The Silent War (8 page)

After the end of the first house show, Sunday and Harry came out of the theatre with Pearl and Lennie, and they all went to have a drink at the pub by the railway bridge just near the Tube Station. Considering it was a weekday, the place was absolutely crowded, and the two girls had to wait on the pavement outside whilst the two fellers fought their way through to the counter.

‘Listen, Sun,’ yelled Pearl, trying to be heard above the rowdy singsong coming from inside the pub. ‘I’ve bin wantin’ ter say ’ow sorry I am – about wot ’appened down the Afenaeum the uvver Saturday night.’

All of a sudden, Sunday felt awful. She was the one who should be apologising, not Pearl. It happened every time. If ever she, Sunday, was in the wrong, she could never bring herself to say so. And even now, as she looked at Pearl’s dumpy little face all racked with unnecessary guilt, she couldn’t actually put into words what she really wanted to say. So she made do with, ‘Forget it, Pearl! It doesn’t matter.’ She had to shout really loud, for the singsong inside had been replaced by loud, boozy cheers.

Pearl waited for the row to calm down before speaking again. ‘It
does
matter, Sun,’ she said. ‘Lennie ’ad no right ter take me off an’ leave you on yer own. It was – ’orrible. I told Lennie.’

‘Stop apologising, Pearl,’ Sunday said brusquely. ‘You’re always apologising. I’ve forgotten all about it.’

‘Well,
I
’aven’t, Sun. I ’ate it when you an’ me fall out. You’re the best friend a gel could ever ’ave. An’ that’s the ’onest troof.’

Sunday felt as though she wanted to curl up and die. Just for once why couldn’t she say that she was the one to blame, not Pearl? Why couldn’t she say that she was the one who walked out in a huff that night, because she was jealous – jealous that Lennie Jackson fancied Pearl and not her? How could she treat her best friend with such disdain? Pearl was more like her sister, she trusted her, she loved her. In fact, after her own mum, she probably loved Pearl more than anyone else in the whole world.

‘Don’t drink it too fast, gels,’ said Lennie, calling from the pub door. ‘You ain’t gettin’ anuvver one ’til turnin’-out time!’

The two fellers, hot and sweaty after their battle to squeeze past the crowd of drunks inside the pub, finally
reached
Sunday and Pearl with their drinks held high over their heads.

Harry smiled at Sunday, and gave her the glass of lemonade she’d asked for. ‘I wish you’d ’ave somefin’ stronger than that,’ he said, standing as close to her as he possibly could. ‘Makes yer relax,’ he added, with a cool smirk on his face.

‘I know,’ replied Sunday. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

All four laughed, including Lennie, who had his drink in one hand and his other arm around Pearl’s waist. ‘Yer know, I really enjoyed that ternight,’ he said. ‘Old ’Enry puts on a pretty good show, don’t ’e?’

‘Well don’t sound so surprised,’ Pearl said, scoldingly. ‘Some people’d give their right arm to get in ter see that show. Fanks ever so much, ’Arry. It was a real treat.’

‘Any time,’ replied Harry, who, not to be outdone by Lennie, now had his arm around Sunday’s shoulders. ‘Fank my Aunt Lil, not me.’ Sunday turned her face away when he tried to kiss her on the side of her lips, but when she saw Lennie doing the same thing to Pearl, she turned back again, and virtually forced Harry’s lips against her own.

Although there was now a crowd on the pavement outside the pub, nobody took any notice of the two servicemen snogging with their girls. Across the road, the audience was just flowing out of the majestic Astoria Cinema, and almost immediately bus queues had formed on either side of the Seven Sisters Road, whilst hordes of people hurried across to catch late-evening trains from Finsbury Park Tube Station.

Once Lennie had pulled away from Pearl he used the back of his hand to wipe her dark red lipstick from his lips, allowing them both to take a swig of their drinks. Harry took a little longer to pull away from Sunday. Although she knew he would make a meal of it, she did nothing to discourage him, as long as she could be quite sure that Lennie could see everything she was doing. What she didn’t notice, however, was that someone else was also
interested
. In fact, that same person had been watching her every movement from inside the pub ever since she had arrived.

It was Ernie Mancroft.

‘Last orders please, ladies and gents!’

The landlord’s voice was used to yelling above the din of his rowdy customers, so it easily reached the pavement outside.

