The Silent War (9 page)

Sunday quickly stepped out of the way, but could only hear the desperate fight that was going on at her feet. There were shouts of ‘
Bastard!
’ and ‘
Yer sod!
’ and the thudding sounds of fists as they struck home at face and body. Although she couldn’t see the two men tearing at each other, the sounds of pain coming from Harry were enough to convince Sunday that the young RAF boy was getting the worst of it.

‘Stop it, Ernie!’ Sunday yelled, over and over again. ‘Get out of here! It’s nothing to do with you!’

The fact that Ernie wouldn’t respond meant that he was determined to go on with his brutal attack.

‘Ernie . . .!’

Sunday’s desperate shout echoed across the park, sending the inhabitants of Duck Island into a frenzied chorus of panic. Simultaneously, Harry let out an agonised gasp before falling silent. Ernie had clearly laid him out for the count.

‘Harry!’ yelled Sunday, totally disoriented in the pitch-dark.

Sunday’s yells provoked another sound, this time coming from a distant part of the park. It was a long blast on a police whistle.

Sunday fell to her knees, desperately trying to feel around for Harry on the ground. With her outstretched hands, she finally located him. ‘Harry!’ she cried, trying to lift his head. ‘Harry! Talk to me!’ As her fingers followed the outline of his face, she felt the blood trickling down his chin from his nose and from his mouth. ‘Oh Christ, Ernie!’ she said, trying hard to see him in the dark. ‘What have you done to him, you sod!’

Ernie’s voice came from an unexpected direction. ‘I told yer, Sun.’ He was standing directly behind her. ‘Din’t I tell yer? You’re mine, Sun. Yer’ll always be mine. No poncy little bastard like this is goin’ ter take you away from me.’

‘You’re mad, Ernie!’ she called back. ‘You’re stark, raving mad!’ Whilst she was yelling at him, she was cradling Harry’s battered head in her lap. ‘I wouldn’t touch a mad sod like you with fifty thousand barge-poles!’

At that moment, the police whistle echoed out again. The sound was getting closer.

‘Over here!’ Sunday bellowed. ‘Over here!’

She had to raise her voice as loud as she could, because the ducks were flapping in and out of the water in panic on their island, making it difficult for Sunday to hear which way Ernie was running off to get away from the rapidly approaching police whistle.

‘Ernie! Come back – you bloody coward! Come back . . .!’

Her shouts, however, were smothered by yet another sound. It was some way off, but its impact sent a chill down Sunday’s spine. It sounded like an aircraft, with an engine that seemed to chug rather than hum. And as she looked up at the dark night sky, in the far distance beyond the park, she could see a bright flame burning. Then the chugging sound stopped, and the flame extinguished. The silence that followed was climaxed by the most devastating explosion, which terrified Sunday
so
much that she threw herself right across Harry’s lifeless body.

The extraordinary sounds Sunday had just heard were a chilling reminder that the war was not yet over.

In fact, it was about to begin all over again.

Overnight, elation turned to anxiety and fear. Whatever it was that had dropped out of the sky during the night of Tuesday, 13 June, everyone was now convinced that the first of Hitler’s retaliatory secret weapons had arrived. Despite the fact that the explosion had occurred somewhere on the outskirts of London, most people in ‘the Buildings’ had heard it, and some, like Sunday, swore that they had actually seen that mysterious flame lighting up the dark night sky somewhere over the East End of London. Although the newspapers were very cagey about giving any details of the secret weapon, Doll Mooney was taking no chances, and from the first moment she heard that explosion she made all her four kids wear their gas masks in bed at night. The only hope now for a quick end to the war was the Allied invasion in France, now at the end of its second week, and gaining momentum.

Sunday, however, had other problems. The incident in Finsbury Park two nights previously had not only got her into trouble with the police, but it had also left Harry Smike with a fractured jaw and two broken front teeth. Worse still, Ernie Mancroft appeared to be getting off scot-free, having denied any part in the savage and unprovoked attack on the young airman. Sunday had always disliked Ernie but now she hated him. Sometimes she felt as though he was obsessed with her; all this talk about her belonging to him frightened her. She might have taunted him a little but she had never given him any reason to think about her like that. In fact, even though she had to work with him at the Bagwash each day, she
had
done everything in her power to ignore him. The way he had set upon poor Harry Smike had terrified her. Ernie came from a family of ‘bruisers’, a pig of a father and five sons who all went around as though they owned the place. If anyone ever dared say one word out of place they would give them a hiding they’d never forget. Ernie took after his dad and brothers all right. He was tough, strong, and very muscular, and he used that strength with horrifying brutality. Sunday’s only hope was that once he was called up, the Army would knock the living daylights out of him.

