The Silent War

by Victor Pemberton

  It was her crayon sketch of a red painted house, seen in the far distance across a wild East Anglian field.

  On Christmas Eve, Sunday plucked up enough courage to go to a carol concert at the Mission Hall. She had delayed her decision until the last moment for two reasons. First was that she had been busy at the Deaf and Dumb School helping out with the Christmas party and the Nativity play, which was performed by the children entirely in mime and sign language. The second reason was that she hadn’t been to the Hall since the day of her road accident, and sadly, her most vivid memories of the place were all traumatic. However, on the evening of the concert, she decided that she owed it to her mum to make the effort, so, wrapping herself up warm against the biting wind, she took a tram up to Highbury Corner. As she peered out of the tram window from the top deck, she found it so uplifting to see so many shop windows lit up with coloured lights and Christmas trees, for, despite the endless shortages of practically everything from coal to food, toys, and clothing, everyone had made an effort to rise above the drab air of austerity. Someone from the local Borough Council had even shown enough heart to allow the words, ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL’ to be displayed on a scrawled banner across the white façade of the Central Library, and Sunday thought that was a real sign of progress!

  When she arrived at the Hall, it was, as usual, bursting with Christmas joy and exultation. There were home-made paper chains, tinsel and cotton wool draped over framed photographs of humble Salvation Army Commissioners, a beautiful Nativity setting laid out in one corner of the Hall, and a huge Christmas tree on the platform, which formed a wonderful background for the choir of children and ‘Army’ singers, and the band itself. And there was a most wonderful smell of Camp coffee and chicory, which was being served from a table in the corridor, alongside a selection of cakes and sandwiches made by the delightfully enthusiastic ‘Army’ volunteers and helpers.

  ‘Welcome home, Sunday!’ said Captain Sarah, arms outstretched in greeting as she approached her inside the Hall.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Denning,’ replied Sunday, hugging her mum’s old ‘Army’ friend. Although she didn’t agree with the exact intention of the greeting, she appreciated the sentiment.

  After promising to have a cup of coffee with the Captain during the interval, Sunday found an aisle seat next to a chattering, excited group of young pupils from the Highbury Fields Girls’ School.

  The concert turned out to be more inspiring than Sunday had ever known. The band was in rousing form, rustling up every musical instrument they could muster for the occasion, including cymbals, a xylophone, and several tambourines, which gave an invigorating accompaniment to such firm favourites as ‘Good King Wenceslas’, ‘Hark The Herald Angels Sing’, and ‘Christmas Is Coming’. The mixed choirs sang as though their hearts were full of glory, and despite the curious melancholy Sunday felt, the joy of being able to hear these beautiful musical sounds again after a year of silence and despair, gave her a tremendous feeling of hope for the future.

  And yet, there was still a nagging feeling inside that would just not go away. As she watched the delirious happiness of performers and audience swaying, singing, and clapping in time to the music, her mind kept returning to the image of a small child who was found abandoned in a brown paper carrier-bag on the steps of this very same building. Would she never know the truth, never know anything about the woman who had left her there? By the time it came to the interval, she had a curious feeling that there was still one person who could tell her what she had a right to know.

  ‘How long did I know your mum?’ replied Captain Sarah, in answer to Sunday’s unexpected question. ‘My goodness, now you’re asking. Long before you were born, that I do know. We joined the ‘Army’ at about the same time.’

  ‘Then you must remember when I was found outside on the doorstep.’

  ‘Indeed I do!’ replied the Captain, at this point unaware of the implications of Sunday’s question. ‘We were having a Bible class in this very Hall. You were such a loud little thing. They must have heard you all the way up at Highbury Corner.’

  Sunday smiled as she listened to Captain Sarah’s affectionate reminiscence. Then, with a burning, inquisitive look in her eyes, she asked, ‘Mrs Denning. Who left me there?’

  The immediate disappearance of the smile on the poor woman’s face told all. She replaced the half-finished cup of coffee she had been drinking back on to its saucer. ‘Sunday, dear,’ she said, careful not to make eye contact. ‘You know the situation.’

