Lover (28 page)

‘Yes…thank you.'

I suppose it must be the strain that makes him like that— battle fatigue. He's obviously a much more
complicated
person than Frank, but that's attractive in itself. Mysterious. And interesting, too. Makes me want to try to understand, or at least meet him halfway. I never really did with poor Frank. But I've never believed in it before, when people say they meet someone and they just
know
. I've always thought it was romantic nonsense, but now… I wonder if it was like that for Dad and Mums? Did they feel as if they were walking on air? Because that's how I felt, when we went back to the station. We didn't talk much, but I was so aware of him, as if…sounds like nonsense, even to think it, but: as if I could be him and he could be me. Yet I know that's not possible. He didn't kiss me, just shook my hand and said, ‘Goodnight,' and I felt the shock again, all the way up my arm, and then, on the train—in operation again, thank heavens—I felt it all the way back home, as if he were holding my hand.

I really was exhausted by the time I got home, back aching and thighs with that horrible dissolving feeling, like having the curse, except it wasn't that, it was Miss Henderson sniffing over me for hours, landing me with her wretched germs. Was met with a barrage of questions from Mums—‘Where were you? I've been so worried'—repeated
ad nauseam
. I must have told her at least five times that the station was closed, but she still didn't stop.

I didn't have the energy to explain I wasn't feeling well. I must have looked all right, though, because Mums didn't say anything. The odd thing was, it didn't annoy me in the slightest; I simply sat there and let it all wash over me. Minnie said, when we were on our own, ‘You are in a strange mood—are you sure you're feeling quite well?' I told her I was fine, just tired, but really I wanted to be by myself and relive the evening and enjoy the lovely, special feeling that comes from knowing that you are
in love
… I reflected afterwards that there must be more romantic ways of doing this than lying under the kitchen table, aching all over, with a series of bangs and thumps and crashes going on all round you, but I don't care. Right now, I feel I'm the luckiest girl in the world!

D
ennis Ledbetter sat on the floor of the basement flat he shared with his wife Betty. His back, broad as a table and solid as a pig, was buttressed by the front of his favourite armchair, his splayed buttocks overspread the cushion beneath them by a good margin of lino, and his stomach sprawled across his thighs. He lifted his glass from its convenient place on the pile of books by his left elbow, took another swallow of brandy, then bent over, as far as he was able, to peer at the level in the bottle that stood at his right elbow. One-third down. He checked his watch: half past eight. Jerry was late tonight. Still, the more he could get down his neck before the bastards got going, the better, and sitting on the floor meant there was no chance of falling when he was blotto. The floor had been Betty's idea— stroke of genius, he'd thought. Pity she'd taken to going to her sister's when he could do with her here, but at least she always made sure he had everything he wanted, and she'd be back in the morning to help him up into his chair again. He looked round—torch, blanket, pot—everything in order. He grunted with satisfaction, extracted
No Orchids for Miss Blandish
from under the brandy glass, cupped a pudgy hand over one eye in order to aid his focus, and began to read.

Not a bad book, this, if only the words didn't slide around so much. Especially the part where the chap had thrashed the girl with a hosepipe, that was rather good. That big sow upstairs, always banging about—she could do with a taste of that. Might even shut her up a bit. She'd been at it again this evening, thumping and crashing.

The siren went. Here we go, thought Ledbetter. He drained his glass and poured himself another generous measure. A loud crack, just above his head, made him jump and the brandy sloshed out of the glass and splashed on the front of his shirt. He cursed. Bloody woman, she'd have the plaster off the ceiling if she didn't look out. Never mind the Luftwaffe, he thought, she's enough to smash the place up by herself. Not to mention lowering the tone: it wasn't right that a decent woman like Betty should have to live under the same roof as some dirty tart with dyed hair. Annie, her name was. Great brassy redhead—he'd caught a look at her a few times from his armchair, when Betty'd had the door open—and he'd heard her, too, bringing men back at all hours. Yes, he'd take a hosepipe to her all right, given half a chance. No more than she deserved.

