The Silent War (6 page)

Despite the weather forecast on the wireless that it was going to be a hot and sunny afternoon, thick grey rain-clouds were rolling past high above the Holloway Road, giving the impression that this was not a pleasant Sunday afternoon in May but a chilly, autumnal day in late October. In fact, by the time Madge and her fellow Salvation Army officers had set up their musical instruments and bandstands in the forecourt of the Marlborough Cinema, the first raindrops were already tip-tapping their way down on to the bandparts. Within just a few minutes, the pavements were shimmering with wet reflections of the sulky sky above, and a thin trickle of water gradually snaked its way along the gutters to disappear into the sewers below.

However, the men and women of the Highbury Division Salvation Army Brass Band were made of stern stuff,
and
so, wrapped up in their uniforms and black and red bonnets and caps, they launched straight into their own stirring version of ‘John Brown’s Body’.

The moment she came out of ‘the Buildings’, Sunday could hear the distant sound of tambourines clattering, the beating of the big bass drum, a trumpet blasting, cymbals clashing, and the whine of the harmonium. Huddled beneath her leaking brolly, she quickly made her way along the Holloway Road, where she soon found the Sunday afternoon band service in full swing. Much to her astonishment, there was a sizeable crowd gathered round. Some of them were regular followers, but the rest were just killing time before the doors opened at the Marlborough Cinema for the Sunday afternoon performance of
The Man in Grey
. But despite the driving rain, the atmosphere was joyful and exhilarating, with the worshippers singing out loud, clapping their hands and stamping their feet in time to ‘Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! His soul goes marching on!’

Madge Collins’s face lit up when she saw Sunday standing at the back of the crowd. Madge was, of course, an active member of the band, but the huge euphonium she was playing seemed to be almost as tall as herself, and as she blew through the mouthpiece, her chubby cheeks puffed out in time to the music, the effort of which had turned her face a startling blood-red.

The rain was now a downpour, and the sound of raindrops pelting down on top of Sunday’s brolly made a curious, ethereal accompaniment to the robust chorus of human voices, tambourines, euphonium, cymbals, harmonium, and, of course, the dominant big bass drum. Even a small bunch of snotty-nosed kids were thoroughly enjoying themselves by marching up and down in the rain and mimicking the musicians. However, Sunday was only half-heartedly joining in the chorus, for her attention was focused on scanning the faces of the members of the band and their small choir of Salvationist officers grouped around them in a semicircle. Needless to say, over the
years
she had got to know most of them, for, each week when she was a little girl, her mum had taken her up to the Salvation Army Hall at Highbury to listen to endless band practices and Bible readings. There were so many ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’ that she couldn’t keep up with them. Her particular favourite was ‘Auntie’ Elsie, who worked in Lavalls’ Sweet Shop in Seven Sisters Road, and who regularly brought her jelly babies until the war came along and they were rationed. She also quite liked ‘Auntie’ Vera, except that every time she spoke to Sunday she kept quoting bits of the Bible at her, and telling her that ‘God always looks after little children – but only if they behave themselves.’ ‘Uncle’ Sid was a funny man, for he was always telling Sunday jokes. The only trouble was, he always laughed louder than anyone else at them and never stopped poking her in the ribs as he did so. Yes, there were lots of ‘aunties’ and ‘uncles’, and quite a few of them were here today. But there was one particular ‘uncle’ she was interested in. Unfortunately, she didn’t yet know which one, for Aunt Louie had refused to put a name to the ‘uncle’ who might one day become her new ‘dad’.

Once the soul of ‘John Brown’s Body’ had gone marching on, a tall, gangly man stepped forward to address the crowd. Despite the weather, there was a radiant glow on his face, and although his red and black Salvation Army cap and uniform were soaking wet, they fitted him perfectly.

‘Brothers and sisters – welcome!’

Sunday hadn’t seen the officer before, so she imagined he was the bigwig from Headquarters her mum had been so excited about.

‘God has brought us here together to this place today,’ proclaimed Colonel Faraday. ‘Let us rejoice in His work! Let us rejoice in the Family of Man!’

Sunday wasn’t really in the mood for rejoicing, not even for the Good Lord Himself. As for the Family of Man, she let that pass. Man? Why not Family of
Woman
, or Family of ‘Aunties’ and ‘Uncles’? No, she was more interested in all those Salvation Army faces spread out before her. And especially the ‘uncles’. If she was to believe the venom her aunt Louie had tried to pour into her over breakfast that morning, that her mum was getting ‘more than friendly with a gentleman friend up at the Hall’, then she had to know which one.