  ‘No, I don’t, Mrs Denning,’ Sunday said, shaking her head. ‘But someone here does. Why won’t any of you tell me?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Sunday, it was your mum’s wish that you know nothing about the poor, unbalanced soul who was unable to take care of you.’

  ‘What about my wish?’ persisted Sunday. ‘Mrs Denning, can’t you understand, can’t any of you understand how night after night I’m haunted by the image of this woman? She lives inside me every day of my life. So does the man who allowed her to do this thing. Why won’t you put me out of my misery? Why?’

  Captain Sarah felt a deep sense of anguish, and there was no doubt that, within her, she was struggling against a powerful sense of betrayal to both Sunday and to Madge Collins. ‘I’m sorry, Sunday,’ she said, slowly shaking her head, with a despairing sigh. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you. Not now. Not just yet.’

  ‘Then you mean, you will eventually tell me?’

  ‘Eventually.’

  Sunday pressed her eagerly. ‘When?’

  ‘When the time comes, Sunday. And not before. That was your mum’s wish.’

  At that moment, Colonel Faraday came forward to greet Sunday. ‘My dear child!’ he said effusively. ‘I can’t tell you what joy it brings to my heart to see you here tonight.’ He took hold of both her hands, squeezed them tight, and shook them heartily, adding, ‘May the Lord be with you!’

  As Sunday took her aisle seat again, band and choir resumed the concert with the poignant strains of ‘Away In A Manger’.

  Chapter 29

  On Christmas morning, Sunday was woken by a banging on the front door. She only just heard the distant sounds because she had left her bedroom door open, but by the time she had put on her old towelling robe and shuffled out barefoot into the parlour, the banging was more like thunder. The moment she opened the door, all the Mooney kids came bursting in, excitedly yelling the place down in unison, ‘Merry Christmas!’

  ‘Come on, Sun! It’s gettin’ late!’ Alby, the eldest, was already pulling at Sunday’s hand. ‘We wanna show yer all the presents we’ve got.’

  Sunday took a quick glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. It wasn’t even half past seven.

  ‘Farver Chris’mass brought me a smashin’ machine-gun!’ squealed a delirious Josie, the youngest.

  ‘A machine-gun!’ spluttered Sunday, astonished. ‘That’s not a girl’s present,’ she said, having in mind the child’s pastry-set she had waiting for Josie under her own small Christmas tree.

  ‘She’s not a gel,’ sneered Alby. ‘She’s a moron!’

  ‘No I’m not! No I’m not!’ Josie started pummelling her big brother.

  It was too early in the morning for Sunday to have to cope with all this high excitement. But at least it took her mind off waking up in the flat alone for the first time ever on a Christmas Day.

  ‘What about you, Barry?’ Sunday asked, once she had separated Josie and her elder brother.

  Barry, who was seven, was the studious one, and he held out a book he had got for Christmas.

  Sunday took the book and looked at the title: How It Works And How It’s Done. She looked baffled. ‘What’s it all about?’ she asked.

  Barry shrugged his shoulders. ‘Makin’ fings,’ he replied.

  It took her ages to get rid of the kids, for Josie and Alby kept taking crafty looks at the small parcels under Sunday’s tree, just in case any of the labels had their names on them. Once she was finally l
eft on her own again, she started to get herself organised. Although she had been invited to spend Christmas Day with the Mooney family, she had a few things she had to do first, like getting dressed, having some breakfast, and finishing writing the labels on some of those parcels which so intrigued little Josie and her big brother!

  Whilst she was bustling around, she listened to the wireless. For Sunday, this was a magical treat, and one of the best Christmas presents she would ever have. To be able to hear early-morning carols, the traditional ‘Postman’s Knock’ programme, and one record request after another of popular songs in ‘Forces Favourites’ was something which, only a few weeks before, she had thought she would never experience again. Sunday repaid this wonderfully restored gift by making an effort to keep the spirit of Christmas alive. Even though she was now living alone, she had decorated the flat with paper chains, written Christmas cards to Aunt Louie, Jinx and Junior, and friends and neighbours in ‘the Buildings’, and answered the cards she had received from her old mates at Cloy’s Farm. She had also bought a small Christmas tree from Hicks the Greengrocers in Seven Sisters Road, and crammed the mantelpiece with all the Christmas cards that people had sent to her. It seemed right that she shouldn’t turn her back on the important things of life just because she was living alone. Making an effort was what her mum would have wished.