Ledbetter sighed and went back to his book. He could hear the heavy drone of bombers in the distance, punctuated by gunfire and the odd swishing noise, followed by the crump of an explosion and the clatter of falling incendiaries. He carried on reading, more slowly now, as the brandy took hold and the words began to rearrange themselves before his uncovered eye, sliding together and slipping slyly apart again as he traced them laboriously across the page.

A crash from above made him jump. Not a bomb, this time, just her upstairs again. What was she
doing
? Then more bombers, lower this time, angrier, and in the middle of them, from somewhere above his head, raised voices, hers, mostly, a single word. It sounded like…yes, it was… ‘Don't!', first shrieking, then lower, more plaintive. Then came a scream, followed by another, then another and another, ending on a wild, terrified top-note that seemed to slash through the top of his head like a knife.

Shuddering, he took a long swig of brandy, and looked blearily up at the ceiling. Were they hit? They couldn't be. He'd know about it, wouldn't he? There was another scream, abruptly silenced by a sharp crack and the sound of something heavy crawling—or possibly being dragged—across the floor. It couldn't be a direct hit, he thought. Couldn't be, or I'd have her in my lap by now. Then I'd give her something to scream about, all right. Mind you, judging from the sound of that little lot, somebody'd managed that already. About bloody time, too. The way she carried on, she was asking for it. The landlord had no business renting rooms to a woman like that; not that Ledbetter didn't know full well why he did it—he could charge more, couldn't he? And she could afford it, the money she earned up there on her back, night after night.

Ledbetter raised his glass in a toast and tilted his head back to address the ceiling. ‘Good for you, son!' He drained the glass, refilled it, then picked up the book again. Now then, where was he? Fuddled, he opened it at random and stared at the page for some time before the letters ceased jigging about long enough for him to realise that he'd lost the thread—not only that, but he couldn't remember the characters, either. There seemed to be a whole new set, with different names, doing different things. Moistening a forefinger and thumb, Ledbetter grubbed up the edges of the pages to turn them back, and discovered that these people had been there all along. Funny. He didn't remember reading about them. Baffled, he flipped the book over, and stared at the cover:
Dames Don't Care
. Well, that explained it. It wasn't the hosepipe one at all, that was called something else…something about…couldn't remember.

A bang from upstairs jerked him out of his reverie. A door slamming. Sounded like quite a hiding he'd given her, whoever he was. Perhaps I ought to send Betty up there in the morning, thought Ledbetter, make sure the woman's all right. He glanced at the level in the bottle. It wouldn't hurt to be neighbourly. He'd laid in a good stock of brandy before the raids started, but it was going down fast, and a woman like that was bound to know someone…a pal in the black market. Yes, send Betty up there, that's what he'd do. He reached for the glass again.

The bombers were quieter now. The glass fell sideways as Ledbetter's hand slipped down to the floor, where the pages of
No Orchids for Miss Blandish
soaked up the last of its contents. He inclined his head and watched them for a moment, and then, after a single, soft belch, he fell asleep.

I
‘d forgotten her face. What do I need the face for? No bloody good to me. It gave me a jolt, seeing her like that. Buggered up the evening. She thought she'd get the better of me, sneaking up and putting that brooch down on the table in front of me. Thought she was being clever, catching me out. She said she'd been watching me, asked me if I wanted the brooch back. Damn stupid question—if I'd wanted it, I wouldn't have given it to her in the first place, would I? But I know what her game is, coming after me like a bloody predator.

It gave me a laugh the way she swallowed that story about the cigarette card. Mathy's sister's picture came in handy too-nearly came a cropper over the name, mind you—should have thought to look what it was. But they're all the bloody same. Thinking she could get one over on me…in that café, standing so close, unsettling me like that, teasing…crafty bitch. But I showed her, all right. She'll write to old Mathy, and the letter'll come back marked ‘Deceased'. That'll shake her up. But I'll write first. Make a date. Have to do something about it, or it'll spoil things.

I'd decided on a redhead, but after the girl had gone I saw a brown-haired tart who looked a bit like her and wondered if I ought to have that, instead, but I didn't see why I should change my plans just because of that stupid woman. She thought she could confuse me, put me off my stroke, but I showed her. I kept seeing the face, all the same.

