The Silent War (2 page)

In the road outside, Sunday and Pearl breathed in the fresh May air, and sighed with relief. Sunday ran her fingers through her shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair, then ruffled it up to restore some life to it. From in front and behind them, there were the usual calls from the other ‘Baggies’ of ‘See yer Monday, Sunday!’ The same old gag. And, to gales of laughter, ‘Save us a bit er trousers at the dance ternight!’ As usual, Sunday ignored them all. Apart from Pearl, she considered herself a cut above the other ‘Baggies’. To her they were really just a bunch of knuckle-heads, who’d never really taken to her because she didn’t speak their lingo.

Holloway Road had an end-of-the-week feel about it. There were plenty of people around, most of them hurrying home after shopping in the busy Seven Sisters Road, others already joining the queues outside the Gaumont Cinema and the local fish and chips shops, and others just strolling idly in the last hours of the day’s warm sunshine.
In
fact, it had been the first really warm day of the year, and Sunday loved to see people walking around without a topcoat for the first time since the end of summer the previous year. It was a sure sign that in half an hour or so the pubs would be open, for there were plenty of blokes already hanging around in small groups chatting to each other about the end of the football season, or which pub Darts Team was playing that evening. But it was the smell that Sunday loved most of all. The sweet, fresh smell of spring, a smell that quickly made her forget that the Bagwash even existed, a smell that helped to erase the memory of those savage early years of the war, when so many of the surrounding streets had been bombed during the Blitz. As she and Pearl strode off at a brisk pace along the Holloway Road towards the Nag’s Head, Sunday felt good to be alive – no bombs, no bagwash to mangle, no Ma Briggs, and Saturday night out at the Athenaeum Dance Hall to look forward to.

‘I’ve promised ter see Lennie Jackson at the dance ternight,’ said Pearl, as she and Sunday waited for a tram to pass before they crossed the road outside the Royal Northern Hospital. ‘’E says ’e’s goin’ ter teach me how ter dance the samba.’

‘The samba? You!’

Pearl was immediately stung by Sunday’s implied remark. Looking hurt and depressed, she said, ‘See yer then,’ and moved off towards her bus stop outside the Foresters’ Hall.

‘No, Pearl – wait!’ Sunday immediately hurried to catch up with her pal. She could have bitten off her tongue for being so insensitive. ‘I didn’t mean – I didn’t mean what you thought I meant.’

‘I can’t ’elp the way I look, Sun,’ said Pearl, eyes looking aimlessly towards the boarded-up Holloway Empire, where dozens of pigeons were fluttering on and off the rooftop in a spectacular display of home ownership. ‘I’m not fat ’cos I eat too much.’

Sunday was cringing inside. ‘Of course you don’t eat
too
much, Pearl. How could you on the bits of food we get on the ration. You’re not fat, honest you’re not. That’s not what I was saying.’

The two girls came to a halt at the bus stop.

‘I’m in love wiv ’im, Sun,’ Pearl said, quite suddenly. ‘Me an’ Lennie. ’E feels the same way.’

Sunday couldn’t believe what Pearl had just told her. As she looked at her best mate, she thought that despite her chubby appearance, she was really quite beautiful, with her black hair cut into a fringe across her forehead, and long eyelashes that accentuated her sparkling green eyes. ‘You mean, you’re going steady?’ were the only words Sunday managed to get out.

Pearl lowered her eyes and blushed before she answered. ‘Sort of.’

‘But Lennie Jackson’s in the Army.’

‘Not for much longer,’ said Pearl, quickly. ‘Everyone says the war’ll be over next year. My dad says that once the invasion starts, it’s only a matter of time before Jerry ’as ter give in.’

For a moment there was silence between them, and both girls turned to look along the Holloway Road waiting for a sight of Pearl’s trolleybus. Quite suddenly, a cool breeze came up, and immediately deprived the spring sunshine of its true heat. At the edge of the pavement, a tall elm tree, which had survived bomb-blast during the fierce aerial bombardments of the Battle of Britain, had succumbed to the breeze, for its newly formed leaves were shimmering and clinging on to their mother branches with grim determination.

Sunday didn’t know what to say to Pearl. It had never occurred to her that anyone could possibly fancy her best friend, could fancy anyone who wasn’t slim and sexy.

‘Lennie says ’e likes the way I look,’ said Pearl, as if she knew only too well what Sunday was thinking. ‘He says he prefers fat girls – more meat on ’em.’ She attempted a chuckle, but somehow just couldn’t manage
it
. ‘But I’m goin’ ter lose weight, Sunday. I’ve made up me mind.’