Lennie quickly downed the last dregs of bitter from his pint glass. ‘Feel like a fill-up, ’Arry? One fer the road?’

‘No fanks, mate,’ replied Harry, after draining his own glass. ‘Don’t fink I could cope wiv gettin’ back to that counter.’

‘Come on!’ Lennie was already collecting the girls’ empty glasses. ‘I’ve got ter make the best of me last night.’

Sunday swung a startled glance at him. ‘Last night?’

‘Yeh. I’m on postin’ termorrer.’

Sunday immediately switched her glance to Pearl.

‘I’m tryin’ ’ard not ter fink about it,’ sighed Pearl, who looked thoroughly miserable.

‘Does that mean . . .’ Sunday asked, tentatively. ‘Is it the invasion?’

‘You don’t ask questions like that,’ replied Lennie, half scoldingly.

‘Why not?’

‘’Cos I can’t answer them.’

Harry put one arm around Sunday’s waist, and leaned his head on her shoulder. ‘Yer know wot they say, Sun. Careless talk costs lives.’

‘There’s too many lives been lost in this war already!’ snapped Sunday. ‘It’s time it was all over!’

‘Well there’s no chance of that,’ snorted Lennie, with a wry chuckle. ‘Not ’til we do somefin’ about it.’

Sunday’s outburst had turned a few heads, but she was much too upset to care about what any of them were thinking. Ironically enough, it was Harry who latched on. Several times during the evening he had noticed the
way
Sunday had been taking sly looks at Lennie, and her outburst had confirmed to him that the guy she fancied most of all was Private Lennie smartarse Jackson. But Harry made up his mind that he was not going to let Sunday spoil Pearl’s last evening alone with Lennie, so he quickly suggested that the two couples split up and go their separate ways.

Sunday’s farewell handshake with Lennie may have seemed convincing to her, but inside she felt like bawling her head off.

The night air smelt as sweet as perfume. Everything was so fresh, so bursting with life, and now that the pubs had closed, the stench of beer was gradually losing its battle against the smell of freshly cut grass in the nearby park, and the distant approach of another glorious early summer’s day.

June was Sunday’s favourite month, for the days were long and the nights were short, and that meant not having to go to bed early like a good little girl. Sunday didn’t want to be a good little girl. In fact, it was the last thing in the world she ever wanted to be, despite the fact that her mum couldn’t get to sleep whenever Sunday was out even a minute after ten o’clock at night. So she didn’t feel a moment’s guilt when, after leaving Pearl and Lennie, she had readily accepted Harry’s invitation to go for a stroll.

By eleven o’clock, the streets became deserted very quickly. Here and there a drunk was being helped home by his mates, or a van would turn up to collect the day’s fill of pig-swill bins from some of the back streets. And as they made their way along Seven Sisters Road towards Manor House, Sunday and Harry were suddenly startled by an unseen figure shouting, ‘Put yer light out missus! Don’t yer know there’s a war on!’ Although the offending light was quickly extinguished, the disturbance set a dog barking, who in turn provoked a network of panicked messages to practically every dog in the neighbourhood.

Although Harry strolled along with his arm around Sunday’s waist, her thoughts were miles away. They were with Lennie Jackson, who, she imagined, was probably at that very minute snogging with Pearl in some back alley, and doing things which Sunday would much prefer he did to her. A whole range of emotions flashed through her mind, from bitterness to rage, and to the dread that if Lennie were to be killed taking part in the invasion, she would never see him again.

As they dawdled idly along the main road, Sunday and Harry could hear distant laughter coming from the RAF and Army crews in the adjacent Finsbury Park who were keeping a constant watch on the barrage of crafty silver balloons which floated silently on the ends of their steel cables in the skies above, acting as a stockade against any hostile aerial attack. On such a still night, the laughter seemed a strange sound, for it seemed to have no reason, no logic, no place in time.

Sunday suddenly felt the urge to go into the park, but as the gates were always closed to the public at sunset, there was no way in. But Harry, excited by the thought of getting Sunday all to himself in there, told her that if she would be prepared to walk with him to the other side of the park, he knew a gap in the wooden fence that had replaced the old iron railings, which had been taken away at the beginning of the war to be used for scrap metal. Sunday agreed without hesitation, and once they had passed Manor House Tube Station and made their way down Green Lanes opposite Harringay Stadium, they soon found Harry’s gap in the fence along Endymion Road.

