The Silent War (12 page)

Aunt Louie was very unpredictable. Although Madge knew what an emotional person she was, Louie had always been careful to conceal her true feelings. But on the day Louie heard about the explosion at Briggs Bagwash, she was quite inconsolable. For two days and nights she practically lived in her bedroom, spending most of the time sobbing her heart out and trying to study form in the
Sporting Times
. Charitable as she was, Madge secretly put her sister’s grief down to guilt. During all the years when Sunday was growing up, Louie had never said one kind or encouraging thing to her, which clearly turned the child against her at an early age. But, even though she
had
never attempted to visit Sunday in hospital, she had made up her mind that as soon as her young niece came home, she was going to make amends.

‘Hallo, Auntie,’ bellowed Sunday, in her strange new way of speaking.

Louie turned one cheek towards Sunday, and allowed her niece to kiss it. ‘You’re feeling better then, are you?’

‘Oh, I’m much better, thanks.’ Ever since Bess had helped her to start reading people’s lips, Sunday had made rapid progress. ‘Once I’ve had the operation I’ll be as good as new.’

‘Then there’s no need for you to shout like that, is there?’

Madge swung a glare at her sister. ‘Louie!’

‘Don’t be silly!’ snapped Louie. ‘She’s got to learn to speak properly. It’s no good shouting.’

Despite understanding precisely what Aunt Louie had said, Sunday did not take offence. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘You see, I can’t really hear myself. You’ll have to tell me when I’m shouting.’

Sunday’s reasonableness irritated Louie. She grunted and sat down at the parlour table.

‘I’m going to make us a nice cup of tea,’ Madge said, quickly. It was always her way of changing the conversation. Then, making quite sure Sunday could read her lips, she added proudly, ‘I’ve made you a bread pudding. Jack Popwell got me some dried fruit on the black market.’

Sunday’s face lit up as her mum disappeared into the kitchen.

‘She’s going round the bend, you know.’

As Sunday wasn’t facing her aunt as she spoke, she hadn’t heard what she had said.

Louie waited for Sunday to sit down opposite her at the table before speaking again. ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Now she was the one who was raising her voice. ‘I said, I think your mother’s going round the bend.’

Sunday looked puzzled.

‘You don’t know the half of what’s been going on around here.’

‘What d’you mean, Auntie?’

‘Her gentleman friend, that’s what I mean!’ She took out her tin of tobacco and started to roll a cigarette. ‘He’s been coming round here. She thinks I don’t know. But I
do
.’

Although Sunday couldn’t understand every single word her aunt was saying, she did just manage to make out the words,
gentleman friend
. ‘D’you mean Mr Billings?’ she asked.

‘I’ve no idea what his name is,’ replied Louie sourly. ‘All I know is that every time I go to the pictures on a Wednesday afternoon, she’s had him round here. You can always tell when a man’s been inside the place. You can smell ’em.’

Before she arrived home, Sunday had also had good intentions about being nicer to her Aunt Louie. But she really didn’t like the way that this woman was talking about her mum. ‘Honestly, Auntie,’ she said, trying to make sure that the level of her voice was not raised too much, ‘I don’t think it’s any of our business who mum sees – do you?’

Louie stopped licking the gummed edge of her cigarette paper for a moment, and leaning across the table, replied, ‘I don’t care
who
she sees,’ she snapped. ‘It’s what they get up to that worries me.’

For a brief moment, Sunday said nothing. Then suddenly, she roared with laughter. The sound she was making was very odd, and not a bit like the way she used to laugh before her loss of hearing. But she found it hilarious that her aunt was suggesting that Madge was having some kind of passionate affair with someone from the Salvation Army. And the more she thought about it, the more absurd it seemed.

‘Oh you can laugh,’ growled Louie indignantly, making quite sure Sunday could read her lips. ‘But just wait
’til
he asks her to marry him. Then you’ll laugh on the other side of your face!’

To Sunday’s astonishment, her aunt got up from the table, turned, and stormed off in a huff to her bedroom.

Despite all Aunt Louie’s good intentions, nothing had changed.

