ter muscle in, I’ll scratch yer bleedin’ eyes out! Just bugger off!’

  Sunday was not going to be intimidated. ‘Her name’s Bess. Bess Butler.’

  The girl cringed visibly. ‘Don’t know ’er!’

  ‘But she’s often ’round here. Every night. Please, if you’ve seen her—’

  ‘I said, I don’t know ’er!’

  Another girl, a redhead, joined them. She was older than the girl Sunday had approached, and with all the signs of quite a paunch, she had clearly had to squeeze into her above-the-knee, skin-tight dress. ‘What’s up, Jeannie?’ she asked.

  ‘Ask ’er!’ snapped the first girl, who hurriedly walked away.

  Sunday spoke quickly. ‘I’m trying to find my friend. She’s gone missing, hasn’t been seen for nearly three weeks. You must have seen her. Somebody must have seen her.’

  ‘Wot’s she like?’ asked the redhead.

  ‘Not very tall, dark curly hair, beautiful bluish-grey eyes.’

  ‘Tits?’

  Sunday was taken aback. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What’re ’er tits like!’ the redhead snapped impatiently.

  Sunday was embarrassed, but answered confidently, ‘Very full. Please. Can you help me? I must find her.’

  The redhead hesitated for a moment before answering. She spent a second or so sizing Sunday up. ‘Tell me somefink,’ she said. ‘You deaf?’

  Sunday stiffened, then nodded her head.

  ‘I fawt so. Sorry about that, mate. Din mean no offence.’

  ‘My friend’s name is Bess Butler.’

  As with the first girl, the redhead seemed to seize up.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Sunday, fearing the worst. ‘What’s happened to her? Tell me!’

  ‘I got nuffink ter tell yer, mate,’ said the redhead, sympathetically. Then, after taking a cautious look over her shoulder, added, ‘Sure, I know yer friend. But I ain’t seen ’er around for a while.’

  Sunday was about to ask more questions, but the redhead wouldn’t let her.

  ‘Take my tip, mate,’ said the redhead, staring Sunday straight in the eye. ‘A gel like you shouldn’t be ’angin’ ’round a place like this. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘What’s happened to her?’ pleaded Sunday. ‘Why won’t you help me?’

  ‘There ain’t no ’elp for any of us, mate,’ sighed the redhead. ‘When we come out ’ere, we’re on our own.’ With that, she walked off.

  For a few minutes, Sunday just stood there, surrounded by hordes of people swarming past her. She felt utter despair.

  After searching the streets of Soho, Sunday decided to call it a day. It was obvious that the streetgirls were a close-knit community, and nothing in the world was going to persuade them to allow outsiders to penetrate their codes of silence. Feeling a desperate sense of frustration, she slowly made her way down Charing Cross Road past Leicester Square. Eventually, she reached Trafalgar Square, where people were feeding great flocks of greedy, fat pigeons with leftover scraps of bread, and as she headed off towards Whitehall, only once was she tempted to look up at the statue of Admiral Lord Nelson, standing proud and erect at the top of his Column, defying, as always, wind and rain, enemy bombs, VE Day and New Year’s Eve celebrations, and, worst of all, hundreds of marauding pigeons.

  At the Embankment, Sunday made straight for the refreshment wagon where only a few months before, she and Bess had sipped their tea whilst peering down at the fast-flowing waters of the River Thames. Apart from a couple of taxi-drivers, there were no customers at the wagon, so Sunday felt quite at ease as she approached the old bloke behind the counter.

  ‘What can I do for yer, young miss?’

  Sunday was only just tall enough to see over the top of the counter. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. A lady-friend.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ replied the old bloke, suspiciously.

  Sunday was practically on tiptoe as she continued. ‘I know it’s been a long time, but a few months ago we came here and had a cup of tea together. She’s older than me. Often comes here – she told me so.’ She lowered her eyes when she added, ‘Usually at night.’

  The old bloke sized her up, then said, ‘If it’s that tart you’re on about, I’ve already told the fuzz all I know.’

  Sunday wanted to snap back at him, but she restrained herself. ‘So – you haven’t seen her in the last few weeks.’

  ‘Who said I haven’t?’

  The old bloke’s reply sent a rush of blood to Sunday’s head. ‘You mean – you have seen her?’

  ‘Several times. The last time was just over a week ago, making ’er way over that bridge.’