‘Yer know somefin’, Sun,’ said Pearl, sweat pouring down her face as she and Sunday worked the Bagwash tubs, ‘we din’t oughta be workin’ durin’ an air-raid. That siren went nearly two hours ago. It’s dangerous up ’ere. We all oughta be down in the cellars.’

‘Some hopes,’ replied Sunday, who was at the scrubbing board trying hard to remove dirt from a shirt collar. ‘If we lost five minutes’ work that bloody woman’d stop it from our wages!’

‘You’re absolutely right, Collins.’

Both Sunday and Pearl turned with a start to find Ma Briggs, hands on hips, fag in mouth, standing just behind them.

‘An’ I’ll tell yer anuvver fing, Miss Clever Arse,’ she said, taking the fag from her lips and pointing it straight at Sunday, ‘one more word out of you, and you’re out!’

Sunday suddenly lost her cool. ‘You’ve got no right to keep us up here during an air-raid,’ she snapped. ‘Those flying bombs come over without warning. We could all get killed.’

‘There ’asn’t bin an air-raid for munfs,’ bawled Ma Briggs, furious that the girl had answered her back. ‘If you fink I’m goin’ ter stop work every time the bleedin’ siren goes, yer’ve got anuvver fink comin’!’

‘
You
don’t stop work, Mrs Briggs – because
you
never start it!’ At this point, Sunday had abandoned any idea
of
caution. ‘We’re the ones who do the work round here, not you!’

Pearl gasped, and dropped the washing soap she was using into the tub. Around her ‘Baggies’ everywhere stopped what they were doing, and were staring at Sunday and Ma Briggs in astonishment.

Ma Briggs was seething. She tossed her newly lit fag to the stone floor and twisted her shoe on to it furiously as though it was Sunday’s face. ‘You!’ she snarled, calmly, as though trying to show the others who was boss. ‘In my office – now!’ She turned, and moved off.

Sunday did not follow her. ‘You have no right to endanger our lives!’ she called out, defiantly. ‘You’re a wicked old sow!’

There was a gasp from the ‘Baggies’, and a smirk from Ernie Mancroft, who was enjoying the exchange from the backyard door.

Ma Briggs stopped in her tracks, and turned. ‘What did you say?’ she demanded, face white with anger.

‘She din’t mean nuffin’, Mrs Briggs,’ Pearl said anxiously, going to Sunday and squeezing her arm. ‘It’s just that – well, we’re all scared about these new flyin’ bomb fings. They’re not like wot we’ve ’ad before. We’re scared, that’s all. Sun din’t mean nuffin’ – honest she din’t.’ She turned to Sunday with pleading eyes. ‘Did yer, Sun?’

‘Oh yes, I did!’ replied Sunday, quite fearlessly. ‘I’m sick to death of this woman putting our lives at risk.’ She tossed her bar of washing soap into the tub, sending up a splash of water straight into Ma Briggs’s face. ‘And I’m sick to death of being exploited!’ she snapped, coming down from the tub step to confront the boss-lady. ‘Sick to death of working in this place for a pittance! You don’t want employees,’ she said, glaring, voice restrained but angry, ‘you want bloody slaves!’

Ma Briggs paused a moment, then walked off to the backyard door, pushed Ernie Mancroft out of the way, and opened it. Then turning back to Sunday, she yelled, ‘Out!’

‘No, Sunday!’ pleaded a distraught Pearl. ‘Please!’

Sunday shrugged her arm away from Pearl, took off her white working apron, and threw it into the hot tub of boiling water she had been working at. Then she marched off to the door where Ma Briggs was waiting for her. ‘I wouldn’t stay in this pigsty if you gave me a hundred pounds a week!’ she snarled. ‘Not for the likes of you I wouldn’t.’ And with that she took off her work-turban, and thrust it straight at the boss-lady. To her disgust, Ernie Mancroft was waiting by the door to hand her her own hat. Sunday snatched it from him, turned, and started to leave.

Ma Briggs immediately stepped in front of the door, and for a brief moment refused to let her pass. ‘I’ll say just one thing ter you, miss,’ she growled, teeth clenched. ‘You fink you’re really somefin’, don’t yer? Well let me tell yer somefin’ – you ain’t. Your sort are a dime a dozen. ’Ere terday – gone termorrer!’ She turned briefly from Sunday to address all the other ‘Baggies’. ‘An’ that goes fer the rest of yer!’

