The Silent War (53 page)

The Captain smiled comfortingly, took Sunday’s free hand and held it. ‘It’s our parting gift, Sunday. To tell you that you will always be in our thoughts.’

‘Thank you,’ was all Sunday was capable of saying.

‘Now, will you allow me to do one last thing?’

Her eyes fighting back tears, Sunday looked puzzled.

‘May we pray together? Just a moment or so, no more.’

Sunday hadn’t expected this. But after all the kindness
this
woman had shown her, she just couldn’t say no. ‘Of course,’ she answered.

For the next few minutes, Sunday closed her eyes whilst her mum’s old friend, eyes also tightly closed and turned skywards, prayed for the future happiness of this ‘heavenly child, who will now go forth in the sight of our Lord Jesus Christ, son of God’.

Whilst this was going on, Gary made quite certain that he kept himself out of sight in the bedroom. But he listened at the door, and hoped that Sunday would be able to cope with it all.

When the Captain had finished, she took hold of both of Sunday’s hands, then leaned forward, and kissed her first on one cheek and then the other. ‘The Lord go with you, our dear Sunday,’ she said.

Sunday hugged her. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Denning,’ she said. ‘Please give everyone my love at the Hall. Tell them, tell them they’ll always be in my thoughts.’

Captain Sarah smiled. Then, for a brief moment, she became serious again. ‘There’s just one more thing before I go,’ she said. And once again, she dipped into her handbag. This time she brought out a buff, oblong-shaped envelope. ‘Take this please, Sunday,’ she said rather formally. ‘It was supposed to be saved until your twenty-first birthday, but you’re not a child any more, you’re a married woman. And who knows, I may never see you again. It’s from your dear mum.’

Sunday’s heart missed a beat. She took the envelope, and immediately recognised her mum’s rather shaky handwriting on the outside, which read simply, ‘Miss Sunday Collins.’

‘No more shadows now, Sunday,’ said the older woman. ‘May the Lord be with you.’ She turned and made her way to the front door.

Sunday went with her and opened the door for her.

Captain Sarah stopped briefly to say only, ‘Don’t read it now, child,’ she said. ‘Wait until you’ve left here.’ With that, she left.

Sunday closed the door, then just stood there, leaning her back against it, and clutching her mum’s letter to her chest.

Gary had only just finished the packing when Jack Popwell knocked on the front door to say that the taxi had arrived. Again Sunday had butterflies in her stomach, and once Gary and Jack had taken the suitcases downstairs, she was left alone to bid her own farewell to the only home she had ever known.

She knew this was going to be the hardest part of all, standing in the middle of an empty flat which had always been so full of a lifetime’s possessions that reflected those who had lived there. She could still see her mum pottering around the place, sweeping, dusting, polishing, cleaning the windows. And the all-pervading smell of carbolic – yes, that was still there, and probably always would be. And as she took a last look in at her mum’s bedroom, now stripped bare of everything but the two single beds, in her mind’s eye she could see Aunt Louie stretched out on her bed, smoking one of her foul-smelling rolled-up fags, whilst devouring every article and photograph in any women’s magazine she could lay her hands on. And Sunday’s own bedroom, small and airless, but the centre of her universe since she was a small child. Every room looked so naked, so utterly unnatural. Was she really turning her back on all this, leaving behind all those fond and bitter memories? But it had to come to an end some time. Or did it? Was it really possible that when the eye could no longer see, the heart would forget?

Back in the parlour, she collected her shoulder bag, and took one last look around the room. But something suddenly caught her eye. The mantelpiece. She went back there and rubbed her finger along the surface. It was covered in dust. Without being too conscious of what she was doing, she took a clean handkerchief out of her shoulder bag, then wiped it all along the surface of the mantelpiece.

‘Is that all right, Mum?’ she asked in a quiet and gentle voice that only she and Madge Collins could hear.

Then she replaced the dusty handkerchief in her shoulder bag, determined that it would never be washed again.

Gary, and Jack Popwell and his wife Ivy, were waiting for Sunday by the taxi, which had parked just outside the Camden Road entrance to ‘the Buildings’. Gathered with them was a small crowd of neighbours and well-wishers, who had come to give one of their favourite girls a good send-off. The moment Sunday saw them, she had to take a deep breath to fight back the tears.

‘You take care of this young ragamuffin, mate!’ sniffed Jack to Gary, his nose red with the bitter cold, his voice determined not to crack under the strain. ‘I’ve known ’er since she was pint-sized. Little perisher she was!’

Sunday bit her lip as hard as she could, then threw her arms around him. ‘’Bye, Jack,’ was all she dared say. Then she turned to his new wife, Ivy, and hugged her too. Behind her, she could hear deep sobbing. Her face crumpled up. ‘’Bye, Doll,’ she said with the utmost difficulty.

Doll threw her arms around Sunday, and weeping uncontrollably, blurted, ‘Oh, Sun – I’m goin’ ter miss yer so much! This place ain’t ever goin’ ter be the same wivout yer!’

‘Fer God’s sake, woman!’ yelped Joe, who was standing right behind her, and was thoroughly embarrassed. ‘She’s not leavin’ Paradise Corner, yer know. It’s only a whole lot of ol’ buildin’s!’

