The Silent War

by Victor Pemberton

  Sunday looked baffled by all the scientific explanation. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked.

  Mr Callow shrugged his shoulders. ‘Once your road injuries are properly healed, you can go home.’

  ‘But will I get my full hearing back again – in both ears?’

  Mr Callow leaned forward again and, for the first time, gave her a beaming smile. ‘That’s a question we can only ask of Mother Nature herself. Or maybe even a higher authority!’

  A week later, Helen Gallop collected Sunday from the hospital, and accompanied her back home. Although it was only a short walk back to ‘the Buildings’, Sunday had to hold on to Helen’s arm, for, as Mr Callow had warned, for the time being it was possible that her balance would be impaired. Even so, the moment she came down the hospital steps, the world seemed like a completely different place, for not only was the November sun bursting through heavy wintry clouds, but the faint sounds of the busy road she could now distantly hear all around her had transformed her silent world into a world of clanging trams, horses’ hooves and cartwheels, and the sound of people’s voices.

  ‘You know, Helen,’ said Sunday, as she held on tightly to her arm, ‘you have one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard. In fact, it’s even more beautiful than I ever imagined.’

  Helen laughed out loud. ‘You wait ’til you get home and hear some of the kids yelling,’ she said, without the need to turn and look at Sunday. ‘Then you’ll remember what voices are really like!’

  When Sunday got back to ‘the Buildings’, people seemed to appear from everywhere. The news about her accident had caused great distress to all the neighbours, but when they heard that her hearing had been partially restored they couldn’t wait to come out of their flats and hug her and pat her on the back.

  Doll Mooney was in her curlers when she threw open the main door of her block. ‘Sun!’ she screeched, rushing straight at Sunday and throwing her arms around her. ‘Oh Sun, is it true? Is it really true? Can yer really ’ear again?’

  Sunday nodded her head. ‘Just about,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t whisper.’

  ‘Me – whisper!’ yelled Doll, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘That’ll be the day!’

  A chorus of laughter echoed around the backyard and floated right up to the top-floor flats. And Sunday heard it! Far and distant, but she did hear it! She felt like she was coming through a dark tunnel and seeing light again. For the first time in over a year, she would actually be able to hear the sound of her old ‘gang’ in ‘the Buildings’ as they laughed and jeered and complained and coughed and sang and kept the volume of their wireless sets too high. Suddenly, life was worth living again!

  It was all like music – to her ears.

  Chapter 28

  There is always something quite special about autumn, and the year in which two ugly wars came to an end was no exception. All the trees in Islington were a riot of gold, brown, red, and yellow, and in both Holloway and Seven Sisters Roads the pavements were, in some places, ankle-deep in dead leaves. When she was a child, Sunday hardly ever noticed the crunching of autumn leaves beneath her feet, but now that her hearing had been partially restored, she thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard. However, after the late-autumn rains, the pavements soon became hazardous underfoot, as the crisp dead leaves were quickly transformed into a squelchy quagmire. It was a sure sign that winter was close at hand, for it was now cold – yes, really cold, and every chimney pot for as far as the eye could see was belching out thick black smoke.

  If Sunday’s initial euphoria had somewhat diminished in the week following her discharge from hospital, it was only because she had come to accept the fact that her hearing really was only partially restored, and that she had to concentrate hard on the faint sounds that were squeezing their way through what appeared to her to be a tiny hole in her eardrum. Nonetheless, it was exhilarating to hear anything at all and not to have to rely on watching the lip movements of everyone who talked to her. For a time she found it quite awkward, for it generally meant having to turn her good ear towards the sound source whenever she wanted to hear anything. But at least she was more than compensated by the fact that she could now have an opinion about a person by the sounds they made, as well as how they looked. Even so, she longed for any sign that would give her hope that her hearing would eventually be fully restored, and dreaded the thought that that day would never come, or that the sounds she could now hear, no matter how weak, would be taken away from her.

