‘Let me say something to you, Sunday,’ Madge said, doing her best to keep her lip movements clear and precise. ‘When the Lord decided that He didn’t want me to have children born of my own blood, I knew that He would compensate me in another way. I found that way on the night I saw you wrapped up in a blanket in a box outside the Mission Hall. The Lord gave me a daughter of my own, and I was truly grateful.’
Although Sunday couldn’t hear what was going on behind her, on the old bandstand in the background, some of the youthful members of an Air Training Corps brass band were tuning up for their rehearsal.
‘For months, your dad and I fought to adopt you,’ continued Madge, taking off her spectacles, and cleaning them on her handkerchief. ‘But we had to wait until the court was quite satisfied that no one was going to come forward to claim you. I thank God the woman who gave birth to you never dared show her face.’
‘But you do know who she was?’
Madge hesitated before answering. ‘Yes,’ she replied, putting on her spectacles again. ‘I know.’
‘Then why won’t you tell me?’
‘Because she was not worthy of you.’
In the background, the rehearsal began. But the first item was the ATC choir singing a rather shaky rendition of The Lost Chord. This immediately brought small groups of people wandering across to watch from behind the back row of deckchairs.
Sunday got up from her chair. ‘You’ll have to tell me, Mum,’ she said. ‘One of these days, you’ll have to tell me who and where I came from. Whatever my real mum has done, I’m still a part of her. I can feel her inside me. Every time I look in the mirror, I know she’s there. I must know who she is, Mum. Not because I’m not grateful for all you’ve ever done for me, but because I can’t go through my life in someone else’s shadow.’
With that, she turned and walked off.
When Madge got home from her walk in Finsbury Park, she found a letter from Louie waiting for her on the parlour table. Sunday wanted no part of it, so she went into her bedroom and closed the door.
Madge went into her own bedroom, took off her bonnet and uniform, and carefully hung them up inside her wardrobe. Most of her sister Louie’s clothes had already gone, and she had also cleared out her own personal possessions from the dressing-table and bedside cabinet. Madge tried hard to ignore what she considered was yet another of her sister’s impetuous moods. She’d be back, just like always. She’d made her point, and stirred up trouble, but she’d be back. There was no doubt in Madge’s mind whatsoever.
Back in the parlour, Madge ripped open Louie’s envelope. There was no note inside. Just Louie’s front-door key, and a ten-shilling note, being her final share of the rent.
Chapter 25
‘The Punch and Judy Show’ was always a very popular event at the Deaf and Dumb School in Drayton Park. The thirty-minute show was devised by Pete Hawkins, who, because he himself was both deaf and mute, knew exactly how to use the puppets for communication. The moment Sunday arrived at the school, she could see what a wonderful rapport Pete had with the kids, for he was always clowning around with them, and making them feel that he was one of them. Pete was also highly gifted, for he not only made the puppets and model theatre himself, but also operated them. Each week, Eileen Roberts and Jacqui Marks took turns to explain the action in sign language to the children, and eventually, Sunday made her own contribution by introducing a kind of audience participation. This involved her sign-talking to Punch, Judy, and a crocodile named ‘Snapper’, and getting them to sway in time to a beat which Sunday herself initiated. The device proved a huge success with the children, and those that were lucky enough to have vocal chords roared their approval, and those who were mute clapped their hands and showed their appreciation with broad beams lighting up their young faces.
As each day passed, Sunday was enjoying her work at the school more than she had ever dared to hope. It was the kids themselves who instilled so much confidence in her. None of them ever seemed to be feeling sorry for themselves, and they had accepted their fate as though there was absolutely nothing unusual about being deaf or mute. Amongst them, of course, were a few victims of the air-raids, with whom it was only natural that Sunday should feel a special empathy. It was odd and poignant how, when she sometimes sat with these particular children, they would draw pictures of all those deadly weapons, such as bombs, ‘doodlebugs’, and rockets, which had been responsible for their own disability. It took her some time to realise that these kids were teaching her a lot about life, and how to live it.
