The Silent War (7 page)

Sunday’s grin broadened at once into a beaming smile. She nodded a very definite yes.

Bess squeezed Sunday’s hands, and also smiled. ‘’Ave a fag,’ she said, taking the packet and offering her one. ‘No. Take the packet,’ she added, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where
they
came from.’

Sunday liked to have a good time. That was something she had never denied. It was true what Bess Butler had told her, how a lot of people in ‘the Buildings’ had thought of her as a bit of a ‘wild’un’. But in Sunday’s opinion, it wasn’t her fault. Apart from the fact that she had been brought up by two elderly women instead of her own mum and dad, the war had prevented her from having the freedom to do all the things a girl of her age would like to do. Everything was hard to get – decent clothes, make-up, nice food, lots of little luxuries like eau de cologne, paper and envelopes, even empty milk bottles had to be handed back because there was a shortage of glass, and she was not even allowed to leave the wireless set switched on for too long in case it wasted the valves. Yes, life for a teenager during wartime was not only hard, it was unnatural. Unnatural because she was forced to act and think like an adult, and thinking things out for herself was something Sunday was always reluctant to do. It was like being asked to make a decision. Why should someone of her age be expected to do things like that. Surely decisions were the responsibility of old people, like her mum. She couldn’t bear being told by people to ‘grow up, and stop behaving like a child’. If making decisions was being ‘grown-up’, then Sunday wanted no part of it. Anyway, the war had deprived her of her childhood, a fact which she deeply resented. Most times she was at war with the world, and that included her own friends.

Oddly enough, however, Sunday did occasionally feel remorse, and after two weeks of almost totally ignoring
Pearl
, she tried – and failed – to find a way of making it up with her. Not that Pearl was even remotely responsible for any bad feeling between them. After all it had been Sunday who had taken umbrage when Lennie Jackson had turned up at the Athenaeum that Saturday night. The reasons for Sunday’s jealousy were plain and obvious: Sunday wanted Lennie; Lennie wanted Pearl. That’s all there was to it. Of course, deep down inside, Sunday knew who was to blame, but she would never have the strength to admit it. And so, as always happened when she went quiet on someone who had upset her, it was left to Pearl to make the first move.

‘’Arry Smike was askin’ after you, Sun.’

At first, Sunday pretended that she hadn’t heard Pearl talking to her. ‘Oh – sorry. Did you say something?’

It was the morning teabreak at Briggs Bagwash, and most of the ‘Baggies’ were outside in the stable-yard, taking the opportunity of a few minutes’ fresh air in the warm sunshine.

Pearl tried again. ‘’Arry Smike. Yer know – that Air Force boy down the Afenaeum that night. The jitterbug – remember?’

Sunday paused a moment, as though that evening was no more than a distant memory. ‘Oh –
him
,’ she replied, grandly. ‘Where d’you see him then?’

‘Turns out he lives in the next street ter me. Lives wiv ’is mum and dad and ’is two bruvvers.’ With only a few minutes left to spare before Ma Briggs terminated the teabreak, Pearl blew at the tea in her chipped white mug to cool it. ‘Sounds like ’e really fancies yer,’ she said, peering at Sunday over the cup as she sipped the tea.

‘Oh yes.’ Sunday was determined to show indifference.

‘’E wants us ter go out wiv ’im. You an’ me. An’ I can bring Lennie.’

Sunday froze.

‘Apparently ’e’s got an aunt who works as a part-time usherette up the Finsbury Park Empire. ’E says ’e can get us some tickets for Tuesday week.’

Sunday sipped her tea. ‘What’s so special about Tuesday week?’

Pearl looked up with a surprised start. ‘Yer mean yer don’t know? It’s the broadcast. It’s comin’ live from the featre.’

‘What broadcast?’ asked Sunday. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘’
Enry ’All’s Guest Night
!’ Pearl looked at Sunday as though her friend had been living on another planet all her life. ‘Didn’t yer read about it? It’s been in all the papers – well, the
Islington Gazette
anyway.’

Sunday was suddenly interested. Henry Hall at the Finsbury Park Empire! A chance to see not only a real band on the stage, but to be present at a broadcast performance of one of the most famous programmes on the wireless. ‘How much are the tickets?’ she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

‘Fer free!’ said Pearl. ‘’E says ’e can get us seats downstairs in the stalls. Just fink of it, Sun. I’ve only ever bin upstairs in the gods. I’ve never been down in the posh seats.’

And neither had Sunday. By the time Ma Briggs appeared at the back door, she had agreed to make up the foursome with Pearl and Harry.