  Sunday’s most extraordinary experience came when she returned to her job at the Deaf and Dumb School. The children had clearly missed her, and the moment she walked through the front door they practically mobbed her. But it was the poignant little sounds they made that moved her the most, and when she brought in an old, portable wind-up gramophone for their dance lessons, she was astonished how swiftly they picked up the rhythm of a nursery children’s song without being able to hear the actual music. Their total dedication convinced Sunday not to abandon her sign-language efforts, and as time went on, she learnt more from them about communication than any expert. And she also told the Principal, Eileen Roberts, that, despite the fact that part of her hearing had now been restored, she wanted to carry on with her work at the school. As far as she was concerned, the children were now an important part of her life, and she would always be one of them.

  At the beginning of December, Sunday went to Jack Popwell’s wedding. No one in ‘the Buildings’ was surprised, for he had been courting his lady-love, Ivy Westcliff, for over two years, and Doll Mooney told Sunday quite categorically that the two of them had been ‘bunkin’ up’ in Jack’s flat for most of that time. However, no one seemed to care, and there was general agreement that Ivy, who was a widow of five years and worked in a ladies’ hairdresser’s shop in Hornsey Road, was a wonderful match for house-proud Jack.

  The wedding service itself took place in St George’s Church in Tufnell Park, and apart from the happy couple’s friends and relations, quite a posse of neighbours turned up. Most people agreed that December was a daft time to have a wedding, for everyone nearly froze to death in their party dresses when they were grouped together outside the church for the marriage portraits. Jack’s grandmother, who looked about a hundred years old, grumbled all the way through the ceremony, and could only be consoled by being fed a continuous supply of black-market jelly babies. Sunday was very impressed with the wedding reception, which was held in the Ancient Order of Foresters Hall in Holloway Road. Following a slap-up sit-down do, Jack had hired a three-piece band through one of his mates who worked with him at the Gas, Light, and Coke Company. Sunday was in her seventh heaven, for it was the first time she had been able to hear live band music since her Saturday dance nights at the Athenaeum Ballroom. Many of the guests there asked her to dance, including both Jack and his new bride, Ivy, but it was a strange experience to dance again to a tempo that she could actually hear. No wedding reception round Holloway would ever be complete without a knees-up, and that included a ‘Hokey Cokey’, a ‘John Paul Jones’, and the inevitable ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’. It was the end of a perfect evening, a perfect day. Until, that is, Jack announced to everybody that early in the New Year, he and Ivy were leaving ‘the Buildings’ to move into a council house out at Epping.

  A few weeks before Christmas, Sunday had a letter from Jinx to say that, as she was coming on a weekend visit to an aunt and uncle at a place called Finchley, she would like to bring young Junior along to meet his Auntie Sunday. Sunday wrote back immediately, and on the last Saturday afternoon before Christmas, a trolleybus drew to a halt outside Jones Brothers’ Department Store in Holloway Road, and amongst the passengers out stepped Jinx clutching Erin Junior wrapped up in a large blue blanket.

  ‘You don’t ’ave to tell me ’ow fat I’ve got, ’cos I know!’ These were Jinx’s first words as she walked through the front door. ‘You can blame it on this little bugger,’ she said, immediately plonking
Junior down on to the sofa. ‘’E’s turned me into a bloody porpoise!’

  Sunday roared with laughter, then threw her arms around her old mate, and hugged her. ‘Oh, Jinx!’ she said, shaking with excitement. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you again.’

  Then all the attention was turned on Junior, who was looking very disgruntled after the long, cold, and uncomfortable journey he had been made to endure.

  ‘He’s beautiful, Jinx,’ gushed Sunday, on her knees by the sofa, prodding her finger at poor, misunderstood Junior’s mouth. ‘He’s got Erin’s lips, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Ha!’ spluttered Jinx, indignantly. ‘’E certainly knows ’ow to use them, if that’s what you mean. You should ’ear ’im some nights, blowin’ out raspberries to keep me awake!’

  As if to confirm what his mum had said, Junior put his tongue out and made the most disgusting raspberry sound, spraying his Auntie Sunday with spittle. But this only made Sunday roar with laughter again.

  Jinx kicked off her shoes, and flopped out on to a chair at the parlour table. ‘D’you mind if I ’ave a fag, girl?’ she asked, with a weary sigh. ‘I’m gaspin’ for one.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be smoking now you’ve got a baby,’ replied Sunday.

