It was raid-morning by the time Gerald had worked all this out. A sudden sense of frustration followed by panic gripped him. Had he left it too late? He and his wife Bertha, and Harry, their eighteen-year-old son, should have made tracks yesterday. His brother Tom's place at Shrewsbury was the safest place for them. They'd be all right there.
He wondered if there was still time. He looked at his watch, trying to estimate what time he would finish that evening. Surely not later than five, unless some stupid pratt couldn't balance his books, and then they'd all have to hang about waiting. Stupid bloody rules. Nobody left until everybody had balanced. And even if everything went according to plan he might still be too late. Surely others had anticipated a cordoning-off of the Midlands? Anybody with any sense could see what was going to happen.
Gerald Pitkin had to leave early somehow. And one didn't get out of the Treasury before time without a good excuse. Like going sick. He worked out a plan of action, but it was after lunch before he finally put his escape-plan into motion.
'I've got the shits,' he informed Barlow, the new chief clerk.
'Well, go and have a crap, then.' Barlow was young, wore a permanent smirk on his face and made no secret of his dislike of ex-Forces men. If you didn't start in the Bank straight from school then you didn't deserve to be there.
'I've had two.' Gerald controlled his temper and tried to look as though he might be feeling ill. 'And I've been sick, too. I think I might have caught something. A bug, maybe.'
'You had a couple of days off last week.' Barlow continued working, pencilling figures in a large cash-book as he spoke.
'I had the shits then,' Gerald forced a belch and hoped that it sounded genuine. I don't think I ever shook it off.' 'I'll phone upstairs for the key holders,' Barlow muttered, picking up the phone and dialling with his pencil. 'You'd better have a word with the Chief. See what he says.'
Gerald Pitkcin could hardly believe his good fortune as he hurried along the crowded street, up the ramp to the station, and just managed to board the 3.15 train before it pulled out. He'd never have got away with a yarn like that in Baxterdale's time. Baxterdale wouldn't have listened to anybody who claimed to have the shits. He was one big shit himself. But he was dead and gone, so what the hell?
Bertha Pitkin looked up in amazement as Gerald walked into the hall. She was thickly built, with greying hair disguised by an auburn rinse. The type who did everything to a routine. That had been bred into her by living for most of her life in army married quarters. And anything which disrupted her self-regimented life upset her. Like her husband arriving home two hours before he was officially due.
'What on earth's the matter with you?' she snapped. 'Are you ill or something?'
Told 'em I was.' Gerald was sweating, partly because of the heat and partly because he had run the remaining hundred yards as he succumbed to a sense of urgency.
'Whatever for?'
'Because we're leaving.' He jerked a thumb towards the stairs. Harry would still be sleeping. He was on nights at the car factory this week. 'Wake Harry and get a few things packed. Just essentials.'
Are you mad?' she demanded, surveying him, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, lips compressed.
'No,' he said. 'But if we don't get out now, we never shall. They're going to do something shortly. Cordon off Birmingham, maybe even the whole of the Midlands.'
She stared at him in astonishment, but for once she did not ridicule him.
They couldn't.' she breathed softly. 'They wouldn't dare.'
'They could and they would.' He stood poised on the bottom stair. 'I'll go up and wake Harry. We need to be on the road in half-an-hour before everybody else realises what's happening.'
Forty minutes later the Pitkins, Gerald at the wheel of their new Fiat, Bertha beside him and a bleary-eyed Harry in the back amidst piles of loose luggage, headed out of Birmingham. Gerald had tried to telephone Tom before leaving, but after three unsuccessful attempts, each time thwarted by a recorded flat female voice which stated that 'all lines to Shrewsbury are engaged', he gave up and they set off.
The traffic was lighter than it would have been under normal circumstances. Gerald Pitkin prided himself that he was the only person in the whole of Birmingham who had forecast the government's intentions.
They were through West Bromwich and Wolverhamton by six o'clock, and out on to the A464. Gerald glanced down at the petrol-gauge. Less than half full. He wished that he had filled up before leaving, but it didn't matter. There was more than enough fuel in the tank and it was less than fifty miles to Shrewsbury.
Shifnal was crowded. People seemed to be carrying on much the same as usual, going about their everyday shopping, chattering on the streets.
'Probably haven't even heard about the bats out here, Gerald said. 'I guess we're clear by now. We can relax.'
'I think you're making a damned fool of yourself, and us as well,' Bertha snorted. 'And when you get back to Birmingham you'll find that you've had the sack from the Treasury.'
'I've still got my army pension,' he grunted. Things did seem to be very normal out here.
Harry slept soundly on the back seat.
Then, with startling suddenness, their returning sense of security was shattered. There was a police road-block at the entrance to the M54, the Wellington by-pass which would have taken them to within a few miles of their destination.
Wooden barriers blocked the road. A red and white police patrol-car was parked on the side, one uniformed officer seated behind the wheel, another standing by it, waving for them to continue back up the dual-carriageway and on to the A5. That in itself was bad enough. It was the third member of the obstruction team who caused Gerald Pitkin's heart to miss a beat. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead. A soldier, stoic-faced, wearing camouflage denims. An automatic rifle was cradled beneath his arm and he watched the Fiat intently as though half-expecting some kind of resistance from its occupants.
Bertha started to wind the window down, but Gerald stopped her. His foot had eased up on the accelerator but now it pressed down hard again and the car picked up speed.
'We'll get back on the A5 and go through Wellington,' he said.
Bertha was white-faced, shaken. Harry stirred and sat up in the back. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say.
As they dropped down into Wellington, through Ketley, they were aware of an increased flow of traffic coming towards them. Cars, vans, all piled high with luggage, hastily strapped roof-racks, occupants with resigned expressions on their faces. Bumper to bumper, they crawled, came to a standstill, moved again.
Yet Gerald Pitkin had to see for himself. He tried to convince himself that it was nothing more than a flow of holiday-makers returning from the Welsh coast. Their expressions? Well, nobody enjoyed coming back off holiday, did they?
There was one other car behind them. He watched it in the mirror. A Reliant three-wheeler, grossly overloaded.
The heat was oppressive. The sky had clouded over, but Gerald knew it would not rain. Four months of drought now. The overcast sky increased the humidity, and Gerald Pitkin tried to tell himself that that was why he was sweating. The back of his shirt and trousers were stuck to the upholstery.
The oncoming traffic was at a standstill by the Cock Hotel. One car had broken down, overheated, and those following were having to overtake it. Impatience was growing. Horns blared. Drivers were leaning out of their windows in an attempt to determine the cause of the delay. And still the road ahead of the Pitkins was free of obstruction.