The Silent War (40 page)

Sunday stiffened, then nodded her head.

‘I fawt so. Sorry about that, mate. Din mean no offence.’

‘My friend’s name is Bess Butler.’

As with the first girl, the redhead seemed to seize up.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked Sunday, fearing the worst. ‘What’s happened to her? Tell me!’

‘I got nuffink ter tell yer, mate,’ said the redhead, sympathetically. Then, after taking a cautious look over her shoulder, added, ‘Sure, I know yer friend. But I ain’t seen ’er around for a while.’

Sunday was about to ask more questions, but the redhead wouldn’t let her.

‘Take my tip, mate,’ said the redhead, staring Sunday straight in the eye. ‘A gel like you shouldn’t be ’angin’ ’round a place like this. It could be dangerous.’

‘What’s happened to her?’ pleaded Sunday. ‘Why won’t you help me?’

‘There ain’t no ’elp for any of us, mate,’ sighed the redhead. ‘When we come out ’ere, we’re on our own.’ With that, she walked off.

For a few minutes, Sunday just stood there, surrounded by hordes of people swarming past her. She felt utter despair.

After searching the streets of Soho, Sunday decided to call it a day. It was obvious that the streetgirls were a close-knit community, and nothing in the world was going to persuade them to allow outsiders to penetrate their codes of silence. Feeling a desperate sense of frustration, she slowly made her way down Charing Cross Road past Leicester Square. Eventually, she reached Trafalgar Square, where people were feeding great flocks of greedy, fat pigeons with leftover scraps of bread, and as she headed off towards Whitehall, only once was she tempted to look up at the statue of Admiral Lord Nelson, standing proud and erect at the top of his Column, defying, as always, wind and rain, enemy bombs, VE Day and New Year’s Eve celebrations, and, worst of all, hundreds of marauding pigeons.

At the Embankment, Sunday made straight for the refreshment wagon where only a few months before, she and Bess had sipped their tea whilst peering down at the fast-flowing waters of the River Thames. Apart from a couple of taxi-drivers, there were no customers at the wagon, so Sunday felt quite at ease as she approached the old bloke behind the counter.

‘What can I do for yer, young miss?’

Sunday was only just tall enough to see over the top of the counter. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. A lady-friend.’

‘Oh yes?’ replied the old bloke, suspiciously.

Sunday was practically on tiptoe as she continued. ‘I know it’s been a long time, but a few months ago we came here and had a cup of tea together. She’s older than
me
. Often comes here – she told me so.’ She lowered her eyes when she added, ‘Usually at night.’

The old bloke sized her up, then said, ‘If it’s that tart you’re on about, I’ve already told the fuzz all I know.’

Sunday wanted to snap back at him, but she restrained herself. ‘So – you haven’t seen her in the last few weeks.’

‘Who said I haven’t?’

The old bloke’s reply sent a rush of blood to Sunday’s head. ‘You mean – you
have
seen her?’

‘Several times. The last time was just over a week ago, making ’er way over that bridge.’

Sunday swung around to look at Westminster Bridge, which was now bathed in early-afternoon sunshine. ‘Are you sure?’ she gasped excitedly. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Positive! Trouble is, by the time the fuzz got ’ere, she was gone.’

‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ said Sunday, rushing off in the direction of the bridge.

The old bloke behind the counter watched her go and shook his head. ‘These bloody gels. They’d sell themselves for a cup of char and a rock cake!’

The two taxi-drivers thought that was funny, and roared their heads off.