But the school also offered Sunday a great deal more: the kind of companionship and independence that she could never get at home. And being at home these days was nothing short of an ordeal. Despite her mum’s assurance that Aunt Louie would ‘soon know which side her bread’s buttered’, it had been over a week since the old lady had left the flat to go and stay with her friends at Swiss Cottage, and she hadn’t been near the place since. Luckily, Madge Collins’s health had improved, and she was now walking quite normally again, without her walking stick. But, no matter how hard Sunday tried, Madge was still unwilling to discuss anything to do with Sunday’s real mother and father, either who they were or where they came from. It was becoming a crisis of identity for her, with a desperate feeling inside that she had to know the answer to so many questions, about herself, about the woman who had brought her into the world, and about why she had been so rejected even before the start of her life. She was completely disoriented, floundering in a sea of uncertainty. There was no one she could talk to about it all, no one to confide in. She needed advice, someone she could pour it all out to, someone who would understand what it was like to live in the shadow of their own self. And at the heart of it all was Gary. It had been almost three months since she had last heard from him, and it was getting her down. Why couldn’t he have been truthful with her before he went back to America? Why couldn’t he have just said that it was nice while it lasted, but that everything has to come to an end sooner or later? She felt let down, betrayed. One letter from Gary would have made all the difference, would have helped to make this mess bearable. Gary was a man, and a man was supposed to know about these things, to know what to do. In fact, from the time she got up in the morning to the time she went to bed, she yearned for a man’s company, yearned to be held in his arms and be told that everything was going to be all right, yearned to feel the warmth of his body against her own. It was for all those reasons that she started to see Pete Hawkins.
At the beginning it all seemed very half-hearted, and she had only really got to know him during an evening out with Helen Gallop and Jacqui Marks at Dick’s Wine Bar in the Holloway Road. Sunday had never tasted wine before, for it had always been considered a posh person’s drink, but Pete seemed to be quite an expert, and knew exactly what to order. In many ways, it had been a hilarious evening, for despite the fact that he could only use sign language, Pete had a marvellous sense of humour, and consistently made all three girls laugh. He was able, seemingly effortlessly, to project his bubbly personality, despite his handicaps. Sunday was fascinated to watch the delicate way he moved his fingers and hands, which seemed to paint pictures in the air. The more she saw of Pete, the more she was attracted to him, with his mischievous eyes, and long brown hair that was always flopping over one eye, and his thin wire-like body which was always restless, always on the move.
The first time Sunday slept with Pete she felt guilty. In some ways she felt as though she had seduced him into doing it, for, after Helen and Jacqui had got their bus home, it had been Sunday herself who had suggested that he invite her back for a drink at his top-floor flat in Aberdeen Park just off Highbury Grove. At the start, Pete seemed quite nervous about what he was doing, for despite all his clowning, he was actually quite shy and nervous. It was also very evident that Pete was not very experienced, which meant that Sunday had to take the initiative. However, this was what she had wanted, what she desperately needed, and although making love
with Pete Hawkins only made her think of Gary all the more, for the time being it would have to do.
During the first week in August, there were very definite signs that the war with the Japanese was coming to an end. Every newspaper carried reports of Allied successes in the Far East, with mass bombing raids taking place every day on the Japanese mainland itself. But it was not until 6 August that events took a dramatic turn, with the announcement that the United States Air Force had dropped an atomic bomb, which had completely devastated the Japanese city of Hiroshima. A few days later, Russia declared war on the Japanese Empire, and after the Americans dropped another atomic bomb, this time on the city of Nagasaki, the Government of Japan surrendered.
The VJ Day celebrations in ‘the Buildings’ were a further opportunity for the residents to let their hair down. Apart from a tea party for hordes of kids, there was also another knees-up for the adults, most of whom had contributed anything between five and ten shillings to help pay for the spread. The new Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, told the nation to ‘go out and enjoy yourselves’, and everyone in ‘the Buildings’ did just that. At last the war all over the world was at an end. It was now up to the new Government to build the peace.