I couldn't think straight, and went and had a drink, then another, trying to decide what to do. My hands were shaking.
Lucy
. Bitch. I'll teach her a lesson she won't forget in a hurry.

I was so disgusted with the whole business, it was in my mind to pack it in and go back to Hornchurch there and then, when I saw the redhead coming towards me. If it had been any other colour hair I wouldn't have been interested, but that made me think I ought to stick to my original plan. Brassy—obviously a tart—face glistening with paint, big red mouth, cheap perfume. She came and sat down beside me.

‘Are you lonely, dear? I'm lonely. I'd like a bit of company.'

I bought her a drink, and she told me she had a room, so off we went. She tried to tell me it was two pounds—thought I was born yesterday. Got her down to a pound and ten shillings, but the whole thing was a washout, right from the first: walking behind her up the stairs, I saw she had no stockings on, so that was no good. I hadn't seen it before: white, floury legs, with freckles, great flanks under the clothes, thumping up the stairs like a carthorse. Made me think of Maisie, and I knew already that it wasn't going to work, but I carried on—not sure why, I suppose by that time it seemed as good as anything else.

It was a dirty, stale room, all cluttered up with pictures of film stars in frames. She told me she knew them all.

I said, ‘Brought them back here, have you?'

She said it was in America—a likely story. When the siren went, she said, ‘You staying, or going?'

I said I'd stay, but I wanted to see her stockings.

She took her coat off, and her frock; standing under the bare bulb, doughy flesh hanging out of the underwear, hands—big and red, like a docker's—on the hips. ‘Never mind that, let's get on with it.' She was tugging at my clothes as if I was some piece of meat, yanking off my greatcoat and jacket: ‘Come on, put a spurt on.'

I said, ‘Don't you tell me what to do.'

‘Look, dear, we're here for one thing, so let's do it.' Great blowsy thing, ordering me about.

I said, ‘Leave me alone, I don't want this.'

‘Your choice, dear.'

She wouldn't give the money back. I said, ‘Well, I'm not going without it.'

‘Too late now, dear. If you're not interested, clear off and stop wasting my time.'

‘Don't you talk to me like that!'

‘Oh, suit yourself.' She just shrugged and picked up her frock. Turned her back on me as if I didn't exist and started getting dressed.

I was damned if I was going to let her get away with it, so I said, ‘I'll show you what's what,' and got hold of her round the neck. I must have got a handful of her hair, as well, because she screamed and clutched at it, and then she kicked me, hard, and her elbow jabbed into my stomach and I lost my grip and fell backwards on top of a table. It was a spindly thing, covered in these photographs, and when it broke they all crashed onto the floor. I landed on top of them, and when I looked up the woman was standing there staring down at me with her hands on top of her head and shouting, and then I looked at my hand and saw it was full of orange hair. For a moment, I thought I must have pulled it out, but then I saw it was rolled up in a pad and realised it wasn't her hair at all, but some sort of piece she'd put on, to look like a redhead when she wasn't anything of the kind. Her own hair was brown—thin, downy stuff, all uneven at the ends. I jumped up then, shouting that she was nothing but a cheat and a swindler, but she wouldn't shut up, just kept on yelling back at me, calling me names, over and over…

I don't remember much of how it happened after that, just making a grab for her legs. She must have lost her balance because she fell on the floor and I was on top of her. I had a piece of broken glass in my hand from one of the photographs and I was stabbing her with it and she kept on screaming, I could hear it over the noise of the bombers, and there was blood. I could see the blood, but I wasn't really registering any of it; it was black and white, like a film, as if a part of my brain had just shut down. The drone of the bombers was getting louder and louder and her screams further and further away, and at some point I must have got up because I remember blundering round the room, knocking into things, and suddenly I couldn't think why I was there or what I'd been doing, and still I could see no colour, but I could hear the bombers as if they were talking to me—
Where are you, where are you, where are you
… I shut my eyes and put my fingers in my ears to stop it, stop them coming to find me and kill me, and in my head I could hear Mathy screaming over the R/T, again and again.