Once Sunday had turned the corner by the statue of Queen Boadicea, she was already on Westminster Bridge. When she was halfway across, she stopped and looked out downriver towards the Pool of London. Although it was still blistering-hot, there were signs that heavy thunderclouds were gathering, and that, hopefully, by that evening the air would feel a little more comfortable. In the distance she could see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, nestling comfortably on top of Ludgate Hill, and her heart and mind went back to all those newspaper photographs of the Blitz, when St Paul’s stood alone amidst the fire and smoke, a symbol of London’s defiance. And further on, Tower Bridge, also a survivor of the war, despite
everything
that the
Luftwaffe
had tried to throw at it. She looked down into the water, and as she did so, she felt a surge of happiness sweep through her veins. Bess was alive! She was alive, and somebody had actually seen her. It was too good to be true. Whatever her mum said now would make no difference. God hadn’t moved in ‘mysterious ways’ after all. Bess was alive! And as she stood on that bridge, with a pleasant, balmy breeze gently soothing her face, she felt like flinging her arms up into the air and shouting it out to the whole wide world: ‘
My mate Bess is alive!
’

Two days later, the police came to tell Alf Butler that they had reason to believe that the body of a woman they had just dragged out of the river was that of his wife, Bess.

She had been strangled.

The School for Deaf and Dumb Children in Drayton Park was set up in a semi-detached Edwardian house, just a stone’s throw from the Arsenal Football Stadium. It was a fairly new enterprise, and operated mainly as a day centre for infants, of which there were no more than about two dozen regulars. As the Islington Borough Council were trying to cope with the huge bill for rebuilding in the aftermath of the war in Europe, the only funds that were available came from registered charities, such as the Royal School for Deaf and Dumb Children, and numerous private collections. The Principal was Mrs Eileen Roberts, who ran the place with her two assistants, Jacqui Marks and Pete Hawkins, all three of whom were deaf. Pete Hawkins was also mute.

When Sunday arrived for her first day at the school, she found it pretty hard going. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the people she was working with, but communicating with them meant that she had to use sign language more than she had ever done before, and as she had not been practising as much as Gary had asked her to, it was quite an ordeal. Unlike her colleagues, Sunday was not a trained teacher, so she took no real part in the children’s education, and concentrated on their playtime activities.

For the first month, her task was to get to know the children. All of them were totally deaf, and half of them were also mute, but they played together as though there were no such things as the sounds of life. Sunday found the children irresistible, and as they gradually got to know her, they accepted her as one of their own. The hardest
part
of all was communication, and it took her a long time to learn their names. This she eventually achieved by following a technique suggested by Jacqui Marks, which was to identify each of the children as though they were a cat or a dog or some other animal, or a colour, or the sun or moon, or even an object such as a pencil or a storybook. But her greatest success occurred through a discovery which came to her quite by accident.

It happened one afternoon when she casually scratched her head whilst looking out of the window. When she turned back, she found all the kids scratching their heads, copying her. From that moment on, Sunday got them to copy practically every movement she made, from turning their heads side to side, clapping hands together, sitting down and getting up, and standing on their tiptoes. Even if she had been allowed to help teach them sign language, they were still a little too young to learn the hand alphabet. However, once or twice, she gave them an idea of what it was all about, when she got them to copy some of her hand-talk movements. The secret was imitation.

When it came to teaching them how to dance, it was obvious from the start that it was not going to be easy, and it took several weeks for the infants to understand what it was all about. The problem was that the kids who had been born deaf had no sense of rhythm, and it was difficult for them to imagine what rhythm actually was. Here Sunday enrolled the help of those kids who, like herself, had lost their hearing as a result of air-raid explosions. Beating time with her hands, she encouraged them all to partner one another, and they gradually swayed to and fro with the imaginary music, and copied Sunday as she danced with her partner, a small deaf and dumb boy named Joshua. Dancing then became a regular part of the kids’ learning time, and when Sunday’s Rehabilitation Officer, Helen Gallop, turned up to see how she was getting on, she was astonished to see a dancing session in progress, in which everyone was taking part, including the Principal and her two assistants.

By the middle of June, Sunday’s work at the Deaf and Dumb School was already becoming a major part of her life. She was also making badly needed friends, for on several occasions she was asked out for the evening by either Helen Gallop or Jacqui Marks. Despite the new direction she was moving in, however, there were certain things that were still weighing her down.

