Read Online The Silent War by Victor Pemberton - Free Book Online Page A

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