  The Mooneys’ flat looked like a fairground. The entire place was draped with paper chains and lanterns made by the kids, Christmas cards were dangling from lines of string suspended from one wall to another, and a huge green Christmas tree bulging with pre-war coloured fairy lights was wedged into a corner of the parlour, making it difficult to get into Doll and Joe’s bedroom. There were Alby’s gawky, coloured pictures of Father Christmas pinned all along the mantelpiece, mistletoe and holly above every door in the flat, and a plethora of austere-looking toys scattered all over the floor.

  When Sunday arrived, she couldn’t believe her eyes. When she’d eventually managed to get through the parlour door, step over the second-hand train set Seamus had got for Christmas, and been dragged off by Josie into the kids’ bedroom to be shot at by her machine-gun, she was grateful to be able to reach the sanity of the small kitchen, where Doll was attempting to baste a fair-sized turkey before returning it to the oven.

  ‘Who was it said Chris’mass is a time fer rejoicin’?’ she complained, face streaked with sweat, and strands of hair from her upswept hair-do dangling down into her eyes. ‘This is more like slave bleedin’ labour!’

  Sunday offered to help, but Doll insisted that she go and get ‘that lazy sod of an ’usband of mine’ to get her a drink.

  In the parlour, Joe was quite oblivious of all the pandemonium that was going on around him. He just sat in his usual chair by the fireplace, reading the sports pages of a three-day-old copy of the Daily Mirror, surrounded by his kids who were yelling their heads off in a fierce battle of ‘Snakes and Ladders’. Finally, however, even he had enough. ‘Seamus!’ he snapped. ‘Will yer stop that screechin’. You’re not a bloody gel, yer know! Now be takin’ you lot ter yer own room. This is the good Lord’s birthday, and He needs a bit of peace an’ quiet!’

  Groaning and moaning, the kids were banished to their bedroom.

  ‘Sorry about that, Sunday,’ said Joe, draining the last drops of Guinness from his pint glass. ‘Why in the world did we have ter have all these kids?’

  Sunday wanted to tell him, but she thought better of it. ‘I think you’ve got a lovely family, Joe,’ she replied pointedly. ‘I envy you.’

  ‘Yes, well yer can have this lot any time you’re passin’!’ he said. ‘I tell yer, if yer lived here, you’d be better off the way yer were – deaf!’

  Sunday thought that a pretty unsavoury remark, but as she was perfectly aware that Joe Mooney was not the most tactful man in the world, she ignored it. And when he went back to reading his newspaper again, she knew there wasn’t much chance of getting a drink, so she wandered aimlessly around the room casually looking at the Christmas cards and peering out the window at the dull grey Christmas Day weather.

  ‘You know, we’re very lucky, aren’t we?’ she said, without turning.

  Joe looked up from his newspaper. ‘What was that yer said?’

  Sunday turned. ‘I said, we’re very lucky – to have a roof over our head. When you think of the number of people who lost their homes during the war.’

  Joe shrugged his shoulders. ‘It shouldn’ve happened,’ he replied. ‘That’s the trouble with you British. Yer’ve always got a nose for a fight.’

  Sunday stiffened. ‘You’re not blaming us for the war, are you, Joe?’ she said indignantly. ‘We didn’t start it, you know.’

  ‘No. But it could’ve been avoided.’ He turned around to look over his shoulder at her. ‘I ask yer – what was it all about? It was about land, the taking of land that doesn’t belong to yer. Just like what happened back home in Ireland. Mark my words, that’ll all flare up again one of these days.’ He turned back to his newspaper again. ‘No. If yer ask me people are too selfish. They want everythin’ their own way.’

  Sunday thought that a bit rich coming from someone who treated his wife and family with the utmost contempt. She was bursting to ask him if he thought it selfish to go off night after night to shack up with another woman whilst his own wife had to struggle to bring up five kids? And she was dying to ask him which one it was in this household who had everything their own way. ‘Any news yet, Joe?’ she asked, feeling it wiser to change the subject. ‘About when you’re all going to move?’