After Bess Butler’s death, Sunday was convinced that her world was about to fall apart. It was bad enough being told about the tragic circumstances of Bess’s murder, ‘
raped and strangled by an unknown assailant, and dumped in the River Thames
’, but it had been a fraught and heartbreaking experience to try to keep the real details of Bess’s secret life from her husband, Alf. Luckily, the police had cooperated, and during their close questioning, had carefully avoided any mention of how and where Bess had made her money. ‘
Investigations are continuing
,’ said the police, which meant that, like so many similar crimes committed during the war, there wasn’t a hope in hell of convicting anyone for Bess’s murder. The cremation ceremony had been a particularly harrowing event, for only a handful of mourners had turned up, and none of them from ‘the Buildings’. Sunday had felt the loss of Bess more than she had imagined she ever would. When she saw the coffin disappearing behind that unreal curtain, she somehow felt that a part of her own body was leaving her.

Sunday was also getting worried about Gary. Since he had arrived back in the States, she had received only a couple of letters from him. Every morning, she delayed leaving home until the postman had called, and when, by the middle of June, he had not written again, she gradually convinced herself that he was, after all, no different from all the other GIs who came to Britain, had a quick fling, and then disappeared without trace. But whatever happened, she promised herself that she would not pursue him, and that if he really loved her, he’d come back.

However, the postman did bring her one letter that managed to raise her spirits.

Swansea

Dear Sun,

How are you, girl? I promised I’d write, so here I am.

Back home with Mam and Dad. Actually they’ve been pretty good to me – so far! The way me mam carries on, you’d think
she
was having the bloody baby. Still, if it keeps her happy, I don’t mind. I’ve no doubt she’ll do her best to play down the fact that Junior’s dad was a Yank. Anyway, the little bugger’s not due for another six weeks, so I’m going to lie in bed every day and have a good time for as long as I can. Isn’t it wonderful not having to get up at crack of bloody dawn every morning!

Been thinkin’ of you a lot just lately, you
and
Gary. When he gets back from the States, I hope he’ll do the right thing and make an honest woman of you pronto. No point in hanging around this place, what with all this General Election rubbish and everything. When Junior’s born, Erin’s family want me to take him over there for a visit. The way I feel it would be more than just a visit! As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind becoming a wealthy American widow. I rather fancy myself wearing silk Stars-and-Stripes knickers, what say you! Hey! Maybe we could both go on the same boat? Two GI brides together. What a hoot!

Got to fly now. Me dad’s just got back home for supper. Everything stops for me dad!

Write soon. I’m dying to hear all your news.

Love – J and J (Jinx and Junior)

PS Have you heard from Gary lately? I hear they’re
sending
some of the boys from 381 out to the Far East. Bloody Japs!

Jinx’s letter cheered Sunday up no end, except the PS about sending out some of the boys from the former 381st Bomb Group at Ridgewell to join the Far East campaign. It was a reminder that the war with Japan was still going on, and that until that was over, Allied lives were in danger.

By the end of June, everyone was getting into a frenzy about the forthcoming General Election. Party political meetings were being held in Islington Town Hall, the Archway Hall, in Finsbury Park, Highbury Fields, Islington Green, and in just about every other public place where people were anxious to express an opinion. And everyone did seem to have an opinion, which is why Sunday was beginning to get fed up to the back teeth with having to watch the endless bickering between her mum, who had always voted Liberal, and Aunt Louie, a fervent and active Labour Party supporter. But for Sunday, the political divide between the two women had never been more embarrassing than during a heated discussion amongst some of the neighbours in the backyard of ‘the Buildings’.

‘If we throw Winnie out now,’ warned Jack Popwell, sporting a huge blue rosette on the lapel of his summer jacket, ‘it’ll be the biggest act of betrayal this country has ever known.’

‘Why!’ growled Louie, who had just returned from shoving leaflets through people’s letterboxes. ‘Churchill’s a warmonger. He knows nothing about the suffering amongst ordinary working-class people.’

‘Come off it, Miss Clipstone!’ retorted Doll Mooney, who had little Josie thrown across her shoulder trying to stop the child grizzling. ‘Durin’ the Blitz, Winnie was always the first to go ’round the East End comfortin’ people who was bombed out.’