Before Sunday had a chance to answer, to say something reassuring, the number 609 trolleybus arrived. Although Pearl’s legs were quite trim, they were rather short, and she had to use some effort to climb aboard the bus platform. ‘See yer ternight!’ she called, before making her way to a seat on the lower deck.

Sunday waved to Pearl as the bus pulled away. And then she turned, and slowly made her way home down Holloway Road, stopping only briefly to look at the posters for the week’s film outside the imposing Gaumont Cinema. All the way to the Nag’s Head she couldn’t get Pearl off her mind, but didn’t know why. Was it because she felt protective of her mate, or was it because she was jealous of her? Had Pearl ‘done it’ with Lennie Jackson, she wondered? Was it possible? Was it really possible? But why shouldn’t a good-looking bloke fancy someone like Pearl, she asked herself? After all, fat girls must be just as sexy as – well, someone like Sunday herself. Quite unconsciously, she was shaking her head; Pearl had certainly given her a lot to think about.

By the time she reached the Nag’s Head, where Holloway Road crossed between Parkhurst and Seven Sisters Road, Sunday found herself hoping that the war would soon be over, and that Pearl would be able to get Lennie home safe and sound again. Whilst waiting at the traffic lights to cross the busy Parkhurst Road, she casually glanced up at the puffs of small white clouds that seemed to be sprinting across the blue early-evening sky. And she sighed with relief, relief that it had now been quite some time since out of that very same sky Hitler’s bombers had brought so much death and destruction to the streets of Holloway and the rest of poor old London. Yes, Pearl was right, Sunday said to herself. It’s all over bar the shouting. Nothing to fear now. The war’s over. Now’s the time to have some fun.

The traffic lights changed and Sunday crossed the
road
. As she did so, she trod on the previous day’s copy of the
Daily Sketch
with its bold headline: HITLER’S SECRET WEAPON. The breeze grabbed hold of the heavily soiled newspaper, lifted it, and tossed it up into the mild evening air.

Peacock Buildings wasn’t quite such a grim place as some of the other Borough Council residential blocks in Islington, and like a lot of similar dwellings built before the Second World War they were at least cheap and functional. Situated on the main road, between the Nag’s Head and Holloway Road Tube Station, ‘the Buildings’, as they were known locally, were constructed of red bricks and concrete and laid out on six floors, which could only be reached by climbing endless flights of well-worn stone steps. Most residents in the surrounding streets were divided in their opinions concerning the look of ‘the Buildings’: some thought they were an eyesore; others thought they added something to the Holloway Road, though as to exactly what nobody was too certain. Luckily, ‘the Buildings’ had escaped the worst of the air-raids during the war, except for endless broken windows and fallen ceilings from bomb-blast in the neighbouring streets.

As usual, Madge Collins was anxiously peering out through her bedroom window at the rear of ‘the Buildings’, waiting for the first sight of her daughter as she entered the courtyard below. Sunday always hated her mum doing this, for it meant that by the time she had climbed the steps to their flat on the top floor, her tea would be already waiting for her on the parlour table. If there was one thing Sunday hated more than anything else, it was daily routine. Some evenings when she got home, she just felt like sitting down for a while, kicking off her shoes, and listening to some big band music on the wireless. But her mum would have none of it. As soon as the girl came through the front door, tea was on the table, and within minutes the scrambled dried eggs on toast, or
sausage
and mash, or spam and bubble and squeak was steaming hot beside it. It was a ritual.

The noise in the yard that evening was deafening. Clearly it was to do with the fine, warm weather, for it had brought out hordes of kids, all yelling and laughing their heads off as they either played hopscotch with a couple of stones, or relentlessly kicked a football against the back wall of one of the blocks. That was the trouble with living in a communal block, no privacy, no peace and quiet for longer than a few minutes at a time. If it wasn’t kids running riot, it was the sound of someone’s wireless set turned up to full volume. Sunday loved music, but not when it was so loud that it practically burst her eardrums. She had always found it peculiar that after all the horrors of the Blitz, when each night the air was fractured with the sound of falling bombs and anti-aircraft fire, people just didn’t seem to relish the opportunity to live a quiet and peaceful life.

