The Missing Gun

The last train rumbled away from West Lamberley station leaving Hawker standing on the unlit platform clutching his brolly, briefcase, gas mask and torch. With his bowler hat perched firmly on his head, he ambled along the platform to the little potbellied ticket collector who touched the peak of his cap in recognition.

  A blackout being in force as a precaution against German bombers, West Lamberley was in total darkness, but as there was a reasonable amount of moonlight he didn’t need the torch. The walk helped to clear his head, but the nearer he got to home the more he dreaded the fate that awaited him. He knew she’d be waiting. It was an hour and a half past her bedtime but she’d be waiting – she always waited. He’d had a successful day and a congenial evening, but now he must pay the price. He wondered if Hitler had the same problem: arriving home late at night, having just annexed Austria or conquered Poland, to find Eva Braun waiting for him with a rolling pin. Not that Hilda would ever hit him with a rolling pin. She didn’t need one. She had a tongue that could cut through armour plating and slice open a German tank as easily as opening a tin of sardines. He wondered what it was going to be tonight, food rationing, school fees, the war, fixing the dripping tap or... No, he knew what it was going to be tonight: his drinking.

  As he approached the house he felt a twinge of hope, the place was in total darkness. Even though there was a blackout in force, it was only meant to be effective against German bombers, and he could usually detect a few chinks of light at this distance. Gingerly he crept up the garden path. He didn’t approach the front door directly, but sneaked around the side to find out if she was lurking in the kitchen. Nope, not even a hint of light. He stood there for a full five minutes, unsure whether to risk it or not. What if she was waiting in the dark ready to pounce? Finally, with a shrug of his shoulders he decided to take the plunge. If he kept very quiet he should be able to sneak in without waking her and get a good night’s sleep on the couch. Tomorrow was another day, and there would be Hell to pay, but tonight all he wanted to do was curl up somewhere nice and warm.

  Silently he slid the key into the lock and turned – it wasn’t even double locked – then he gently pushed the door open … only it wouldn’t open: it was bolted top and bottom. That’s when he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the letter box. He took it out and switched on the torch. It read, Your pyjamas are in the Anderson shelter. There are two blankets and a pillow in there for you as well.

  Normally located at the end of the garden, an Anderson Shelter was an air raid shelter designed to protect a family from the blast of a bomb dropped by a German plane. A prefabricated corrugated iron construction 6ft high, 4ft 6in wide and 6ft 6in long, it was buried in the ground and covered with earth. This hole in the ground could be expected to afford a reasonable degree of protection should a bomb explode nearby, but never a degree of comfort.

  Chapter 9