The Silent War (51 page)

‘’Ow are yer then, Sunday?’ he asked, speaking directly at her, not aware that for the first time she could now hear his clipped Essex drawl. ‘Din’t ’s’pect ter see you back ’round these parts.’

‘I’ve come back to see Jinx,’ she replied, shaking hands. ‘D’you remember her?’

The carpenter laughed. ‘’Course I know old Jinx. Always good fer a laugh, that one!’

They laughed together.

‘So how are things up at the Base?’ she asked. ‘Winding down now, I suppose?’

The carpenter looked baffled. ‘Windin’ down? Closed down more like. Locked up shop coupla months ago – more or less. Not many khaki boys ’round these days.’

Sunday wasn’t sure whether she was hearing right, so she turned her good ear towards him. ‘Did you say closed down? The base?’

‘’Course. War’s over, my girl. Din’t no one tell yer!’

He really addressed his remark to his other local pals who were playing darts nearby, and they all joined in the joke.

Sunday was now too confused to take in what John the Carpenter had said. Surely he’d got it wrong? If the base was closed, there still had to be some brass hats left there. That’s what she was here for.

After John had bought her a shandy and gone off to join his pals at the dartboard, she began to worry. It was now nearly ten past noon, and there was still no sign of Jinx. So she went to the window and peered out to the pub
forecourt
. Nothing and no one there except a couple of rusty old bicycles and a battered Morris Minor car. When it got to nearly twenty past the hour, she started to panic. So she went to the counter to talk to the barmaid.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ she said, ‘but I’m supposed to meet someone here. I wonder if by any chance there’s a message?’

‘No message, miss.’

The faint-sounding voice coming from just behind her caused her to turn with a start. At first she couldn’t focus on the man who was standing there, casually dressed in a tweed jacket, roll-neck pullover, and warm raincoat. Her eyes widened, and her heart immediately went into overdrive. The face, the smile, the eyes, the nose, that cool blond hair!

‘Gary!’

Sunday couldn’t believe her eyes, as Gary threw his arms around her, and hugged her as tightly as he could.

At the dartboard, John the Carpenter and his pals had a field day, cheering and applauding the ecstatic couple.

Sunday was spluttering her words out. ‘How? I don’t understand. Oh Gary – what happened?’

Gary was beaming all over his face. ‘That, babe,’ he said, ‘is a long story.’

And for the first time ever, she heard his voice.

The freshly painted exterior of the Hotel de la Mer glowed brilliantly in the cold, harsh light of day. No one along the terrace had taken the risk of asking Mrs Baggley any awkward questions about from where her hubbie had managed to get the white paint to cover the distinct pebbledash on the front and rear walls, and even if they had, she would have told them to mind their own business. But the tall, narrow house was certainly a striking image, for it was the only one along the entire seafront that had been decorated since before the war.

The previous evening, Mrs Baggley had been fully prepared and practically waiting on the doorstep when
Sunday
and Gary arrived to take up Gary’s reservation. She told them that as it was a New Year’s Eve booking, they were very lucky to have a room available, but, as they were regular guests, she was very happy to accommodate them. In point of fact, she only had two other guests, two elderly ladies from East Grinstead, who kept themselves to themselves, and made quite sure that they were down to breakfast and out again before Sunday and Gary had even opened their eyes.

And when Sunday did open her eyes first thing that morning, she still thought that she was in a dream. This was Gary lying at the side of her, his arms clasped around her shoulders, holding her tightly against his body, their legs and feet tangled together in a confusion of tingling, warm toes. She could feel his warm breath filtering through his nostrils and lips, straight on to one side of her face. So while he slept, she turned quietly and kissed him gently, first on the tip of his nose, then on the side of his forehead. Then she just lay there, staring in wonderment at his face, now decidedly more anaemic after his long battle against malaria in the rainforests of some obscure South Pacific island, but just as supple, just as gentle, and just as he always had been. And as she stared and admired that face nestled in the pillow, she could still hear that voice talking to her in the King’s Head, the cool, deep burr from Montana: ‘
I’ve never stopped loving you, Sunday. Never
.’ But she hadn’t yet got over the shock of seeing him there, of knowing how he and Jinx had used some cock-and-bull story about a brass hat at the base, merely to trick her into making the journey to Ridgewell. But what if she had said no? What if she had ignored Jinx’s letter and stayed at home? She shuddered even to think about it. But whatever else, Gary had kept his promise. He had come back for her.