Madge caught a brief glimpse of Sunday beneath her brolly, and gave her a broad smile. But when Colonel Faraday asked everyone to pray, she had to close her eyes like everyone else.

Sunday, however, did not close her eyes. Not because she didn’t approve, but because she just had to study those faces. She knew very well how much her mum had missed her dad over the years, but was she really capable of having a ‘friendship’ with another man? Sunday stared hard along the rows of glistening, rain-soaked faces. Which one? Which one?

‘Close yer eyes, yer naughty gel.’

Sunday didn’t have to turn around to know who was standing just behind her. It was Bess Butler.

‘You’ll never go ter ’Eaven if yer don’t listen ter wot the man says.’ Bess kept her voice low as she spoke into Sunday’s ear from behind.

Sunday couldn’t resist stepping backwards out of the crowd to join Bess. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you, Bess,’ she said, holding her brolly over both of them. ‘I’ve had just about enough of all this for one day.’

Bess grinned. ‘Feel like a cuppa?’

Sunday didn’t have to be asked twice.

When Madge Collins opened her eyes again, her heart sank as she discovered that Sunday had left the crowd. And her cherubic face soon crumpled up in disdain when she saw in the distance her daughter making her way back along the Holloway Road with their neighbour, Bess Butler.

It never failed to surprise Sunday how different Bess’s
flat
in ‘the Buildings’ was to the one she lived in with her mum and Aunt Louie. Not that number 7 was any cleaner or tidier than number 84 – quite the reverse in fact – but that Bess and her husband, Alf, had managed to create a home rather than just somewhere to exist. Number 7 was a corner flat on the third floor, overlooking Holloway Road on one side and Camden Road on the other. Despite the fact that Alf was a keen do-it-yourself fanatic, none of the rooms had seen a new coat of paint since before the war, but only because home decoration materials of any kind had been hard to come by. However, Bess had managed to give the place a stylish look, for in the parlour she had frilled and looped the lace curtains, hung framed copies of old paintings which she had bought from second-hand junk shops, and placed the parlour table by the Camden Road window so that she and Alf could watch passers-by down below. All the furniture was utility-made, which meant that it was very plain, simple, but functional.

‘Never expected to see you spending your Sunday afternoon listening to a Salvation Army Band,’ said Sunday, who sat in the most comfortable of the utility armchairs. ‘Weren’t you bored out of your mind?’

Bess, who had kicked off her shoes and had her legs curled up on the sparse utility sofa, replied, ‘Let me tell yer somefin’, Sun. I don’t believe in knockin’ the old Glory Brigade. At least they’re good an’ ’onest – they care about people. Which is more than yer can say about some of the shit in these “Buildin’s”.’ She picked up an already open packet of American cigarettes from the floor beside her, and offered one to Sunday. ‘Fag? Oh no, I fergot – yer don’t, do yer?’

To Bess’s surprise, Sunday stretched across and helped herself to a cigarette.

Bess shook the pack until she was able to take out one of the cigarettes with her lips. ‘I remember ’ow they looked after everyone durin’ the Blitz. Bloody saints they was, servin’ up tea to firemen and injured people wiv bombs droppin’ all ’round ’em, sayin’ prayers over dead
people
, singing hymns to cheer people up. No, mate. Bess Butler don’t knock people like that.’

The more Sunday knew Bess, the more she liked her. Most important of all, she respected her. Although Bess was over twenty years older than herself, she felt a great affinity with her. When she was in her company she felt relaxed, and able to talk about the things that worried her. Bess also had the knack of making her feel that she wasn’t just a seventeen-year-old kid, but a young woman with a mind and feelings of her own.

‘Your mum’s like that, yer know. A good person – right down to ’er bones.’

Bess leaned across to light Sunday’s fag, but smiled a bit when the smoke made the girl cough. ‘’Ow’s the old gel gettin’ on?’ she asked.

Sunday shrugged her shoulders, and quickly tried to inhale another mouthful of smoke.

‘Wos up?’

Sunday, unsuccessful in her attempts to inhale the smoke into her lungs, looked across at Bess. ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

‘Come on, Sun. I weren’t born yesterday, yer know.’

From the floor at her side, Sunday picked up the cup of tea that Bess had made. There was no saucer. Bess didn’t believe in such etiquette.