A few days before the celebrations, Alf Butler moved out of number 7. It had been a massive undertaking, for over the years he and Bess had acquired many personal possessions, which had to be disposed of. So, with Sunday’s help, he set about doing so, giving a lot of the stuff to St George’s Church in Tufnell Park for sale at their next bazaar, other things to some of the more friendly neighbours in the same block, but the bulk of Bess’s clothes to Sunday.
Once Alf had settled in at his new ‘home’, which was nothing more than an old people’s block attached to the Geriatric Ward at the Whittington Hospital in Highgate, Sunday went to visit him. She hated the place on sight, for it smelt of wintergreen ointment and incontinence, and the elderly residents seemed to spend most of their day either reading newspapers or just nodding off in their armchairs. Alf, however, was in surprisingly good spirits, probably because he now had people around him to talk to, so it seemed the right moment for Sunday to ask him something that had been on her mind since the day she had sorted through Bess’s clothes.
‘Why did she keep a pitture of you?’ replied Alf, repeating Sunday’s question. ‘’Cos she fawt the world of yer, Sun. Yer was about the only one she could talk to in those “Buildin’s”. Yer was on ’er wavelengf. She reckoned yer ’ad guts,’ he said, adding wistfully, ‘like she ’ad all ’er life.’
Sunday covered his cold hand with her own. She had to sit directly opposite to enable them both to communicate with each other. ‘What I don’t understand though, Alf, is where did she get that snapshot of me? It was taken years ago, on the beach at Southend, on a day trip with my school.’ She watched Alf’s lips carefully, to make quite sure she could understand his reply.
Alf was a bit slow on the uptake these days, so he had to think hard for a moment. Then, after shrugging his shoulders, said, ‘No idea. Yer mum must’ve given it to ’er.’
Sunday did a double-take. ‘Mum?’ she said incredulously. ‘But they never met, did they?’
‘Oh yes they did,’ answered Alf firmly. ‘Quite a few times yer mum come ter see Bess over the years. Tried ter save ’er soul wiv a bit of Bible-punchin’, I reckon. I never ’ung around, oh no, not me! I just let ’em get on wiv it.’
Sunday was so astonished that when a nurse came along with the tea trolley, she accepted a cup of tea without thanking her for it.
‘Alf,’ said Sunday, leaning forward so that she could get a closer look at his lips when he replied. ‘Are you saying that my mum came to visit Bess, in your flat?’
Despite his growing loss of cohesion, Alf was again able to answer quite firmly, ‘Lots er times.’
‘And they talked – about religion?’
‘Far as I know. As I said, I always used ter push off. Din’t want ter know anyfink about it.’
Sunday sat back in her seat, dumbfounded. The idea of her mum having any contact at all with a woman like Bess seemed totally incomprehensible. Ever since Sunday was a child, Madge had never done anything but condemn Bess and her sinful lifestyle. Even the very mention of Bess’s name had turned the look on her mum’s face from one of sweetness and heavenly light, to a kind of puritanical disdain. Over and over again she tried to imagine the two women together, and in Bess’s own flat! Why had her mum never told her about these meetings? Why had she always kept it such a secret? As she watched Alf sipping his hot tea, and blowing it to cool it down, all she could think about was the strange mind of the woman who had adopted her. And that snapshot of herself, so proudly positioned on a page of Bess’s photograph album. Was it really possible that her own mum had actually given it to Bess? It was an utterly intriguing thought.
‘It’s not all that surprisin’, yer know.’
When Alf suddenly spoke, Sunday leaned forward again.
‘I said, it’s not all that surprisin’ – about yer mum comin’ over ter see Bess.’
Sunday was puzzled. ‘What d’you mean, Alf?’
Alf was very deft at drinking down hot tea, so he quickly drained the cup, and his rather shaky hand put it down on to the small table beside him. ‘She tried ter do too much, Sun,’ he said, eyes lowered but turned towards her. ‘My gel, I’m talkin’ about. She let ’erself go ter look after me. That’s why yer mum come ter see Bess – ter try an’ change ’er ways.’
Sunday tensed. What was Alf telling her?