The sea was quite wild. Gary didn’t mind, in fact he liked it. But Sunday wasn’t so sure. There was something intimidating about the way the swell rose up all along the shoreline, and then came crashing down on to the pebbled
beach
, leaving great pools of bubbling white foam. As they strolled along the shore, Gary loved to tease her, every so often pretending that he was going to push her into the swell as it approached. And he loved it when she screamed, and begged him not to, for he could hear the sound of her voice, a different voice to the one he had listened to in his months of soul-destroying high fever. Gary had dreamt about this day for so long, and there were times when he believed that it could never happen. But he was determined that it would. He was determined that this very special Limey girl wouldn’t think of him as just ‘any other Yank’ out for a good time and a one-night stand. He was determined to let her know that he loved her.

‘When you knew you were well again,’ Sunday shouted, as they dodged back from every ice-cold wave that came rolling in at them, ‘why didn’t you write to me?’

‘Because I wasn’t sure you’d still want me,’ he called. ‘After all those months of not writing to you, I thought I’d lost you. It was Mickey who gave me hope, after he’d heard from Jinx. And when she told me that you could hear again – man! I flipped!’

It was bitterly cold all along the shoreline, with a stiff wind blowing directly at them as they walked. But they had their arms tucked firmly around each other’s waist, so they pressed on determinedly, heads bending low against the wind, their coats and scarves fluttering mercilessly all around them. At the far end of the bay, the wind seemed to change direction, so their morning stroll needed less effort. They didn’t mind that they were the only people on the beach; it made them feel different, strong, almost superior. But they ended up with blood-red faces and noses, and when they got back to the hotel, Mrs Baggley warned them about Thorpe Bay’s notorious windburn. She suggested some Lyons’ Ointment and a nice cup of tea with some toasted crumpets and home-made jam. All extras, of course.

After Mrs Baggley’s evening meal, Sunday and Gary walked out again along the front, but this time they kept to
the
promenade. The sea had calmed down considerably, and the sky was as clear as a bell, full of trillions upon trillions of bright stars, and a moon so white that it dazzled the naked eye. They both wanted this night to last for ever, and when they spied an old sailing ketch that had been washed up on the beach during a previous gale, they made their way down to it and climbed in.

‘It’s hard to believe it’s New Year’s Eve,’ said Sunday, snuggled up cosily in Gary’s arms, whilst staring up at the dark night sky. ‘I’m glad this year’s almost gone. I want to forget it as soon as I can.’

Gary kissed her on the forehead, and then the cheek. ‘No, babe,’ he said, whispering close to her most precious ear. ‘Once you forget a year, you forget all those who were part of it. That’s somethin’ we should never do.’

Despite the freezing temperature, they lay in the bow of the boat, protected from the cold, frosty air floating above them. At one time, they had remained without saying a word for so long that both thought the other had gone to sleep. But suddenly, they were snapped out of their tranquillity by the sight and sound of a flare shooting up into the sky from a ship anchored somewhere offshore in the distance.

‘Quick!’ yelped Gary, leaping up in the boat, and dragging Sunday with him.

Sunday was startled. ‘What is it, Gary? What’s happening?’

‘Don’t ask questions! Quick as you can!’

He leapt out on to the pebbled beach, stretched up to grab her hand, then helped her to jump down alongside him. As he did so, a whole eruption of light engulfed the sky, shoreline, and the entire town spread out behind them. Firework rockets were shooting up into the dark night, bursting with a loud crack, and cascading into a frenzy of kaleidoscopic patterns and colours.

‘It’s – beautiful!’ squealed Sunday, who was enthralled by the spectacle. ‘Oh Gary – just look at it. Happy New Year!’

‘Sunday!’

Sunday turned with a start to see Gary’s face lit up by the bright flickering glow of the overhead pageant. He was kneeling on the beach in front of her, gesticulating as if in a panic. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Gary, what’s the matter?’

Repeating his gestures, slowly and deliberately, he signalled in sign language. ‘Sunday Collins. Will you marry me?’