  Sunday swung around to look at Westminster Bridge, which was now bathed in early-afternoon sunshine. ‘Are you sure?’ she gasped excitedly. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Positive! Trouble is, by the time the fuzz got ’ere, she was gone.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ said Sunday, rushing off in the direction of the bridge.

  The old bloke behind the counter watched her go and shook his head. ‘These bloody gels. They’d sell themselves for a cup of char and a rock cake!’

  The two taxi-drivers thought that was funny, and roared their heads off.

  Once Sunday had turned the corner by the statue of Queen Boadicea, she was already on Westminster Bridge. When she was halfway across, she stopped and looked out downriver towards the Pool of London. Although it was still blistering-hot, there were signs that heavy thunderclouds were gathering, and that, hopefully, by that evening the air would feel a little more comfortable. In the distance she could see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, nestling comfortably on top of Ludgate Hill, and her heart and mind went back to all those newspaper photographs of the Blitz, when St Paul’s stood alone amidst the fire and smoke, a symbol of London’s defiance. And further on, Tower Bridge, also a survivor of the war, despite everything that the Luftwaffe had tried to throw at it. She looked down into the water, and as she did so, she felt a surge of happiness sweep through her veins. Bess was alive! She was alive, and somebody had actually seen her. It was too good to be true. Whatever her mum said now would make no difference. God hadn’t moved in ‘mysterious ways’ after all. Bess was alive! And as she stood on that bridge, with a pleasant, balmy breeze gently soothing her face, she felt like flinging her arms up into the air and shouting it out to the whole wide world: ‘My mate Bess is alive!’

  Two days later, the police came to tell Alf Butler that they had reason to believe that the body of a woman they had just dragged out of the river was that of his wife, Bess.

  She had been strangled.

  Chapter 23

  The School for Deaf and Dumb Children in Drayton Park was set up in a semi-detached Edwardian house, just a stone’s throw from the Arsenal Football Stadium. It was a fairly new enterprise, and operated mainly as a day centre for infants, of which there were no more than about two dozen regulars. As the Islington Borough Council were trying to cope with the huge bill for rebuilding in the aftermath of the war in Europe, the only funds that were available came from registered charities, such as the Royal School for Deaf and Dumb Children, and numerous private collections. The Principal was Mrs Eileen Roberts, who ran the place with her two assistants, Jacqui Marks and Pete Hawkins, all three of whom were deaf. Pete H
awkins was also mute.

  When Sunday arrived for her first day at the school, she found it pretty hard going. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the people she was working with, but communicating with them meant that she had to use sign language more than she had ever done before, and as she had not been practising as much as Gary had asked her to, it was quite an ordeal. Unlike her colleagues, Sunday was not a trained teacher, so she took no real part in the children’s education, and concentrated on their playtime activities.

  For the first month, her task was to get to know the children. All of them were totally deaf, and half of them were also mute, but they played together as though there were no such things as the sounds of life. Sunday found the children irresistible, and as they gradually got to know her, they accepted her as one of their own. The hardest part of all was communication, and it took her a long time to learn their names. This she eventually achieved by following a technique suggested by Jacqui Marks, which was to identify each of the children as though they were a cat or a dog or some other animal, or a colour, or the sun or moon, or even an object such as a pencil or a storybook. But her greatest success occurred through a discovery which came to her quite by accident.

  It happened one afternoon when she casually scratched her head whilst looking out of the window. When she turned back, she found all the kids scratching their heads, copying her. From that moment on, Sunday got them to copy practically every movement she made, from turning their heads side to side, clapping hands together, sitting down and getting up, and standing on their tiptoes. Even if she had been allowed to help teach them sign language, they were still a little too young to learn the hand alphabet. However, once or twice, she gave them an idea of what it was all about, when she got them to copy some of her hand-talk movements. The secret was imitation.

  When it came to teaching them how to dance, it was obvious from the start that it was not going to be easy, and it took several weeks for the infants to understand what it was all about. The problem was that the kids who had been born deaf had no sense of rhythm, and it was difficult for them to imagine what rhythm actually was. Here Sunday enrolled the help of those kids who, like herself, had lost their hearing as a result of air-raid explosions. Beating time with her hands, she encouraged them all to partner one another, and they gradually swayed to and fro with the imaginary music, and copied Sunday as she danced with her partner, a small deaf and dumb boy named Joshua. Dancing then became a regular part of the kids’ learning time, and when Sunday’s Rehabilitation Officer, Helen Gallop, turned up to see how she was getting on, she was astonished to see a dancing session in progress, in which everyone was taking part, including the Principal and her two assistants.