The Silent War (11 page)

‘Oh Sunday.’ Madge was gently stroking her daughter’s hand as she spoke. ‘My dear, dear baby. Our Lord has answered my prayers.’

Sunday had no idea what her mum was saying. All she knew was that tears were running down the poor woman’s cheeks.

‘We’ll have you home in no time,’ said Madge, holding Sunday’s hand with both her own, and finding it very difficult to be brave. And her face crumpled up in tears as her tongue and lips tried to form the words, ‘I love you so much, Sunday.’

Her mum’s odd behaviour was beginning to unnerve Sunday. ‘I can’t hear what you’re saying,’ she said, not realising that her own voice was raised. ‘Why can’t I hear you?’

Madge swung a quick glance to the doctor, hoping for some kind of help. But the doctor, aware that Sunday was watching everyone’s reactions, was careful not to indicate anything by his expression. However, the look in his eyes warned Madge to be cautious.

‘Where’s Pearl?’ Sunday asked, suddenly. ‘I want to see Pearl.’

Madge bit her lip anxiously, and squeezed her daughter’s hand tightly.

Sunday was panicking. Her whole body felt as though it was burning up. ‘What’s going on!’ She had no idea she was shouting out loud. ‘Why can’t I hear you?’ She was breathing faster and faster. ‘I want to see Pearl!’

Sunday’s shouts caused everyone in the ward to swing an anxious glance towards her bed. Madge leaned over, and tried to soothe her by gently stroking her face with her fingers.

And then Sunday felt pain, a searing pain which
engulfed
her entire body from head to toe. Inside her head, she could feel a thumping sensation as though someone was pounding her with a sledgehammer. But most of all, it was the sudden feeling of intense pressure deep inside her ears that really scared her; it felt like someone’s fingers were pushing hard into them, tearing through her temple and almost touching her eyes. The only release she had was to scream out in pain at the top of her voice.

Her panic was so great, she hardly felt the needle that was being pushed into her arm.

It was several days before Sunday had regained enough strength to be transferred to the Ear, Nose, and Throat Ward which was in a separate wing of the Royal Northern Hospital. Once the bandages around her head had been removed, she was immediately subjected to a series of exhausting tests which would determine the extent of the injuries to her ears. For Sunday it was a painstaking, depressing experience, for since that first moment of regaining her faculties, she had had to come to terms with the agonising reality that she was unable to hear anything more than low, distant humming sounds. The flying bomb explosion had not only perforated her eardrums, but had also caused serious infections to both her middle and inner ears. And despite a specialist’s assurances that there might be the possibility of an operation to partially restore the hearing in one ear, Sunday was shrewd enough to know that the prospect was bleak. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she was getting more and more concerned that no one could tell her anything about what had happened to Pearl. It was finally left to Madge to break the news. Pearl was dead – killed in the flying bomb explosion together with five other ‘Baggies’. Ma Briggs was amongst the dead.

Sunday was devastated. Pearl was her friend, her very best friend. They were like sisters, always laughing and joking together, always standing up for each other
whenever
Ma Briggs tried to throw her weight around. For at least a day after she was told, Sunday had refused to believe what had happened. Not to Pearl. Not to
her
friend. It had to be a mistake, it just had to be. OK, so Pearl was chubby. But she was strong. She was really strong. If she’d been buried under that wreckage, she’d never have just given up – and died. As she lay in bed, her pillow soaked with tears, all Sunday could do was to keep repeating Pearl’s name to herself over and over again. ‘Pearl. Pearl. Pearl. Pearl. Don’t do this to me, Pearl. Don’t leave me. Don’t
ever
leave me.’

The trauma of coping with Pearl’s death, together with the prospect of being deaf for the rest of her life, was too much for Sunday. Even though she was full of drugs to combat the pain in her head and ears, her mind was in turmoil, and, despite the strenuous efforts of her doctors and nurses, she refused to cooperate in trying to learn even the most basic ways to communicate, such as reading and writing messages on a note-pad at the side of her bed. She spent most of the time sitting in a chair in the day room at the end of the ward, with a fixed stare at all the activity around her – movement, doctors and nurses talking to their patients, a WVS helper serving tea from a trolley, exchanging a comforting word with a seriously ill air-raid victim, patients sitting up in bed listening through earphones to the Home Service on the wireless. Nothing different about any of it, except that she couldn’t
hear
the voices, couldn’t
hear
the laughter, couldn’t even
hear
the shuffling of feet on the bare lino floor of the ward. She was living in an alien world, a world that was stark and unreal, like the nightmares she was now having every night. She wanted no part of it. She wanted things to be like they used to be, when she and Pearl went dancing up the Athenaeum every Saturday night. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare!