The first thing Sunday noticed as she entered ‘the Buildings’ through the rear door, was the smell of carbolic. When she had left in the morning, a stray dog had clearly found its way on to the second-floor landing and done its big job there. But there was no smell of it now; both the landing and the stairs leading up to it were cleaner than a new pin. And Sunday didn’t have to guess very hard who was responsible for that.

‘’Ow many times do I ’ave ter tell these people ter keep that bleedin’ door shut downstairs! Every cat an’ dog treats this place like their own personal bog!’

Jack Popwell was at the door of his flat, polishing the brass letterbox, something he did with regular monotony seven days a week.

‘I don’t know what we’d do without you, Mr Popwell,’ said Sunday, as she reached the landing. Despite the fact that she always regarded her neighbour as a bit of a prissy old maid, Sunday was really quite fond of him. He made her laugh, and to her way of thinking anyone who could do that was worth something. And she admired the poor
man
for the way he’d managed to pull himself together after his missus was killed in an air-raid up near Finsbury Park at the beginning of the war.

Jack was positively glowing with the compliment Sunday had just paid him. ‘By the way,’ he beamed, adjusting with one finger the small quiff of hair he used to disguise his practically bare pate, ‘I ’aven’t fergotten that jam sponge I promised yer last week. I’m just waiting on me god-daughter ter get me some more saccharin tablets. I’ve got no more coupons left on me sugar ration.’

‘No rush, Mr Popwell,’ said Sunday, her eyes constantly flicking up to that quiff. ‘It’ll taste all the better by the time we get it.’

For a brief moment, Jack Popwell’s smile faded. ‘Tell that to yer Aunt Louie,’ he sniffed, indignantly. ‘Every time she catches sight of me, she goes on about people who don’t keep their promises.’

The mention of her Aunt Louie’s name suddenly reminded Sunday why she rarely looked forward to coming home from work in the evening. Her mum’s sister. Aunt Louie. Oh God! The thought of seeing that woman again! ‘I wouldn’t take too much notice of
her
, Mr Popwell,’ replied Sunday reassuringly. ‘Aunt Louie can’t even boil a kettle of water!’

‘Sunday? Is that you, luvvie?’

Madge Collins’s voice echoed down the stone staircase, reminding Sunday that her scrambled dried egg on toast was waiting for her on the parlour table.

As it turned out, however, dried eggs were not on the menu this evening. As soon as Sunday entered the tiny flat she could already smell the grilled bloaters, which her mum usually got from the fish man who always called with his barrow at ‘the Buildings’ on a Saturday.

Sunday wasn’t surprised to see that the tea table had been laid with only two places instead of the usual three; clearly, Aunt Louie had decided to eat on her own after the row she and Sunday had had over breakfast that morning. Sunday couldn’t care less. It wasn’t the first time she’d
fallen
out with her tempestuous aunt, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Despite that, the table itself looked a picture, with a clean white tablecloth, a posy of small spring flowers in a glass tumbler, and a huge brown teapot full to the brim. Each plate contained a pair of sizzling-hot bloaters, and several slices of bread had been sliced from the farmhouse loaf which Madge had bought from Millers the baker earlier in the day. Sadly, there was very little margarine to go with the bread, for the week’s butter coupons had already been used up. Sunday barely had enough time to go to the lavatory, because her mum was already seated at the table waiting to eat with her.

‘Wonderful news, luvvie!’ Madge said, excitedly. She was clearly bursting to tell Sunday what she’d had to bottle up all day.

Sunday looked up from the tiny bones she was trying to separate from the bloaters on her plate. She always loved the look on her mum’s face when she was excited about something. It was a sweet look, full of childish enthusiasm.

‘The Army’s on the move!’ Although Madge was already holding her knife and fork, she hadn’t yet started on her bloaters. ‘Every Sunday for the next four weeks. The band’s touring all over Islington – Highbury Corner, the Angel, Essex Road, Hornsey Rise, Highgate. We’re starting off outside the Marlborough Cinema tomorrow afternoon. Colonel Faraday’s coming down from Headquarters to give the address.’

For a brief moment, Sunday watched her mum with deep affection. To her it was weird enough that Madge always referred to the Salvation Army as ‘the Army’, especially in wartime, but to get so excited about the band playing hymns outside pubs up and down the borough seemed so trivial. Nonetheless, if that’s what made her mum happy, then Sunday was happy too. After all, her adopted mum had brought her up and cared for her – and taught her how to speak properly, not in a Cockney slang like her mates at work. ‘That’s lovely, Mum,’ was all
Sunday
could say, as she chewed a piece of dry bread to help down the bloater.