Doll threw her arms around Sunday, and weeping uncontrollably, blurted, ‘Oh, Sun – I’m goin’ ter miss yer so much! This place ain’t ever goin’ ter be the same wivout yer!’
‘Fer God’s sake, woman!’ yelped Joe, who was standing right behind her, and was thoroughly embarrassed. ‘She’s not leavin’ Paradise Corner, yer know. It’s only a whole lot of ol’ buildin’s!’
‘Mum,’ moaned little Josie, taggin on to her mum’s apron. ‘I want ter go ter the lav.’
‘Oh shut your bleedin ’ole, Josie!’ Doll yelled. Then feeling guilty, she bent down and picked the child up. ‘Say bye-bye to your Auntie Sunday,’ she sniffed, with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Reluctantly, Josie allowed Sunday to kiss her. Then Sunday turned to the rest of the Mooney kids and kissed them too, though Alby thought it was a bit sissy, and after his turn, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. It took several minutes for Sunday to take her leave of everyone there, and by the time she was ready to get into the taxi, there were calls of ‘Be’ave yerself, gel!’, ‘Don’t do anyfink I wouldn’t do!’, ‘Don’t ferget ter send us some food parcels!’, and ‘We’ll be finkin’ of yer, Sun!’ Then Gary helped her into the taxi, and, going round to the far door, climbed in beside her.
As the taxi moved off, Sunday’s last view was of all her friends and neighbours waving madly. Then she swung round quickly to peer out through the back window, from where she could just see the Mooney family, hunched together on the pavement, suddenly becoming smaller and smaller as the taxi gathered more and more speed. And behind them, ‘the Buildings’, proud, erect, its brick-faced exterior glowing warmly in the cold January sun.
Gary knew only too well what this moment meant to Sunday, so he merely put his arm around her shoulders, and said nothing.
Sunday wiped the tears from her eyes with the tips of her fingers, then reached into her shoulder bag to take out the envelope Captain Sarah had given her earlier that morning. Her hands were shaking as she struggled with one finger to rip open the envelope, and when she finally succeeded, she discovered that the letter was several pages long.
My dearest Sunday,
6 April 1945
I’m sure you know how difficult it is for me to write this. I know I’ve asked myself a hundred times why I’ve resisted doing so for so long. But after all you’ve gone through during these past few months, I know that it’s against your interests to keep anything more from you. That is why I am asking my dear friend Sarah Denning to give this to you at a time when I feel you are of the right age to understand. The chances are I may not be around to be with you on your twenty-first birthday, so I hope that when you read this, you will understand everything about your natural parents.
As your adopted mum, I know that in many ways I’ve been a bit of a failure. When your dad died, you were all I had left. I gave you everything I was capable of giving you, and that includes my love. Perhaps it was too much – only you can decide that. But I did try. I want you to know, Sunday, that I did try.
In the past year, you’ve asked me several times about your ‘real’ mother, who she was, where she came from. I always told you that when you were left abandoned as a tiny baby on the steps of our Mission Hall, the woman’s identity had never been known, only because she could not be traced. As you so rightly guessed, that wasn’t true – not entirely true. The fact is that soon after your dad and I had adopted you, the woman came to see me. She told me of the pain she had suffered in having to part with you, the pain in knowing that she could watch you pass by practically every day of the week. Your mother, Sunday, lived in the next block. She was Bess Butler.
Sunday felt a surge of blood rush to her head. Although the taxi was now winding through streets that she had never seen before, she was too engrossed in what her mum had revealed to notice anything. So she read on.
Your mother told me that before she gave birth to you, she had already gone through two premature miscarriages with other men. You were the third, but when the pregnancy proceeded normally, she became frightened, knowing that there was no way she could cope with bringing up a child on her own. To make matters worse, the man who was technically your own flesh-and-blood father, wanted no part of you, and apparently disappeared without trace. Your mother told me very little about this man, only that he was ‘a casual acquaintance’.
What I can tell you, Sunday, is that when you were two years old, your mother and I came to an arrangement. By this time she had married Alf Butler, but he knew nothing about you, and nothing about her previous life. As you know, your dad, my Reg, died just about this time, and Mrs Butler knew the difficulties I was in. That was when she offered to give me a monthly sum to help towards your upkeep. At first I utterly refused, but during the recession it was impossible for me to find a job, and I didn’t know how to make ends meet. And so I accepted. Unfortunately, I had no idea at that time how your mother was managing to provide that income. And when I did eventually know, it’s to my shame that I continued to accept money from her. The Lord forgive me!
Sunday, you should also know that neither your dad, nor Alf Butler knew anything about this ‘arrangement’ I had with your mother, and they were never told your true identity. All these years I kept my part of the bargain, and, until the end of her life, your ‘real’ mother kept hers.
I know how you must feel, knowing that Bess Butler, that your own flesh and blood, was always so close at hand, and yet so far. But the life she led was something I just had to keep from you, and I beg you to understand why I could never allow you to be part of that life.
There is so much I want to say to you, Sunday. But my heart is so full, I have to end here. All I want you to know is that everything I have ever done, I have done for you. In some of the darkest days of my life, you were my one shining light. Try not to think too harshly of me.
We’re only here for one short lifetime. Enjoy, love, and embrace yours to the full. As I embrace you.
God be with you.
Your loving mum.
Devastated, Sunday put down the letter. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Gary turned to look at her. And she turned to look at him.
‘I guess your mum was quite a gal,’ he said.
Sunday smiled tearfully. She was still clutching the letter in her hand. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘They both were.’
The taxi wound its way through the traffic just entering the forecourt of Victoria Station.
It seemed such a very short journey from ‘the Buildings’.
The Silent War Page 42