**The Basement Summer**
At first, there was a crash—so loud it made your ears ring, as if a lorry had ploughed straight into the wall of the house on the corner of Winchester Street. Angela dropped the bowl of mince, the glass shattered against the tiles, and the cat bolted under the table like a startled bird. Then silence fell. Not the usual kind, alive with street noise and neighbours’ footsteps, but a hollow, heavy quiet, like the sort you find in wartime cellars. Even the fridge stopped humming. Even the clock on the wall seemed to hold its breath.
Angela froze, her arms flecked with meat, and for a moment, forgot how to breathe. Only when her heart unclenched from her throat did she realise: not an earthquake, not a bomb, not a car. It was only old Edward Whitmore from the seventh floor again. Elderly, alone, odd. She’d noticed lately how he swayed when he walked, like an empty vase teetering on a shelf.
Without thinking, she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood and sprinted up the stairs, heart pounding like a drum. The seventh floor was directly above hers. He’d lived there since the nineties. After his wife died, he became a ghost—moving slowly, barely speaking. Only the crackle of old records in his flat in the mornings. And the smell—something medicinal, ointment or balm. Sometimes he’d sit on the balcony in his dressing gown, staring down as if waiting for someone to climb the steps.
They almost never spoke. She out of indifference; he as if he didn’t see her at all. In their block, no one really knew each other. They recognised footsteps, the creak of doors, the scent of cooking. But not names. Not voices.
The door was ajar. She knew it would be—Edward always left it that way, just in case. Just in case of something like this. She pushed inside, and it was exactly as she’d feared.
He lay in the hallway in a faded flannel shirt and worn jogging bottoms. His walking stick and a shattered glass beside him. His face was grey, lips pressed tight. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Mr. Whitmore!” Angela crouched beside him. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes flickered open. His breaths were ragged, like he was climbing a hill.
“It’s me—Angela. From the sixth floor. I’ll call an ambulance—”
“No,” he rasped. “Just… help me up.”
“You can’t be serious. Are you hurt? Your arm? Leg?”
“No. Just… weak. Bring the chair. The white one. From the bathroom.”
“At least let me call a doctor.”
He looked at her sharply. “No. Enough shame already. Don’t let the neighbours see an old man sprawled in the dust.”
She fetched the chair. He leaned on her, on his stick, rising slowly, with effort, but on his own. When he finally sat, he exhaled as if pushing out every last scrap of dignity.
“Thank you… You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” she said after a pause. “But I’ll stay. A little while.”
He didn’t argue.
And she stayed.
For a day. Then a week. Then the whole summer.
She mopped floors, boiled porridge, took out the rubbish. He hardly spoke. Sometimes he just stared out the window, as if waiting for someone long gone. Sometimes he napped in his armchair, stick propped against his knees, guarding the past.
Angela moved through his flat on tiptoe, like it was a museum. Returning to her own flat felt strange—as if she’d secretly let it out without telling herself.
She’d been sacked in spring. Downsizing. The accounts department dissolved. Job hunting was pointless—small towns had no work. Her husband had vanished fifteen years ago. Drank himself into oblivion, then disappeared. Her son was in the army, far away. Wrote seldom. No one needed her, really. She was used to that. Used to silence. Used to loneliness, like old furniture—creaky, but you couldn’t throw it out.
And then—him.
Edward Whitmore. His flat. His records. His slow, steady breathing.
After a week, he started talking. First about music. Then about the war. About his wife—Margaret. Met her in Sheffield. She sang in a choir. He was in uniform.
“Said I looked like a moth with epaulettes. I was cross. Then I couldn’t let go. Years of it—kids, holidays, paychecks. Then her heart gave out. And I stayed.”
He talked; she listened. Sometimes he snapped—wrenched the spoon from her—
“Not like that! She did it different!” Then went quiet. She’d sulk. Leave. But she always came back.
Because she knew—he was waiting.
Maybe she was too.
Once, he said, “Your voice shakes when you’re angry. Right at the end—like you’re out of air. Margaret did that. Always acted tough. But inside… crumbling.”
She didn’t answer. Because it was true.
By August, he faded. Ate almost nothing. Sipped water in tiny gulps. Sat wrapped in a blanket, staring at the corner of the room as if expecting someone important.
One day, he asked, “Fetch the album. The one behind the books. Find the page with the rose.”
She did. Tucked between photos was an old postcard. A woman’s looping handwriting. Faded.
*Ed, don’t forget the geraniums. And take the batteries out of the remote or they’ll die.*
He listened—not to the words, but her voice. Not closing his eyes, but his soul.
He slept. And didn’t wake.
His son arrived in September. Angela met him outside. Plain T-shirt, tired but calm face.
“You were with him?” he asked.
“All summer,” she said.
He hugged her. Quietly. No words.
“You… what were you to him?”
She meant to say *neighbour*. Or *just helping*.
Instead, she breathed out: “I was there.”
He nodded.
And that was enough.