The one fly in the ointment was Lennie Jackson.

Doll and Joe Mooney hardly ever went shopping together. Joe hated trailing his wife with a bunch of kids in tow, and then having to stand outside Sainsbury’s whilst she gabbed with one of the assistants on the cheese counter. But this was a special occasion, for within the next few days their youngest, Josie, was having her third birthday. Luckily, they soon found a toy car for the birthday girl. It came from the Children’s Department in the North London Drapery Stores in Seven Sisters Road, although a bit on the expensive side at two shillings and sixpence. A toy car was an unusual choice, but Josie much preferred the presents her brothers got to the dolls
and
toy kitchen sets that were supposed to be so beloved by little girls.

Sunday and her mum bumped into the Mooneys as the family were making their way along Hornsey Road on their way back to ‘the Buildings’. The Mooneys lived in the same block as the Collinses, but on the floor below. They had the reputation of being like rabbits because they had already bred four kids, and as good Catholics, chances were they had every intention of completing a football team.

‘Looks like it’s all over bar the shouting,’ bleated Doll Mooney, who, with all her hair pinned on top of her head, was only as tall as her husband. ‘Did you hear it on the eight o’clock news this morning? They reckon the invasion’s comin’ any minute.’

Sunday could have screamed. She was sick to death of hearing about the invasion. Yes, she had heard it on the wireless that morning, and she couldn’t care less. In fact, she was far more interested in what the Radio Doctor had to say about gall bladders than whether and when the Allies were going to land in France.

‘I shall pray for them every night,’ sighed Madge anxiously. ‘When I think of what our boys went through at Dunkirk, it sends a chill up my spine.’

Two of the Mooneys’ older kids started laughing and playing tag with each other. Sunday wanted to laugh with them, but even she thought it was hardly the moment to do so.

‘Cut it out you two!’ snarled Joe Mooney, in his rich Irish brogue. It was his only contribution to the idle pavement gossip, for he had a wandering eye for any bit of skirt that happened to pass within a hundred yards or so.

‘The fing I’m really worried about though are these secret weapons they keep talkin’ about.’ As Josie was beginning to grizzle, Dolly had to pick her up out of her pushchair and hold her in her arms. ‘They’re sayin’ if it’s true, this time ’Itler could blow up the ’ole of London.’

‘’Itler’s got no secret weapons,’ growled Joe. ‘It’s all bluff.’

‘I don’t know, Joe,’ said Madge. ‘The papers are full of it.’

‘Planes wivout pilots. That’s wot I read.’ Doll was doing her best to keep little Josie’s fingers from prodding her in the eye.

‘Planes without pilots! Come off it Doll!’ Joe pushed his flat cap to the back of his head, and retrieved a dog-end from behind his ear. ‘Next t’ing yer’ll be tellin’ me is that they’re fillin’ up bombs with horse shit!’

‘Joe!’ snapped Doll. ‘Don’t be so coarse!’

This time Sunday did laugh. All in all, she liked the Mooneys; they were always good for a laugh, despite Doll’s doom-laden forecasts of death and destruction. However, despite her efforts to dismiss all thoughts of the war from her mind, Sunday was also concerned about the possibility of a renewed aerial bombardment by the
Luftwaffe
, this time from pilotless bomber planes. It was true what her mum had said. The newspapers were full of speculation about Hitler’s last-ditch stand, and how his new retaliatory secret weapon had been designed to turn the tide of the war in his favour. Sunday still had painful memories of those dark days during the Blitz, when life and death for everyone was balanced on a knife’s edge. She remembered how her poor mum had come home during the early hours of every morning, tired out after a night of trying to help and comfort the victims of endless aerial bombardment. To Sunday, her mum was a saint, and so were all her mum’s Salvation Army pals who always did so much for everyone in return for nothing. And as she stood there on the corner of Hornsey and Tollington Roads, staring up at the quiet dignity of the surrounding houses and shops, their windows still covered with the criss-cross patterns of protective sticky tape, in her mind’s eye she could still see all the carnage and havoc that covered the streets after a night’s bombing, and the sounds of children crying, people calling out for
help
, and the incessant drone of enemy planes as they passed over on their way to the next point of destruction. Could it really happen again, she asked herself?

‘We have to be going now, Doll,’ Madge said. ‘We’ve got to get the shopping done for the weekend. We’re going to get Sunday a new pair of shoes.’ She suddenly realised that Sunday’s attention was miles away. ‘Are you ready, dear?’