  Joe suddenly slammed down his newspaper, and darted a glance at her. ‘What’s that yer say? Who told you that?’

  Sunday looked surprised. ‘I thought it was common knowledge.’

  Joe immediately got up from his chair. ‘Well, it’s not. Not yet.’

  ‘So you’re not going to take this job – at the car firm in Dagenham?’

  Joe went across to her. ‘Look, Sunday. I don’t know what that woman’s been tellin’ yer, but I make the decisions in this house, not her!’ At that moment, he realised that he might be overreacting. ‘So what’s so special if we do decide ter move out? This is a block of flats. People come an’ go all the time.’ Agitated, he rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll tell yer this though. If I stand still, I’ll turn ter stone, an’ that’s the God’s truth. You know how much I earn as a brickie, Sunday – huh, do yer?’

  Sunday shook her head.

  ‘Three bloody quid a week! Just tell me, where’s the justice, where’s a man’s dignity?’

  Sunday felt embarrassed, and didn’t know what to say.

  Then Joe collected his coat and cap from a hook behind the front door and put them on. ‘Will yer tell her inside I’m off ter the boozer for a snort.’

  Sunday looked bewildered. ‘But Doll said we’ll be ready to eat in half an hour.’

  ‘Then half an hour it’ll be,’ he replied, opening the door. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ he said, turning back briefly, ‘I didn’t get that job out at Dagenham. They turned me down. No skills, yer see.’

  Joe kept his promise, and came back exactly half an hour later. To his kids’ delight, he brought with him a vast slab of milk chocolate, which he had apparently bought on the black market from a casual customer over at the Nag’s Head pub. But it was kept as a special treat until after dinner at one o’clock.

  To Sunday’s surprise, her day with the Mooney family turned out to be one of the best Christmases she had ever had. She hadn’t expected it to be so, not after Joe’s extraordinary exchange with her. In fact, he was amazingly appreciative of everything Doll had done, praising the way in which the turkey had been cooked, playing games with the kids, helping Barry to build a house with his Meccano set, and even doing the washing-up whilst Doll and Sunday had a sit-down in the afternoon. Doll, needless to say, worked like a Trojan. But, she clearly thoroughly enjoyed herself, especially during the evening when the family sat down to a game of Mono
poly. To howls of protests from the kids, she appointed herself Banker, and cheated everyone in sight.

  By the time she was ready to go home, Sunday was so blown-out with turkey and sausage-meat stuffing, roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots and cauliflower, Christmas pudding and mince pies, Spam and cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, and squares of milk chocolate, that she could hardly stand up.

  When she got back to her own flat, she thought a great deal about the wonderful way in which the Mooneys had helped her to cope with her first Christmas on her own. Yes, she thought a lot about Doll, about Joe, and about the kids. Especially the kids.

  In fact, it made her wish she had some of her own.

  The day after Boxing Day, Sunday had a most peculiar and worrying letter from Jinx.

  34 Ponreath Street

  19 December ’45

  Swansea

  Dear Sun,

  Bet you didn’t expect to hear from me again so soon!

  What’s happened is that me and Junior are supposed to be travelling on the Queen Mary to New York at the beginning of January. But suddenly it’s all in doubt because of one BIG crisis! They won’t let me go!

  Apparently, this bloke at the base down at Ridgewell has had it in for me ever since I married Erin, and says that I have no right to ‘be a drain on the American tax-payers’, because I was married to Erin for too short a time before he died. What it all boils down to is that they won’t give me a permit to travel! What a Yankee git this bloke is!

  Anyway, to cut a long story short, I have to go and see this bloke and see if I can talk some sense into him. He’s agreed to see me on 30 December down at the Base, which is only three days before I’m due to leave! The thing is, you know what I’m like. I go to pieces having to talk to people like this, and I desperately need someone to come along and support me. I hate to ask you, Sun, but could you do it? Don’t worry, you won’t have to get involved or anything, just sit there so’s I know I’ve got someone I can trust. I’ll pay all your fares and things, and as me mam’s going to look after Junior for the night, I’m pretty sure we can put up at the King’s Head or somewhere. I hate to ask you, Sun – but I really am desperate!