Ernie Mancroft looked at himself in the broken piece of mirror that was propped up on a ledge above the stone sink in the scullery. He liked what he saw, good strong features, a pug nose, and piercing dark eyes that almost perfectly matched his hair and pencil-thin moustache. The cut above his left eye was still a bit raw, and as he dabbed it with one of his fingers he still marvelled at the way he had managed to survive the blast from that ‘doodlebug’ explosion down the Bagwash. But then Ernie was one of life’s survivors. When he was only six years old he was beaten up by some of the kids down his street, but when he got home his old man had warned him that if he ever allowed such a thing to happen again, he’d kick him out of the house. Ernie never did allow it to happen again. Since his mum had died of consumption when he was a small kid, Ernie was brought up by his punch-happy old man and his four elder brothers, and it was they who had taught him how to use his fists. In fact, he became a ‘bruiser’ in every sense of the word, always trying to prove himself by bashing up anyone who dared to cross his path, who ever dared to come between him and his girl. And Sunday
was
his girl. That’s why he’d shielded her from the falling debris with his own body. That’s why he’d saved her life.

Now once he’d togged himself up in a white shirt and tie and the only suit he’d ever possessed, he left the filth and grime of his old man’s house in ‘The Bunk’ up Campbell Road, and strutted briskly along Tollington Road.

On his way to ‘the Buildings’, Ernie Mancroft reckoned that it was about time Sunday Collins knew that she owed him one.

During the few days since she left hospital, Sunday had made very little effort to adjust to her new silent world. She spent most of her time sitting at the window of her tiny bedroom, staring down into the backyard below, watching the neighbours entering or leaving their flats, kids laughing and chasing each other and kicking their football against a back wall. And as she watched, in her mind she tried to
hear
the sounds that were being made, and what those sounds used to be like before her eardrums had been blown in by the flying bomb explosion. It was extraordinary how lonely she felt, even when people were trying to communicate with her.

Her worst problem was not being able to hear the air-raid siren, so Madge had to make arrangements that whenever she and Aunt Louie were out at the same time, either Jack Popwell or Doll Mooney would let themselves in with their spare keys, and take Sunday off to the downstairs shelter. Sunday absolutely hated having to rely on other people to protect her, and several times she refused to leave the flat despite the danger. And although she was gradually getting to grips with lip-reading, the effort of doing that thoroughly depressed her. Worst of all, of course, was the fact that she was unable to listen to the wireless. Her mind was endlessly tuning in to all her favourite programmes, especially those featuring music by the big bands. Every so often her foot would tap out a rhythm, and for a few exhilarating moments she could imagine that she was gliding around the dance floor back at the dear old Athenaeum. The summer was passing by, but the hot sun outside was wasted on her. The only thing that could sustain her now was the hope that once she’d had her operation, her hearing would at least be partially restored.

‘You’ve got a visitor.’

Although Sunday couldn’t hear Louie talking to her, she could feel the tips of her aunt’s bony fingers tapping on her shoulders from behind.

‘A visitor.’

This time, Sunday was able to read Louie’s lips. And her heart sank. She hated people calling on her, with that sickly look on their faces which always meant that they felt sorry for her. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

Louie, now getting used to the laboured sound Sunday was making as she spoke, shrugged her shoulders, and left the bedroom.

Sunday left the window, and slowly made her way to the parlour.

‘Wotcha, Sun. Good ter see yer, mate.’

Sunday froze as Ernie Mancroft beamed across at her. Her first instinct was to turn around, go back into her bedroom and lock the door. But she stood her ground. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked nervously.

For a brief moment, Ernie was taken aback by her distorted speech. Then he relaxed, and took a confident step towards her. ‘I’ve missed yer, Sun,’ he said, his face breaking into a fixed grin. ‘I couldn’t come and see yer in ’ospital. Didn’t feel too good after that bang. You know ’ow it is.’

‘If you speak too fast, she won’t understand you,’ scowled Louie, moving off towards her own bedroom door. ‘She can only read your lips.’ She opened the bedroom door, and turned. ‘So it’s no good if she can’t see your face.’ With that, she disappeared into her room and closed the door behind her.

Left alone with Ernie, Sunday felt a moment of panic.

Obeying Louie’s instructions, he stood directly in Sunday’s eyeline, and moved his lips slowly as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry fer wot’s ’appened to yer, Sun.’ He rubbed his chin with his hand, as if feeling the stubble. ‘Yer’ve ’ad a rough time.’

As Ernie took another step towards her, Sunday moved out of his path and made her way towards the kitchen
door
. When she got there, she turned and looked back at him. ‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ she said, her voice sounding as though she was swallowing her words. ‘You had no right.’