‘Bess,’ said Sunday, leaning back in her chair, her eyes staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. ‘D’you think my mum’s too old to have a boyfriend?’

Now it was Bess’s turn to cough out some fag smoke. ‘Say that again.’

Sunday swung back to look at her friend. ‘I’m not joking, Bess.’

Bess took her legs off the sofa, and turned to face Sunday. ‘Is yer mum too old ter ’ave a boyfriend?’ she repeated in a high-pitched voice. ‘Who told yer
that
, may I ask?’

‘Aunt Louie.’

Bess suddenly let rip with a fag-filled chesty laugh that
was
loud enough to wake up a dead man, let alone all the neighbours. ‘Good old Louie!’ she bellowed. ‘Never fails ter come up wiv somefin’ new!’

For a moment, Sunday just watched her friend as she rocked to and fro with laughter. She liked Bess too much to care whether she was taking the piss out of her. Besides, she admired this woman
so
much. For her age, she was such a good-looking woman, and even though she wore too much make-up, she had a wonderful milk-white complexion, blue eyes, and a full bust that needed very little help from a bra. Sunday knew, of course, that Bess’s hair was dyed dark brown, but as she had never seen the original colour, she had no idea what it actually was.

Bess gradually stopped laughing, and fixed her young friend with an affectionate smile. ‘’Ow old are yer now, Sun?’

Sunday hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Seventeen.’

‘Seventeen! God – are yer really? It don’t seem possible.’

Bess picked up her own cup of tea from the floor, got up from the sofa, and walked across the room to the window. As soon as she got there, she swung around to look at Sunday. ‘Don’t be a nark, Sun,’ she said, firmly. ‘If yer mum
’as
got a boyfriend, then good luck to ’er. Every woman should ’ave a boyfriend, no matter ’
ow
old she is, no matter if she’s married or not. Why should fellers ’ave all the fun? Women ’ave a lot ter offer, Sun. Don’t you ever ferget that.’

For one brief moment, Sunday felt embarrassed, and she had to lower her eyes. What Bess had said was obviously what Bess herself had always felt. The fact was, Bess was a woman with – a reputation. She loved her husband – yes, that was without doubt. But everyone in ‘the Buildings’ knew about her other life, the life she led down ‘the Dilly’, Piccadilly Circus in the West End, where she had been seen night after night ‘on the game’ outside the Stage Door Canteen, where she was available
for
any well-paid American serviceman who wanted a good night out. Bess had never confided in Sunday as to why she had to do such a thing, and Sunday had never asked. But the only person who didn’t seem to know what was going on was Bess’s old man, Alf, who was now prematurely retired on account of ill health, and who had always been under the impression that the bread his missus was earning came from all-night work as a receptionist at a posh West End hotel.

Bess was soon aware of Sunday’s discomfort. She crossed to the parlour table, stubbed out her half-finished fag, took out another one from the packet, and quickly lit it. ‘Tell me somefin’, Sun,’ she said, briskly, fag in lips, one elbow resting on her hand. ‘Are yer still a virgin?’

Sunday looked up with a start. If it had been anyone else asking her that sort of question – anyone, even her own mum – she would have exploded. But because it was Bess, she had no hesitation at all in answering. ‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m not.’

Bess paused a moment before continuing. ‘Does that worry yer?’

Sunday looked surprised. ‘No. Why should it?’

‘No reason. Oh, don’t worry, I ’ad my first session when I was a good bit younger than you. It’s all right if yer enjoy it, if yor careful.’ Without realising what she was doing, she went back to the ash-tray and stubbed out her newly lit fag. ‘The only fing is, it’s not worf takin’ chances, Sun. If yer take chances, well—’ For her own reasons, Bess made a point of avoiding Sunday’s look. ‘I don’t ’ave ter tell yer, do I?’

After an odd, brief silence between them, Bess went across to Sunday, and crouched down on the floor beside her. ‘This lot ’round ’ere reckon yor a bit of a wild’un. Wot d’yer reckon, Sun?’

Sunday grinned. ‘If that’s what they think, let them think it.’

Now Bess grinned too. ‘Good fer you, gel,’ she said, taking hold of Sunday’s hands, and clasping them into her
own
. ‘But look, wot I’ve said to yer before still goes. If yer ever want ter talk ter me about anyfin’ – anyfin’ at all – yer will do so, won’t yer?’