The Bagwash was now at a standstill, for every girl had stopped work to listen to Ma Briggs. It was a strange sight, with small groups of anxious sweat-streaked faces peering through the hot steam that was curling up remorselessly from the three huge stone washing tubs. Even the ‘Baggies’ cat, Moggie, was cowering behind one of the large mangles, with condensation trickling down on to his coal-black fur from the bleak white plaster walls.

‘Yer know the trouble wiv you lot, don’t yer?’ yelled Ma Briggs, clearly out to instil the fear of God into her ‘gels’. ‘Yer’ve got it wiv jam on! OK! So I don’t pay yer as much as I’d like. But at least yer get a week’s pay and food in yer stomachs, which is more than yer can say fer some of them poor sods who’ve bin bombed out and lost everyfin’ they ever ’ad!’ Hands defiantly on hips, she raised her voice above the sound of boiling water bubbling away in the three washing tubs. ‘But in case yer ’aven’t ’eard – there’s a war goin’ on! An’ it’s
up
ter the likes of you an’ me ter keep the ’ome front goin’ ’til the blokes get back. An’ make no mistake about it, they
are
comin’ back! This bloody war’s nearly over – over, d’yer ’ear! At this very moment our boys are bashin’ the daylights out of ’Itler in France. In a couple er weeks they’ll be in Berlin – an’ it’ll all be over!’ She deliberately caught Pearl in her eyeline. ‘So stop gettin’ worked up about flyin’ bombs – or whatever they call ’em. We’ve ’ad everythin’ but the kitchen sink thrown at us before – an’ we survived!’

Now Ma Briggs returned her attention to Sunday. ‘An’ as fer
exploitin
’ my gels,’ she said disdainfully, wagging a heavily nail-varnished finger straight at Sunday’s face. ‘Just let me tell yer somefin’,
Miss
Collins.’

Sunday made a move to push past Briggs, but again found her exit barred.

‘In this world, no one gets anyfin’ fer nuffin’! All me life I’ve ’ad ter work me arse off doin’ the fings I ’ate most. I pay wot I can afford. There’s no crime in that!’

Sunday wasn’t really listening to her. Stony-faced, she gazed at the chunky rolled-gold bracelet that forever dangled on the boss-lady’s wrist.

Over by the largest of the three washing tubs, Pearl also wasn’t listening. Subconsciously, she was looking up towards the ceiling.

‘You’re a troublemaker. Yer know that, don’t yer, Collins.’

Sunday raised her eyes to look at Briggs. For one split second she felt sorry for this woman who had made her life such a misery. For one brief moment she felt pity. Briggs wasn’t all bad. Her only problem was that she just wasn’t young any more.

‘From now on, there’s only one way fer you ter go, mate. And that’s down.’ She stood back to allow Sunday to pass. ‘Now piss off!’

‘Shut up!’

Briggs stopped dead in her tracks. But it wasn’t Sunday who had yelled at her. It was Pearl.

‘Wot did you say?’ growled Briggs, striding across to Pearl.

‘Shut up, will yer!’

The other ‘Baggies’ stared on in shocked disbelief.

‘Right!’ rasped Briggs. As she spoke, she grabbed hold of Pearl’s wrist, dragged her away from the washing tub, and virtually threw her across the workshop. ‘Go on! Get back to yer mate! Out!’

Sunday immediately rushed to Pearl’s aid. But Pearl, sprawled out on the stone floor, didn’t attempt to get up. ‘Listen!’ she gasped, a look of terror on her face. Her eyes were transfixed on the ceiling. ‘Can’t yer ’ear it?’

All eyes immediately lifted upwards. For a moment, the only sounds that could be heard came from the bubbling hot water in the three washtubs. But gradually, cutting through this, was a very different sound.

The droning of a plane engine. A very different type of engine, throbbing, pulsating, menacing. And then came the barrage of ack-ack gunfire. Some of the ‘Baggies’ started to scream.

‘Shut up all of yer!’ yelled Briggs above the mayhem. ‘Stay where yer are! Keep calm!’

Terrified out of their lives, the girls did as they were told.

Although the ack-ack fire became more frenzied, the determined droning sound rose above it. Whatever the approaching menace in the sky was, it seemed to be getting closer and closer.

Suddenly, the droning sound overhead cut out, followed by the ack-ack fire.

All was silent, save the bubbling of the boiling water in the washtubs.

A sea of frightened, anxious faces turned towards the ceiling. Someone was crying. Another was breathing hard. Another had her hands clasped together in silent prayer. Pearl, eyes closed, bit her lip. Sunday’s entire body was tense and as hard as nails. ‘Please God, don’t let it fall here.’ Her plea was silent, but desperate.

The next sound was like an approaching gush or air.