  Jinx, outraged, came straight back at her. ‘Now look ’ere you, Miss Big City bloody Collins, if you think I’m goin’ to—’ She suddenly stopped in her tracks, and swung a startled look across to Sunday, who had her back turned towards her, still fawning over Junior. ‘Sunday?’

  Sunday turned, with a mischievous grin. ‘Yes, Jinx?’

  Jinx felt a chill run up her spine. ‘You ’eard me!’ she gasped, leaping up from the chair. ‘You bloody ’eard what I said!’

  ‘Of course I did,’ replied Sunday. ‘And the answer’s yes. Go ahead and smoke if you want.’

  Jinx couldn’t take her eyes off her old mate, and after no more than a few seconds’ hesitation, she threw her arms around Sunday and hugged her. ‘Oh, Sun!’ she mumbled into Sunday’s shoulder, close to tears. ‘It’s too won’erful for words. Just won’erful! What ’appened?’ she asked excitedly, pulling away from Sunday, and holding her at arm’s length. ‘Tell me about it!’

  And for the next hour or so, Sunday told her just about everything that had happened to her since they bid a tearful farewell to each other on that sun-drenched country railway station at Great Yeldham. For Sunday, it was a rich experience meeting up with Jinx again, and to hear for the first time that spicy, coarse voice, with its lovely Welsh twang, and the deep chesty cough which was the mark of all dedicated smokers. And as she watched Jinx breast-feeding the very hungry Erin Junior, she was so impressed to see what a good mother her old mate had become, and how she had refused to feel sorry for herself after Erin’s death. For Jinx, too, it was a truly emotional reunion, meeting up with Sunday in her own environment, and actually to be able to have a conversation with her without the need to keep looking her straight in the face. However, as much as Sunday was elated to have Jinx and Junior with her for these few precious hours, the visit gave her the opportunity to ask about Gary.

  ‘’E’s ’ad malaria, Sun,’ Jinx said, in reply to Sunday’s question, whilst trying hard to rock Junior gently to sleep in her arms. ‘Really bad, by the sounds of it. I ’eard it from this buddy of Erin’s. Mickey Quinn – d’you remember ’im?’

  Sunday nodded. She was sitting beside Jinx on the sofa, watching Junior’s eyes gradually becoming heavier and heavier.

  ‘Got it out East or somethin’,’ continued Jinx, knowing only too well how concerned Sunday was. ‘From what I can make out, ’is plane come down in the jungle. Took ’im an’ ’is crew ages to get back to safety.’

  ‘Does that mean – he’s dead?’

  Jinx found it a little disconcerting the way Sunday now turned her good ear towards her to hear what she was saying. ‘Oh no,’ she replied reassuringly. ‘But they go into a terrible fever, you know. Touch an’ go it is.’

  ‘I thought they had drugs to prevent things like that?’

  Jinx shrugged her shoulders. ‘They do,’ she replied, raising her voice a little so that it could be heard clearly by Sunday’s good ear. ‘But a nurse up at the base once told me that quinine is about as useful as a dose of Exlax!’ It wasn’t easy for her to make light of this news about Gary, but she was trying. ‘Anyway, I’d say that’s why you ’aven’t ’eard from ’im.’

  Sunday wasn’t really convinced, so she merely nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you write off to his CO in Carolina or wherever it is? I could get the address for you from Mickey.’

  Sunday shook her head, and smiled falsely. ‘If Gary wants to contact me again, he’ll do so. It’s up to him.’

  Although Sunday obviously felt despondent about this latest news, Gary’s name wasn’t mentioned again, and after a midday meal of roast chicken and bubble and squeak, the afternoon was spent talking about ‘the good and the bad old days’ at Cloy’s Farm. Sunday heard all the gossip, about how Ruthie, snooty Sue, little Maureen, and Sheil had all now given up working at the farm because so many men were now coming back home to reclaim their jobs. Then they laughed about the fact that Cloy had got himself some new farm machinery, and because he really hadn’t the faintest idea how any of it worked, it kept breaking down. Sunday and Jinx had the most perfect afternoon together, and at times it seemed as though they had never been apart. But just as it started to get dark, Jinx said it was time for her to get Junior back to Auntie and Uncle’s at Finchley. It was only then that she decided to tell Sunday something that she knew was going to upset her.