Ernie’s face hardened. ‘In case yer ’adn’t noticed, I saved yer life.’

Sunday briefly turned her head on one side, something she had taken to doing when she couldn’t quite lip-read every word that was being said.

Ernie moved back slowly towards her, but stopped at the parlour table. ‘Your mate, Pearl,’ he said, leaning both hands on the back of a hardback chair. ‘She got killed.’

As Pearl’s name formed on Ernie’s lips, Sunday closed her eyes in anguish. When she opened them again, Ernie was still staring at her.

‘She weren’t the only one eiver,’ continued Ernie, who seemed quite unperturbed that his remark had upset Sunday. ‘A coupla your mates went up the chimney too. An’ wot about the old gel, eh? Old Briggs? Took a packet all right! They din’t dig ’er out ’til late at night.’

Sunday could only just follow what Ernie was saying because he was gabbling again, so she pushed the kitchen door open with her back.

‘It coulda bin you, yer know, Sun. Yer know that, don’t yer?’ Ernie seemed to think that by raising his voice, Sunday could hear him. ‘If it ’adn’t bin fer me, you’d be lyin’ six foot under.’

Sunday glared back at him. Even though she couldn’t follow all he was saying, his hostile facial expressions were telling her all she needed to know. ‘Why me?’ she asked timidly.

Ernie stared at her. ‘Why you?’ he replied. Then he walked around the table and slowly approached her. ‘Why you?’ he asked again, making quite sure she could clearly see his lips moving. ‘Because I love yer, Sun. I’ve always loved yer. Ever since the first day I set eyes on yer.’ He paused a moment, and from a few yards’ distance, stared directly into her eyes. ‘D’yer understand wot I’m sayin’?’

To ensure a quick getaway, Sunday had her back pinned against the open kitchen door.

‘Why can’t yer love me too, Sun?’ he asked, almost like a child. ‘If my old man, if my bruvvers ’eard me talkin’ ter yer like this now, they’d smash me face in. But they don’t know. They don’t know that I’ve never felt like this about anyone – but you.’

Sunday was concentrating really hard to try to understand what he was saying. And, as on previous occasions when she was with him, her nervousness was tinged with a certain perverse attraction for his brutishness.

‘I saved yer life, Sun – because I don’t want yer ter die. I want yer ter live. I want yer ter live, and learn not ter turn away from me every time yer set eyes on me.’

Although Sunday tensed as Ernie moved another step closer to her, something inside prevented her from retreating into the kitchen.

Now within an arm’s reach of her, Ernie was extra-careful to ensure that she could read his lips. ‘It makes no difference ter me, Sun. It makes no difference that yer can’t ’ear wot I’m sayin’. I’ll take care of yer, Sun. I promise I’ll always take care of yer.’

‘Go away, Ernie.’

Sunday’s sudden response was harsh, and it clearly struck home deeply, for Sunday noticed he had clenched his fists at his side.

‘You owe me one, Sun,’ he growled. ‘You’re never goin’ ter get away from me – never!’

Sunday was scared. She had seen that cold look in Ernie’s eyes before. And when he made a quick start towards her, she immediately backed out of sight into the kitchen, and slammed the door straight into his face.

Ernie made no attempt to follow her. For a moment, he just stood right where Sunday had left him. Then, his knuckles white with tension, he thumped both his clenched fists just once on the door, turned, and left the flat.

The hospital waiting-room at the Ear, Nose and Throat Clinic was a dreary place. Grubby white walls that hadn’t seen a paint-brush for years, hard wooden benches, a pervading smell of ether and iodine, and coloured posters that were pinned to a large notice-board which gave details of evacuation procedures in the event of an air-raid.

Sunday still had another ten minutes to wait before her appointment with Mr Callow, the ear specialist, so she and Madge passed the time sizing up all the other patients, wondering who they were, where they came from, and what was wrong with them. Madge was particularly interested in the small children who were having a wonderful time playing tag with each other, quite oblivious to the cotton wool swabs stuffed in their ears or up their nostrils. Madge smiled a lot at them, especially at one little girl in a wheelchair who had a heavily bruised eye, together with ear swabs, stitches all along the bridge of her nose, and one arm and one leg both encased in plaster. The current ‘doodlebug’ campaign was clearly taking its toll. Rather pointedly, however, Sunday carefully avoided casting her gaze towards a family of deaf and dumb people, who were using sign language to communicate with each other.