It was pitch-dark down by the park lake, and the chorus of tetchy ducks trying to get some sleep on the island in the middle was a sure sign that they had not taken too kindly to the approach of night intruders. As she and Harry made their way towards the tea pavilion, Sunday was acutely aware of the sounds their feet were making on the narrow gravelled paths. Although it was too dark for
them
to see the vegetable allotments that before the war had been beautiful flower-beds, Sunday could smell the early spring onions planted there amongst the potatoes, cabbages, carrots and all the other necessary vegetables that were so vital in keeping people fed during the ‘Dig for Victory’ campaign.

As they walked, Harry kept his arm firmly around Sunday’s waist, as if making sure that she wouldn’t change her mind and try to get away. After a while, he ventured to lean across and kiss her on the cheek, but when he kissed her full on the lips, he was only too aware that her response was pretty half-hearted. ‘Sorry it’s not the Army, eh Sun?’ he whispered mockingly.

Sunday abruptly pulled her mouth away from him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Come off it, Sun. I wasn’t born yesterday, yer know. If Lennie Jackson was ’ere now, yer’d be feelin’ a bit different, wouldn’t yer?’

Sunday pulled loose from him brusquely. They had come to a halt in a small clearing just behind the tea pavilion. ‘You know your trouble, don’t you, Harry?’ she snapped, a raw nerve clearly exposed. ‘You’ve got an inferiority complex!’

Harry wasn’t at all put out by Sunday’s anger. In fact, it amused him. ‘I watched yer down that pub. Couldn’t keep yer eyes off ’im, could yer?’ He moved closer to her. Although it was far too dark for him to see anything more than the outline of her figure, he knew that she was standing with her back to the timber planks lining the pavilion walls. ‘Tell me somefin’, Sun,’ he said in a low, mischievous voice. ‘Wot’s Private Jackson got wot I ’aven’t?’

To Harry’s astonishment, Sunday suddenly threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips. It didn’t matter to him that she was doing it as an act of defiance, for the passion with which her mouth was pressed against his own was overwhelming, far more than he had ever thought her capable of. All he knew
was
that whatever she was trying to prove to him was exciting.

When Sunday finally pulled away, they were both breathless.

‘Is that ’ow yer’d like ter do it ter Lennie?’ he asked in a low but taunting voice.

Sunday, immediately enraged, tried to push him away. But Harry, prepared for her reaction, grabbed hold of her wrists and twisted them above her head. Then, in one swift movement, he pinned her back against the timber pavilion wall, leaned his body against her, and fought for her lips. Eventually, her anger gave way to passion, for she was now just as aroused as he was.

‘I want you, Sun,’ he whispered in her ear as their lips parted. His voice then became a plea. ‘
Please
.’

There was a moment’s silence between them, and now that Duck Island had calmed down, the night was curiously still. Without saying a word, Sunday raised her skirt and removed her panties. Instinctively, Harry started to unbutton first his uniform tunic, and then his trousers.

Sunday was the first to speak. ‘Have you got something? I don’t want babies.’

Harry’s voice was only just audible. ‘You’re jokin’. Neiver do I!’

Sunday leaned her back against the pavilion wall, and waited for Harry to come to her. In the dark she could hear him opening a packet of something; she knew only too well that most servicemen carried French letters, because she had often peered through barber shop windows and seen men buying them. It was several moments before she felt him pressing against her. Although she hated the feel of his blue uniform serge, which was prickly and anything but sensuous, she was now too excited to care about anything except the thrill of what was about to happen to her.

Harry lowered his trousers and underpants, took hold of Sunday’s hands and arms and curled them around his neck, and then positioned himself. ‘You’re fantastic,
Sun
,’ he whispered, his breath and body now burning-hot. ‘This’ll be much better than Lennie Jackson.’

At this sudden mention of Lennie’s name again, Sunday felt the urge to pull away. But gradually, the idea excited her, and for a moment, whilst Harry was probing her body with his fingers, her imagination visualised Lennie with his arms around her, Lennie’s bare abdomen pressing against her own, and Lennie . . .

But at that crucial moment when Sunday’s fantasy was about to take full flight, a voice suddenly yelled out from the dark. ‘Yer dirty bastard!’

Sunday was horrified, for she had recognised the voice immediately. ‘Ernie!’ she shouted.

Ernie Mancroft sprang up from nowhere, and leapt at Harry, tackling him straight to the ground.