  ‘I’m goin’ off to America, Sun. Erin’s family have asked me to go. They’re payin’ for everythin’. If I like it over there, I’m goin’ to stay.’

  Sunday was sitting at the side of Jinx on the sofa when she heard the news, but in the fading light she couldn’t see the wistful look on her old mate’s face. ‘That’s wonderful, Jinx,’ she replied, once she had taken it in. ‘I’m so happy for you – and Junior.’ She gently stroked Junior’s tiny head. ‘How do your folks feel about it?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less,’ sniffed Jinx. ‘Ever since I got ’ome, me mam’s been a pain in the arse. I’ve ’ad so many lectures about the sins I’ve committed, an’ it’s all a load of ol’ rubbish – unfortunately!’ Then her usual cheeky quips gave way to a look of some apprehension. ‘I’ll miss me dad though. He’s a good sort really.’ She looked down at Junior for a moment, then quickly looked up at Sunday again. ‘I’ll miss you too, Sun.’

  Sunday took Jinx’s hand and held it. ‘Don’t be silly, Jinx,’ she replied. ‘We hardly ever see each other.’

  ‘No,’ said Jinx, gently stroking Sunday’s face with the back of her hand. ‘But I think about you more than you’ll ever know.’

  For a moment or so, both girls studied each other’s faces in the rapidly fading light. Then they hugged each other.

  A short while later, Sunday helped carry Junior, as she and Jinx made their way to the main bus stop outside the Marlborough Cinema in Holloway Road. Fortunately for both of them, they didn’t have to wait long, for the bus came fairly quickly. Jinx climbed up on to the bus platform, then took Junior from Sunday.

  ‘If you ever dare lose contact with me, Sunday Collins,’ Jinx yelled back, ‘I’ll be on the first boat back ’ome!’

  Sunday laughed and waved both hands at her. It was a false laugh.

  The bus-conductor helped Jinx and Junior into a seat on the lower deck, then pressed the starter bell. As the bus moved off, Sunday went to the side window, where Jinx was waving madly to her. She waved back.

  The trolleybus made a silent departure, and missed having to stop at the traffic lights as it made its way up Holloway Road, past the bombed-out Gaumont Cinema, and on towards the Archway. Sunday waited for it to disappear, then went home.

  The moment she opened the door of the flat, Sunday could still smell from the kitchen the remains of the midday meal. She sighed, clo
sed the door, and switched on the electric light. The flat was beautifully warm because she had had the gas fire on all day. But even though the tea things were still on the parlour table, she decided she didn’t want to wash up the cups and saucers and plates that she and Jinx had been using such a little time before. Not yet anyway. So she put down her front-door key on the mantelpiece, took off her hat and coat, went into her bedroom, and switched on the light. Suddenly lacking in energy, she threw her hat and coat down on to the bed, then lay there, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of Jinx and little Junior. And when she thought of Jinx, she thought of Cloy’s Farm, and the girls she had shared the barn with, and Erin, and young Ronnie, and Mario the Italian POW. And Gary. Those few months at Ridgewell had meant so much to her, much more than she had ever imagined. The whole experience was stuck in her mind, like a series of richly coloured paintings, each one of them telling a totally different story. And then she thought of Jinx again, and how she loved her, and how she had loved Pearl. It seemed so ridiculous to love a woman, any woman, for a woman could never be like a man, not in the same way. But companionship was different from love. Companionship meant not being lonely. Nonetheless, she did love Jinx, and she did love Pearl. And she missed them – oh God, how she missed them! And then she thought of Gary, and how she missed him, and wanted him, and needed him.

  Her eyes opened. The first thing she saw was the small framed picture hanging on the wall facing her bed. She’d hung it there herself soon after she got back home from her time on the land at Cloy’s Farm. The picture was the one drawn by Sheil, strange, disoriented Sheil.