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.