D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

He saw the briefest look of panic sweep across his mother’s face.

“But it’s so dangerous up there. I’ve been trying for months to get the local carpenters to have a go....” She turned to Erika. “The beams are weakened with dry rot, you see.”

Erika leaned forward in her chair, her eyes taking on a desperate look. “It would mean the world to me, if you would let us.”

Michael watched as his mother stared into Erika’s eyes. A moment passed, and then an understanding.

“Very well. But do watch your step around the north corner. The beams are most precarious there.”

Michael grabbed an electric torch from a drawer in the kitchen and the two of them left Lillian to the remnants of her supper and clambered up the narrow stairs to the second floor.

Lillian tried to remain calm, but the knot twisting her stomach would not let her relax. She had hoped Michael wouldn’t go up into the attic, had even lied about dry rot in the beams, but to no avail.

And now he was going up with that young woman, and God only knew what he would find. She should have thrown it all out years before. But she could never bring herself to do it. Just as she could never give up Paul.

What would she tell him about this? Nothing, that’s what. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or her and Michael.

Her mind returned to the young woman. She could tell Michael was infatuated with her. She could see it in his eyes. After all, what kind of mother would she be if she couldn’t? And though Erika seemed to be a nice young girl this mystery of her father’s death was all so unsettling.

Taking a bite of her dessert, she realized that she felt calmer. There was nothing to worry about. Michael had gone through all his father’s things years ago, despite her admonitions to the contrary. Boys will be boys, after all.

At the top of the stairs, Michael reached for the light switch. A click, and the single bare bulb hanging from a wire nailed to the roof’s peak snapped on, casting a harsh unforgiving light. It was more cluttered now than he remembered it, and the dust seemed thicker, as well. Still, it brought back a pang of old memories when he saw the old tailor’s dummy, recalling his imaginary drills and hand-to-hand combat with it.

“My God, it will take us hours,” Erika said.

Her voice echoed, giving it a plaintive quality.

“Not when you know what you’re looking for.”

Erika frowned, puzzled.

Michael stepped around her, a mischievous smile on his face, headed for a pile of steamer trunks. “I spent many a rainy day up here when my mother thought I was otherwise occupied with my homework.”

Erika joined him as he began pulling off first one trunk and then another. Near the bottom they found a sand-colored footlocker with the legends, “MAJ. MICHAEL THORLEY” and “WD,” stenciled on the lid in black paint. As a child, Michael had always wondered what the “WD” meant, thinking it was some mysterious designation for those killed in action. He now knew it stood for War Department. There was a hasp for a padlock, but if there had been one it was now long gone.

Michael unsnapped the other clasps on the lid and then reached for the handle, hesitating at the last moment, unsure if he really wanted to go on.

“I used to come up here quite a lot when my Mum was out. Got quite a tanning the one time I was caught. You’d think a boy would have a right to look in his dead father’s footlocker....”

He sighed, as Erika laid her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Suddenly aware of nothing else, he turned and looked into her eyes. She smiled her reassurance and Michael returned it. “What the hell,” he said, throwing back the lid with a loud clatter. “Might as well have a go.”

A feeling of nostalgia returned as he went through the locker’s contents. When his hands closed around the German Pilot/Observer Badge and the box marked, “Military Cross,” he resolved to take them with him this time. In fact, there was no reason not to take the entire footlocker with him. After all, he was the man’s son, wasn’t he?

And then his fingers closed around another familiar object. Pulling it out into the light, he blanched. It was the Walther PPK. And except for a few spots of rust, it appeared to be in excellent working order.

“Exactly the sort of thing a boy would want to play with,” he said, recalling the times he’d held it in his hands. It felt so much lighter now. “It’s no wonder my mother didn’t want me to play up here,” he continued. “I wonder why she never got rid of it?”

“May I see it?” Erika asked, extending her hand.

Michael dropped it into her palm and watched, amazed, as she removed the magazine and checked it. It appeared to be full. She then pulled back the slide, locking it into place, causing the round in the chamber to be extracted.

“My God, it was loaded.”

“There’s only six rounds here,” she said. “It holds seven, plus one in the chamber.”

“Probably been there since my father’s death. I wonder who he captured it from? Poor sod. Where’d you learn your way around guns, anyway? Your father?”

Erika nodded. “He always believed a woman should know how to defend herself. And a pistole is the ideal equalizer for a woman to possess, nicht wahr?”

“Well, you’d definitely get my vote for Miss Self-Defense 1984.”

Smiling wryly at his joke, Erika snapped the slide back into