The Silent War (49 page)

‘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, closed 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.

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’.

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!’