Sunday gasped. She was taken completely by surprise. ‘W–what are you talking about?’

‘Goddamnit!’ he barked. ‘Will you marry me, or won’t you?’

‘I – I don’t know. I – don’t know what to say,’ she spluttered.

‘Well, you’d better make up your mind, or I’ll kidnap you!’

Sunday wanted to laugh at his quip, but she was shaking too much with emotion to do so. She raised her hands slowly, and, close to tears, signalled a calm and perfectly composed, ‘Yes, Gary. I’d love to marry you. I’d love so much to marry you.’

With fireworks still cracking overhead, high in the sky above them, he took hold of her left hand, placed a ring on her finger, and kissed it. Then he gently eased her down on to her knees facing him. ‘Happy New Year, Sunday,’ he said.

‘Happy New Year, Gary,’ she replied.

Then he kissed her, warmly, tenderly, and whilst he did so they embraced and rolled over together in each other’s arms, down on to the cold, wet beach.

In the far distance, the sound of crowds singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ came echoing across the town rooftops of Thorpe Bay. It was a wistful, but truly beautiful sound.

And even Sunday could
hear
it.

At the end of the second week of January, Sunday and Gary were married by special licence at a register office in Islington Town Hall. It wasn’t exactly the kind of ceremony that Sunday had always had in mind for herself, for whenever she and Pearl used to talk about the day when either of them would get married, they would dream of walking down a church aisle in a beautiful white satin dress and long lace veil, a handsome posy of flowers in hand, a huge pipe organ playing the ‘Bridal March’, and a choir of at least a thousand singers!

Well, if Sunday hadn’t quite achieved a wedding in the grandeur of Westminster Abbey, her ‘do’ was every bit as exciting. Practically half the residents of ‘the Buildings’ turned up to watch her come out of the Town Hall, and as the happy couple came down the white stone steps, they were absolutely covered in handfuls of confetti. And when all the guests had lined up outside for photographs, some of the firemen from the Fire Station next door came out to cheer them on, making quite sure that no one heard any of their ribald comments about the long, hard night the Yank and his new bride could look forward to.

During the ceremony, Helen Gallop had been Sunday’s matron of honour, but as all of Gary’s buddies were now back home in the USA, he had to make do with Jack Popwell as his best man. Jack was very snooty about a register-office wedding, having only recently been married himself at a rather select church ceremony. Doll Mooney, who was there with Joe and the kids,
sobbed
quietly all the way through, and by the time it was all over, her newly acquired black-market mascara had smudged all over her cheeks. Alby, Seamus, and little Josie behaved abominably throughout, digging each other in the ribs, and sniggering whenever the Registrar frowned over the top of his spectacles at them. Some of Sunday’s mum’s friends from the Salvation Army were also at the ceremony, and they sat in the same row of seats, resplendent in their black and red bonnets and uniforms. Pete Hawkins and Jacqui Marks from the Deaf and Dumb School were there too, and Sunday got the distinct impression that they were getting on really rather well together. The talk of the day, however, was Sunday’s two-piece yellow suit, trimmed with black cotton, and matched with a small black pill-box hat. ‘Bet she didn’t get that on the coupons,’ sniffed an elderly bystander outside in Upper Street after the ceremony. ‘Yer can say that again!’ replied her equally elderly companion. ‘Bleedin’ Yanks,’ she quipped. ‘Trust them ter get anyfink they want. ’Specially us gels!’

The wedding reception was a pretty low-key affair. It was held in Sunday’s flat, and food consisted mainly of sandwiches, cakes, and quite a lot of booze. As this was Sunday’s last day in the flat before she left with Gary for America, there was very little furniture left, for most of it had already been disposed of, and the rest of her belongings packed up ready for shipment. Gary had made a huge hit with the neighbours, especially the Mooneys’ kids, who had been showered with candy bars, cookies, and bubble-gum.

Doll Mooney, who had already helped herself to several glasses of Tequila which Gary had brought over with him from America, was very impressed with Sunday’s new husband. ‘’As anyone ever told you that you look a bit like George Montgomery?’ she said, ever so slightly slurring her words.

‘Who?’ replied a baffled Gary.

‘George Montgomery,’ she said. ‘One of your most famous picture stars!’