Sadly, Madge Collins was no help at all to her daughter. Despite the endless flying bomb raids that were now
taking
place every day of the week, she never missed a visit. But after sitting with Sunday for just a few minutes, and making unsuccessful attempts to communicate with her, the poor woman’s eyes would well up with tears, which meant that she had to spend the rest of the hour holding Sunday’s hand and saying prayers to herself. After a time, Sunday began to dread her mum’s visits. Not because she didn’t want to see her, but because she only made things worse. Some of the neighbours from ‘the Buildings’ also came to see her, but they weren’t much help either, for they always used the visiting hour as an excuse to have a good old chinwag about the war, and to slag off Churchill and Roosevelt for giving Hitler the chance to use his flying bombs on poor old ’Olloway. Doll Mooney didn’t improve matters either and had to be restrained by the Ward Sister, because she was convinced that the only way to communicate with Sunday was to shout at her. Nonetheless, Doll meant well, for she bought Sunday a lovely sixpenn’th of white daisies from the florists’ shop in Caledonian Road, and also a tasteful ‘Get Well’ card from herself, Joe, and the kids.

Sunday’s spirits were temporarily raised, however, when one evening she received a visit from Bess Butler. Madge had only just left the ward when she arrived, and as Bess knew only too well that Sunday’s mum had never approved of her, she made quite sure there was no chance of them coming face to face.

Sunday’s expression lit up when she saw Bess approaching her. The older woman looked dressed to kill, for she was already made-up for her night’s ‘work’ outside the US Servicemen’s Club in the ‘Dilly’. ‘’Ow d’yer like me new pong?’ she asked Sunday, after kissing her on the cheek, and practically gassing the poor girl with the overpowering smell of perfume.

Sunday shrugged her shoulders and smiled weakly. Although she had guessed what Bess was saying, she hadn’t watched her friend’s lips moving.

‘It’s called “Moon Over Miami”,’ she said, her scarlet
lips
working hard to form the words. ‘’Ad ter work ’ard fer that, I can tell yer,’ she said. ‘Well let’s face it, we ’ave ter look after our GI boys, don’t we?’

Although Bess chuckled at her own joke, Sunday could only smile. It was a tired, strained smile, and it worried Bess.

‘Yer’ve ’ad a rough time, Sun,’ Bess said, sitting on the edge of Sunday’s bed facing her young mate, who was propped up in a chair. ‘It’s about time we brought some colour back inter them cheeks, gel.’ As she spoke, she gently pinched Sunday’s cheeks, and gave her one of her great big comforting smiles. But in her stomach, she felt desperately concerned for the girl. ‘Yer don’t know what the bleedin’ ’ell I’m goin’ on about, do yer, mate?’

Sunday looked puzzled.

Bess leaned across, and took hold of one of her hands. ‘Watch me, Sun,’ she said. And as she spoke, she used a finger from her other hand to point at her lips.

Sunday understood. She lowered her eyes and focused on Bess’s lips.

‘Everything’s – going – to be – all right,’ said Bess, trying as hard as she could to signal the words. ‘Can yer – understand me?’

Sunday looked absolutely blank.

Bess took hold of both of Sunday’s hands. ‘Watch, Sun,’ she said, making intense eye contact. ‘Just watch me –
please
.’

Sunday was doing her best to concentrate.

Before continuing, Bess used the tip of her tongue to touch her thick red lipstick. ‘I said – it’s going to be – all right. Yor’ll get fru this – I promise yer will.’

Sunday screwed up her face in anguish. Unable to follow what Bess was saying, she pulled her hands away, and buried her face in them.

‘Sun!’

Bess waited a moment. Then she reached into her handbag, and brought out her small bottle of ‘Moon Over Miami’. She unscrewed the top, took hold of one
of
Sunday’s hands, poured some of the perfume on to the back, and gently smoothed it in.

