The Missing Gun

  There was nothing of interest in the News Chronicle. Now that Poland had capitulated, the war appeared to have ground to a halt and very little seemed to be happening. Nonetheless, Hawker remained firmly entrenched behind his newspaper. It was the only safe place to be at breakfast time. Hilda sat opposite, glaring at him over the silver-plated toast rack that had been a wedding present from her mother. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her eyes burning through the News Chronicle just above the picture of Hitler taking the salute at a victory parade. There was always the risk of her setting fire to it, but she hadn’t done so since the outbreak of hostilities – the Anglo/German hostilities: not the hostilities in the Hawker household. They had begun long before Hitler came to power in Germany. He wondered if perhaps the best way to solve the international situation would be to put Hitler and Hilda in a cage together and let them fight it out, but gloomily rejected the idea when he realised who would emerge the winner.

  The kids had left the breakfast table, and the thumping sound coming through the ceiling indicated they were getting ready for school, but Hilda remained doggedly in position, poised like the German army, ready to attack the moment he lowered his guard. Hunkered down in his newsprint bunker, he finally heard the welcome sound of crashing of crockery. Good! It meant that she was working off a bit of steam by banging the breakfast things together as she cleared the table. Soon it would be safe to emerge, and with a bit of luck he should be able to make a dash for the coat rack and be through the front door while she was in the kitchen.

  He knew from experience what was coming next, and crouched like a sprinter waiting for the starting pistol. When it came, an incredibly loud CRASH from the kitchen, he leapt from his chair, raced to the hall, grabbed his coat, hat, umbrella, briefcase and gas mask, and shot out of the front door with the velocity of a human cannonball. Once he was safely through the garden gate and into the street he relaxed: he was on neutral territory, and even Hilda respected the Geneva Convention. Whistling It’s a Long Way to Tipperary, he joined the stream of men in bowler hats, with gas masks, brollies and briefcases, tramping along Grove Road in the direction of West Lamberley station.