I said, ‘I’m sorry…’
‘What for?’
‘In the café. Arriving like that. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘It is a coincidence, though, meeting again.’
‘Yes. Coincidence.’ And suddenly, he was staring at me as if he wanted to memorise every detail of my face. ‘Coincidence,’ he repeated, vaguely, and started patting at his pockets for a cigarette as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Sometimes it’s difficult,’ he said, ‘knowing what to say, I mean. When you’re with a lot of chaps all day.’
‘Must be better than being with a lot of girls. My office is like that—they can be the most frightful cats. What do you talk about? When you’re not…’ I jerked my head upwards.
‘Talk about? Oh…flying, I suppose. Aeroplanes. Very dull.’
‘Not if you understand it.’
‘I suppose not. But you don’t want to hear about all that.’ He smiled. ‘What do you do when you’re not in your office full of frightful cats—go to the movies?’
‘Sometimes. Not recently, because of the raids. But I like them.’
‘I want to show you something.’ He pulled a little piece of blue cloth, like an envelope, out of his pocket and laid it on the table between us.
‘Very mysterious. What is it?’
‘Open it and see.’
It was a cigarette card. ‘Robert Taylor! He’s my favourite.’
‘There’s another coincidence. I’d like you to have it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Why not? Now if it was Betty Grable…’ He laughed, then looked serious again. ‘I only keep it because it belonged to my sister.’
‘You mean, your sister who…’
‘Died. That’s right. I only had the one.’
‘Then you ought to keep it. It’s special.’
‘It’s that all right. That’s why I’d like you to have it. You’ll look after it, won’t you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘She’d want it to be appreciated.’
‘But why? I mean, why me? There must be dozens of girls who—’
‘No. There aren’t. And you remind me of her, a bit. I’ve got a picture, somewhere.’ He pulled a small, rather crumpled photograph out of the top pocket of his jacket and placed it in front of me—a studio portrait of a rather nice-looking girl in a gym-slip.
‘She’s… She was…very pretty.’ To be honest, I couldn’t see that she looked much like me, apart from the hair, but then I suppose photographs don’t always tell the truth about a person. ‘She’s written something. “To Tom, with love from…” What’s that?’
‘Maisie.’
‘But that’s a Y… Yvonne?’
‘Oh, yes, well, that was her real name. We always called her Maisie. She preferred it.’
‘That’s like my sister—her name’s Margaret, but she hates it. Everyone calls her Minnie, even my parents.’
Tom put the photograph back in his pocket, and said, ‘The thing is…that cigarette card… I don’t deserve to have it, really.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it was very quick. The car crash, I mean. Head-on. There wouldn’t have been…she wouldn’t have suffered. But I never had time to… What I mean is, I was away at school when it happened, and we’d had an argument before I left. It was my fault we’d had the row, and I’d meant to write her a letter to say I was sorry, but somehow I didn’t get round to it, and the day she died, I’d been with some other boys and we’d been, you know, playing tricks. Ragging. Anyway, we were caught, and we knew we were in trouble, so when I was summoned to the headmaster’s study, I thought I was going to get a thrashing—for what we’d done, I mean—and then, when he told me there’d been a telephone call from my father, saying my sister…saying what had happened… and the awful thing was, I was relieved. Because I wasn’t going to be beaten, you see. And it was only afterwards, walking down the corridor, that it really came home to me, and then I realised. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I suppose it’s because you remind me of her, and I’ve always wanted to say I was sorry. Being her older brother, I should have protected her somehow, when the stupid thing was, she ended up protecting me, in a way. All the others got a thrashing, but I didn’t. Because of her. And I’d meant to write to her, and I didn’t.’
‘Nobody can see the future, Tom. And you couldn’t have stopped her dying if you weren’t there.’
‘I know, but… Look, you don’t want to hear about all this.’
I held up the cigarette card. ‘Are you sure you want me to have this?’
‘I’ve said so, haven’t I? Take it.’
He seemed angry—with me as well as himself—for saying too much, and pushed back his chair as if he was withdrawing from the conversation. It was so strange; when he was telling me the story about his sister, we’d seemed so much together, so intimate, as if we’d known each other for years, and yet when he stopped it was like sitting with a complete stranger, an unreachable stranger, with this strange sense of…isolation, I suppose. Yet I wanted so badly to comfort him. I put out my hand, across the table, but he didn’t take it, just leaned back and stared at me with a peculiar sort of intensity that I couldn’t fathom.
‘Tom, I’m sorry.’
‘About what?’
‘Your sister, what hap—’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘No, but—’
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘What?’
‘Will you let me see you again?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I want to see you soon. I don’t know how much longer I’ve got.’ He said it quite bluntly, and then continued before I could say anything, ‘Will you write to me? I’d like it if you did that. I’ll give you my address. Have you got a pen?’
‘Here.’
‘Paper?’
I didn’t have any, but the waiter brought some, and he wrote down his address, then tore the paper in two and asked me to write mine on the other half, which he pocketed. ‘Good. Now, I think I should escort you to the station.’
‘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, s
pecial 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!
Friday 4th October
Soho
Dennis 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.
Saturday 5th October
Jim
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.’
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