Sunday slowly looked up at Bess. There was a suggestion of tears in the middle-aged woman’s eyes. Bess gave Sunday a saucy wink, and raised the girl’s hand up to her nose.

Sunday immediately smelt the strong aroma of the perfume on the back of her hand. Gradually, her face broke into a radiant smile. Then she looked up at Bess. ‘It’s – lovely.’

Bess bit her lip again. The bottom row of her teeth was now smeared with lipstick. Overcome with emotion, she broke into a broad grin, threw her arms around the girl and hugged her. Although Sunday’s voice sounded odd and strained, at least she was making the effort to speak.

At the end of the third week, Sunday left hospital. As she stepped out with her mum into the warm July sunshine, the world around her seemed to be a totally different place. It was a silent world, where she could see everything but not hear it. All the familiar sounds must have been there – the electric hum of the trolleybuses, people’s shoes hurrying along the pavements, a horse’s hooves clip-clopping ahead of the groceries delivery van, motor-car horns, an ambulance with bell ringing as it left the hospital on another emergency call. But most of all – people. People just talking to each other as they passed by. Sounds that had been such an everyday part of Sunday’s life. Sounds that she had taken for granted; they were always there all right, but they had never seemed important before. Not until now. And even though she could feel a cool breeze blowing through her hair, she couldn’t hear it. It wasn’t the same any more. Not until she could hear again. And she
was
determined to hear all those things again. After all, the specialist had conveyed to her that an operation might possibly restore the hearing in one of her ears. As far as Sunday was concerned, there was no such thing as ‘possible’.
She
would
hear again. There was no doubt in her mind about that.

Under normal circumstances, it was less than ten minutes’ walk back to ‘the Buildings’, but to Sunday it seemed like hours. She felt totally disoriented, as though she found it difficult to keep her balance. The doctors had warned Madge that until Sunday had got used to walking without being able to hear, she might feel a little giddy, so for the entire walk back home, she linked arms with the girl and kept a firm grip on her.

They had hardly reached the Nag’s Head when Sunday became aware that people everywhere were looking upwards, scanning the sky in every direction. She felt herself tense. Had the air-raid siren sounded? How would she know – how would she
ever
know that she should take cover? She had thought about it all the time she had been lying in her hospital bed. The memory of what had happened to her at the Bagwash on that ill-fated morning nearly a month before had heightened her awareness of the fact that flying bombs were now plunging down on to London practically every day of the week. Her nervousness had turned to sheer terror, for she realised that from now on, she would have to rely on other people to warn her of the approaching danger.

‘Come on gels! Get yerselves under cover!’

Sunday could see that the Special Constable was talking to them, but as his face was turned away from her she couldn’t read his lips.

‘Over here, Sunday!’

Again, Sunday didn’t hear what her mum said to her, but she felt her arm pull her into the doorway of a shoe shop.

‘Down, Sunday! Get down, dear!’

Madge pulled Sunday down into a crouching position, and they both shielded their heads with the small suitcase of clothes Sunday had brought with her from the hospital.

As they crouched there, Sunday could see everyone
else
scattering for any cover they could find. It was a bizarre, unreal sight. But it was enough to send a chill through Sunday’s entire body.

Within a few minutes, her attention was drawn to a young boy sheltering with his older brother in the next doorway. He was shouting excitedly, and pointing up at the sky. Soon, other people were doing the same, whilst others crouched for cover, and, for all the good it would do, shielded their heads with their hands.

And then Sunday saw it. The long black shape with its burning, murderous flame billowing out behind, approaching high above Holloway Road from the direction of Highbury Corner. She had never seen a flying bomb in daylight before, and somehow it looked even more menacing than at night, with its sinister shape and clipped wings. Once again she felt herself tense. She could see, but not hear. And yet, that droning, throbbing sound of its engine was tearing into her mind. How soon would it be before those few moments of dreaded silence heralded the inevitable explosion?

She did not have to wait too long. The ‘doodlebug’, as Londoners had now nicknamed the flying bomb, rapidly disappeared over the rooftops of Seven Sisters Road, and within seconds Sunday felt the ground vibrate beneath her.