For a moment Sunday didn’t respond. She was busily exchanging smiles with little Barry, the Mooneys’ six-year-old, who was Sunday’s favourite because he always seemed to be deep in thought.

Madge had to repeat herself. ‘Sunday? Shall we go, dear?’

‘Pardon?’ said Sunday, turning back to her mum. ‘Oh – yes. Righto.’

‘We’ve got to be off too,’ said Dolly, putting little Josie back into her pushchair. ‘If Joe’s late for the Arsenal, there’ll be all ’ell ter pay!’

Joe didn’t bother to answer his wife. He merely grabbed hold of two of his younger children, and started to move off down Tollington Road.

‘See yer later then, Madge,’ called Doll, as she took hold of another child’s hand, and hurriedly pushed Josie’s pushchair off behind the rest of her family. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she called, over her shoulder. ‘Your friend sent ’is love. You know, that nice Mr Billings. We saw ’im just going in ter The Eaglet ter ’ave a drink wiv Jack Popwell. ’E said ’e’ll see yer at the service termorrow mornin’.’

Madge tried not to look uneasy, so she smiled back at Doll, waved at her, and walked on in the opposite direction with Sunday.

Madge and her daughter reached the back gates of Pakeman Street School before they said a word to each other. Finally, Sunday couldn’t resist asking the question: ‘Who’s Mr Billings?’

Madge quickened her pace as she made her way along
the
road. ‘Oh, just one of the helpers up at Highbury,’ she said quite matter-of-factly. ‘He’s a nice man.’

As they crossed Mayton Street and finally reached the traffic lights at Seven Sisters Road, Madge didn’t mention another word about Mr Billings. And as much as she was dying to know about Madge’s new ‘friend’, Sunday loved her mum too much to ask. For the time being at any rate.

‘Hallo, everyone. This
is
Henry Hall speaking – and tonight is my Guest Night.’

Whilst Sunday was waiting for the light bulb at the side of the microphone to turn from green to red, her heart was thumping so loud she thought it would be heard all over the country. So by the time Henry Hall himself spoke into the microphone, and then turned around to conduct his BBC Dance Orchestra in his opening signature tune, she thought she would die from excitement.

The first house evening performance at the Finsbury Park Empire was stuffed to capacity. Every seat in the place was taken from gods to stalls, for
Henry Hall’s Guest Night
was one of the most famous programmes on the wireless. For half an hour, the whole country would be tuned in to what was happening on the stage of that very same music hall where, during the war years, Sunday had seen and heard some of her favourite dance bands. And for the first time in her life, she was seeing it from the posh seats – to be precise, from the centre of the third row, front stalls. And what a night to be there, after the announcement earlier in the day that the Allies had launched their eagerly awaited invasion of mainland Europe!

It was also only the second time she had met Harry Smike, and she really quite liked him. He wasn’t, of course, as sexy and good-looking as Lennie Jackson, but she did have to admit that he had a smile that was quite titillating. The two boys were sitting on either side of the girls, so that during the show after the broadcast,
Sunday
and Pearl could exchange intimate chitchat about their boyfriends without being overheard.

Henry Hall himself clearly warmed to the heady atmosphere his show always generated, and his tall, gangly figure, immaculate in black tie and dinner suit, blended beautifully with the red plush, gold-tasselled stage curtains, which tastefully matched the stall and dress-circle seats, and the ornate gold-leaf stuccos around the stage boxes. Although he seemed to Sunday to be a shy man, when Henry Hall raised his baton, the sounds coming from his talented band of musicians sent Sunday into a state of total ecstasy. And the moment he made a reference to ‘our gallant boys who are now fighting the Nazis on French soil’, the place rocked with thunderous cheers. Sunday also clapped hard and long with the rest of the audience as each ‘guest’ appeared, especially those who sang, but she even laughed at the special guest, Jeanne de Casalis, whose ‘on the telephone’ act as the dithery ‘Mrs Feather’ was a great favourite with everyone.

During the broadcast, Sunday had been so carried away by the excitement of the occasion that she hadn’t realised that Harry Smike was not only holding her hand, but squeezing it. On one occasion, whilst a marvellous young singer called Dorothy Squires was singing ‘You’ll Never Know’ with her husband Billy Reid at the piano, Harry even leaned across and kissed Sunday on her ear. By the time the half-hour broadcast had come to an end with Henry Hall’s familiar fade-out song, ‘Here’s To The Next Time’, Harry had snaked his arm around Sunday’s shoulders.