‘Oh, it’s all right – I know,’ Alf continued, his elbows leaning on both arms of the chair, his chin resting on his fists. ‘I fink I’ve always known. And yet I refused ter believe it. I refused to believe what she was up to each night, where she was goin’, and why she was doin’ it.’ He looked up at Sunday, and shook his head. ‘The fact is, Sun, I let ’er do it, and I’m ashamed of meself.’ His eyes were watery, so he took out his handkerchief and dabbed them. ‘’Ow’d yer like an ’usband like me, eh? Lets ’is missus go out on the game just so’s ’e can live a life of ol’ Riley.’
Sunday could see that he was on the verge of tears, so she leaned forward, hugged him, then looked directly at his face. ‘It wasn’t like that, Alf,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Bess loved you. She never stopped loving you. What she did, she did because she wanted the best for you.’
The old boy’s face crumpled up, and he sobbed deeply. Sunday pulled his head gently on to her shoulder, and held him tight.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked one of the nurses, who was on her rounds collecting empty teacups. As Sunday was not looking at her, she tapped her on the shoulder and repeated the question.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Sunday, holding on to Alf. ‘Everything’s quite all right, thank you.’
Leaving the hospital, Sunday made her way down Highgate Hill, passing by the commemorative stone to London’s first Lord Mayor, Dick Whittington, as she went. But her mind was racing so much, and as it was such a clear and fine Sunday afternoon, she decided not to go straight home.
A short time later, she found her way up on to the bridge high above the busy Archway Road. Strolling idly along the narrow pedestrian path beside the bridge road made her feel just a little woozy, and if she had suffered from vertigo it would have been like a nightmare. But her mind was on other things, and a few minutes later she hadn’t realised that she had already reached the middle section of the bridge. Over the years, there had been quite a number of suicides from this spot, which meant that a wire grille had now been erected to prevent any more attempts. Sunday came to a halt, and peered through the grille. She was astonished how high the bridge was, for down in the Archway Road below cars and buses streaming up towards the Great North Road looked like toys, and people walking along the pavement were nothing more than crawling insects. After a while, the scene below became transformed into a kind of still picture, and in Sunday’s mind, everything came to a halt.
‘’O
w’d yer like an ’usband like me, eh? Lets ’is missus go out on the game just so’s ’e can live a life of ol’ Riley.’
Alf’s words seemed to bounce up from the road below, and during the few minutes that she closed her eyes, she could see his face before her. And then she remembered her own words: ‘Are you saying that my mum came to visit Bess, in your flat?’
And then she saw her mum’s face.
Suddenly, she felt someone touching her on the shoulder. Her eyes sprang open, and when she turned around she found herself staring straight into the face of a police constable.
‘We’re not goin’ to do anythin’ silly – are we, miss?’ he asked.
Sunday hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled. ‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Not me.’ Then she walked off.
Madge was in a good mood. Not only was her leg almost fully recovered, but, apart from the odd headache, she felt fitter than she had done for a very long time. She was also back to cooking regular meals again, and by the time Sunday had got home from visiting Alf in hospital, she was just taking some fairy cakes out of the oven for tea.
‘How was he?’ she asked, as Sunday came into the kitchen. ‘Settled in all right, has he?’
Sunday went straight to the small kitchen table, and sat down. ‘He’s fine,’ she answered blandly.
Using a tea cloth, Madge put the tray of piping-hot cakes on to the table. Then she closed the oven door, and collected her favoured blunt kitchen knife from the drawer. ‘I thought we’d have a little treat for tea,’ she said, waiting a moment before removing each cake from the tin tray. ‘I’ve made a few extra to take to the band concert this evening. Don’t forget, you promised to come, and you’re going to bring that nice friend of yours from the school with you. I’m so looking forward to meeting him. Don’t forget though, if it rains, it’ll be in the Hall, not on Highbury Fields.’
Sunday had forgotten about her promise to go to the weekly Salvation Army Band concert. She hated band concerts, and thought it was inconsiderate of her mum to expect her to sit through the ordeal of not being able to hear one single note that was being played.
The Silent War Page 34