‘Mum,’ moaned little Josie, taggin on to her mum’s apron. ‘I want ter go ter the lav.’

‘Oh shut your bleedin ’ole, Josie!’ Doll yelled. Then feeling guilty, she bent down and picked the child up. ‘Say bye-bye to your Auntie Sunday,’ she sniffed, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Reluctantly, Josie allowed Sunday to kiss her. Then
Sunday
turned to the rest of the Mooney kids and kissed them too, though Alby thought it was a bit sissy, and after his turn, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. It took several minutes for Sunday to take her leave of everyone there, and by the time she was ready to get into the taxi, there were calls of ‘Be’ave yerself, gel!’, ‘Don’t do anyfink I wouldn’t do!’, ‘Don’t ferget ter send us some food parcels!’, and ‘We’ll be finkin’ of yer, Sun!’ Then Gary helped her into the taxi, and, going round to the far door, climbed in beside her.

As the taxi moved off, Sunday’s last view was of all her friends and neighbours waving madly. Then she swung round quickly to peer out through the back window, from where she could just see the Mooney family, hunched together on the pavement, suddenly becoming smaller and smaller as the taxi gathered more and more speed. And behind them, ‘the Buildings’, proud, erect, its brick-faced exterior glowing warmly in the cold January sun.

Gary knew only too well what this moment meant to Sunday, so he merely put his arm around her shoulders, and said nothing.

Sunday wiped the tears from her eyes with the tips of her fingers, then reached into her shoulder bag to take out the envelope Captain Sarah had given her earlier that morning. Her hands were shaking as she struggled with one finger to rip open the envelope, and when she finally succeeded, she discovered that the letter was several pages long.

I’m sure you know how difficult it is for me to write this. I know I’ve asked myself a hundred times why I’ve resisted doing so for so long. But after all you’ve gone through during these past few months, I know that it’s against your interests to keep anything more from you. That is why I am asking my dear friend Sarah Denning to give this
to
you at a time when I feel you are of the right age to understand. The chances are I may not be around to be with you on your twenty-first birthday, so I hope that when you read this, you will understand everything about your natural parents.

As your adopted mum, I know that in many ways I’ve been a bit of a failure. When your dad died, you were all I had left. I gave you everything I was capable of giving you, and that includes my love. Perhaps it was too much – only
you
can decide that. But I did try. I want you to know, Sunday, that I did try.

In the past year, you’ve asked me several times about your ‘real’ mother, who she was, where she came from. I always told you that when you were left abandoned as a tiny baby on the steps of our Mission Hall, the woman’s identity had never been known, only because she could not be traced. As you so rightly guessed, that wasn’t true – not
entirely
true. The fact is that soon after your dad and I had adopted you, the woman came to see me. She told me of the pain she had suffered in having to part with you, the pain in knowing that she could watch you pass by practically every day of the week. Your mother, Sunday, lived in the next block. She was Bess Butler.

Sunday felt a surge of blood rush to her head. Although the taxi was now winding through streets that she had never seen before, she was too engrossed in what her mum had revealed to notice anything. So she read on.

Your mother told me that before she gave birth to you, she had already gone through two premature miscarriages with other men. You were the third, but when the pregnancy proceeded normally, she became frightened, knowing that there was no way she could cope with bringing up a child on her
own
. To make matters worse, the man who was technically your own flesh-and-blood father, wanted no part of you, and apparently disappeared without trace. Your mother told me very little about this man, only that he was ‘a casual acquaintance’.

What I can tell you, Sunday, is that when you were two years old, your mother and I came to an arrangement. By this time she had married Alf Butler, but he knew nothing about you, and nothing about her previous life. As you know, your dad, my Reg, died just about this time, and Mrs Butler knew the difficulties I was in. That was when she offered to give me a monthly sum to help towards your upkeep. At first I utterly refused, but during the recession it was impossible for me to find a job, and I didn’t know how to make ends meet. And so I accepted. Unfortunately, I had no idea at that time how your mother was managing to provide that income. And when I did eventually know, it’s to my shame that I continued to accept money from her. The Lord forgive me!

Sunday, you should also know that neither your dad, nor Alf Butler knew anything about this ‘arrangement’ I had with your mother, and they were never told your true identity. All these years I kept my part of the bargain, and, until the end of her life, your ‘real’ mother kept hers.

I know how you must feel, knowing that Bess Butler, that your own flesh and blood, was always so close at hand, and yet so far. But the life she led was something I just had to keep from you, and I beg you to understand why I could never allow you to be part of that life.

There is so much I want to say to you, Sunday. But my heart is so full, I have to end here. All I want you to know is that everything I have ever done, I have done for you. In some of the darkest days of
my
life, you were my one shining light. Try not to think too harshly of me.

We’re only here for one short lifetime. Enjoy, love, and embrace yours to the full. As I embrace you.

God be with you.

Your loving mum.

Devastated, Sunday put down the letter. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Gary turned to look at her. And she turned to look at him.

‘I guess your mum was quite a gal,’ he said.

Sunday smiled tearfully. She was still clutching the letter in her hand. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘They both were.’

The taxi wound its way through the traffic just entering the forecourt of Victoria Station.

It seemed such a very short journey from ‘the Buildings’.