Bomber's Moon

The Art of Catnapping

The Art of Catnapping

Leslie climbed the stairway to the flat he once shared with Edward. On the landing, he glanced at his reflection in the large, beveled mirror. A thin, haggard-looking face stared back with blond hair combed straight back and bifocals, offsetting his deep blue eyes, making them seem more brilliant, larger than they actually were.

“You’re just my type, Les,” Edward had said the night they met. “Sweet, unassuming and sexy as hell.” Leslie was equally drawn to Edward’s olive complexion, his hazel eyes, and jet-black hair. As a couple, they were indeed a study in contrast and once again proved the time worn adage that opposites did attract.

He had learned over the past weeks—were they months?—to make his way in the dark with the aid of a small pocket torch. Lately, he felt as if he were being guided along through the darkness by some unseen hand. How many times had he and Edward come home tipsy from the pub and found the light burned out in the hallway? They’d had to hold on to each other for fear of banging into a table or knocking over a vase, and waking the other tenants from a deep sleep. Leslie pointed the torchlight at the door lock, turned the key, and heard the click of the latch. He was home.

Everything in Leslie’s world these days was defined by sounds; he was tuned in, constantly aware of what was happening around him—another gift from the Blitz. With his hand still on the doorknob, he paused and listened. Was that the rumble of a train in the Underground? An ambulance siren in the distance? Simple, everyday, taken for granted street sounds also became magnified. What kind of world was this where even birdsong could seem menacing?

In the front room, the drapes were wide open but it was evening, a blackout, and dark as pitch. He flashed his torch and his eyes slowly began to adjust. Leslie navigated past the easy chair, around the coffee table and sofa, and was almost to the window when he slammed into a desk drawer he’d left open earlier. Christ! He rubbed his knee then moved to the window, reached up and pulled down the blackouts, and drew the heavy drapes. He switched on the desk lamp and continued on back to the kitchen, turning on lamps as he went.

He performed the same ritual several times a day: rinsing out the teakettle, filling it from the tap, then lighting the gas burner. What was it about the merits of a good, strong cup of tea, so welcome even in times like these? All of England seemed to stop for a cuppa.

Leslie leaned back against the counter, closed his eyes, just for a moment, and waited for the kettle to boil. Thanks to the war, Leslie had mastered the art of catnapping, even while standing upright. His thoughts wandered to a cemetery and a foggy, overcast day. A man stood by an open grave next to a young priest. He dropped something onto a coffin. Was it dirt? A flower? He told the priest he’d never said goodbye. He’d never had the chance. The priest put his arm around his shoulder, tried to comfort him.

Leslie came out of his reverie to the whistle of the kettle. But the water wasn’t boiling. There was no steam from the spout. It wasn’t the kettle. It took a moment or two to register: It was another air raid. He switched off the gas and ran to the front hall where he donned a heavy coat and an odd shaped hat made of tin with a large “W” stenciled in white above the brim. The hat reminded Leslie of the jungle films he’d seen as a child in the orphanage. Except this wasn’t Africa and the big game were thousand kilogram bombs.