She found him in the spare bedroom, staring out of the window, his back and shoulders rigid with tension.
‘What is it, Gilbert?’
He said in a low voice that she scarcely heard, ‘See for yourself.’
She stood at his side and looked down into the garden next door. There was no one there. There was just the hole where the stump of the apple tree had been. It had been shaped and extended into a rectangular shaft about seven feet in length and three feet wide. It was at least five feet deep.
‘There must be an explanation,’ said Joan.
‘It’s a grave,’ whispered Crawshaw.
‘It can’t be,’ said Joan. ‘Let’s get some breakfast.’
But Crawshaw remained where he was. Joan made some coffee and took it to him, but he didn’t drink it. Nor did he speak to her.
Down below, Stock had resumed his digging.
By eleven, Joan had decided to talk to the woman next door. As a pretext, she found some soft wool left over from a jacket she had knitted for her niece’s baby. She took it round and offered it for their child.
The woman was very appreciative. She invited Joan in for coffee. When it was made, she called Mr Stock in from the garden. Without Joan having to enquire, he explained what he was doing.
When Joan went back to her house, Crawshaw was still at the window in the spare bedroom. He was still in his dressing gown. He hadn’t even noticed that she had gone next door.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she told him gently. ‘I’ve been talking to them. They are very concerned about the prospect of a nuclear war. Mr Stock is building a fall-out shelter.’
Crawshaw said nothing then. Nearly an hour later, when Joan was putting the beef joint into the oven, she heard his voice behind her. She almost dropped the tin in surprise.
He said, ‘It’s idiotic, trying to build a nuclear shelter.’
‘Possibly,’ conceded Joan, ‘but it shows a pleasing regard for the safety of his wife and child. They say it should be big enough for us as well if we care to share it with them.’
‘He won’t get any help from me, if that’s what he’s after.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t expect it,’ said Joan.
Later, over lunch, Crawshaw said, ‘I don’t suppose he got planning permission for this.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. You can’t build things like that without clearing it first with the council. There are pipes and cables and heaven knows what buried underground. There’s also the danger of subsidence. He might undermine the foundations of my house.’
‘Gilbert, let’s talk about something else.’
‘Not until I’ve settled this. Tomorrow morning, I want you to go to the borough surveyor’s department and find out whether Stock obtained the necessary planning permission.’
‘You want me to go? Why me?’
‘Because they know me at the council. You needn’t give your name. Everyone is entitled to look at the list.’
‘Then why don’t you do it yourself?’
‘I didn’t tell you before, but you might as well know now that I reported them to social security. For all the good it did, I might as well have saved myself the trouble, but you see that I don’t want it thought that I have a grudge against the neighbours.’
‘You don’t want it known,’ said Joan quietly.
Crawshaw put down his knife and fork and said in a low voice that she found more menacing than a shout, ‘You will do as I say. If you choose to defy me, you must suffer the consequences.’
He had frightened her. There had been no violence in their marriage, but she knew him well enough to fear the force of retribution in his character. She knew better than to rouse it.
Next morning, she did as he instructed. She went to the borough surveyor’s department and enquired whether there was planning permission for a nuclear fall-out shelter at 9 Jubilee Road. To her amazement and relief, the clerk confirmed that there was. He got out the detailed plan for Joan to examine. It had the council stamp on it, and the signature of the borough surveyor.
She thought that her morning’s work would bring reassurance to her husband, but she should have known better. When she told him that evening, he accepted the information with a shrug and went upstairs to take another look at the excavations.
Through that summer, Crawshaw kept vigil for hours on end in the spare bedroom. Joan rarely saw him except when it was too dark to stare out of the window. Their own garden began to show signs of neglect. Daisies and dandelions flourished on the lawn. The flowerbeds dried out in the warm spell at the end of August.
Joan often spoke to the people next door. She always found them friendly. They told her that the shelter would be ready before the winter. The main chamber was complete. There was still construction work inside, to fit it out and make it habitable.
One evening in October, Crawshaw came downstairs and said, ‘You’ve been talking to them again, haven’t you?’
Joan answered, ‘There’s no law against it, Gilbert. They are our neighbours. And you must admit I don’t get much conversation with you these days.’
He ignored that. ‘What’s happening with the shelter?’
‘Well, if you don’t know, I’m sure I don’t.’
‘He’s working underground now. I can’t see what he’s doing.’
‘How maddening for you.’
‘Don’t be provocative, Joan. You’ve been talking to them. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Why don’t you ask them yourself? It wouldn’t hurt to exchange a few civil words, Gilbert. They’re very approachable people.’
He glared at her, and said no more. She felt for the first time in months that she had won a point.
One evening later in the week, he asked, ‘Is the digging finished?’
Joan looked up and answered mildly, ‘I haven’t enquired.’
‘Have you looked inside? Have they shown it to you?’
‘Gilbert, I’m not interested in looking inside their shelter. I’m sure Mr Stock would be delighted to show it to you if you asked him.’
‘I think he’s still extending it,’ said Crawshaw. ‘He wouldn’t want me to see it.’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it? You think he’s burrowing like a mole. Under the fence and under our garden? Perhaps that’s why our clematis died.’
Crawshaw’s eyes widened. ‘Has it?’
Joan was not sure what had prompted her to mention the clematis. She knew she was making mischief. The combination of a baking sun and the lack of any watering had killed the clematis. Gilbert had not even noticed its demise, but he would seize on it as evidence of subterranean invasion.
He took the next day off from work, something he had never done in his life, apart from a few days for illness. By 8 a.m., he was out there with his spade and wheelbarrow. Joan supposed at first that he intended catching up on the backlog of weeding, but it was soon apparent that he was otherwise engaged.
He was digging a hole.
He had started in the flowerbed where the dead clematis was, beside the fence separating their garden from the Stocks’. By lunchtime, the hole had developed into a trench. By mid-afternoon, the trench extended along the length of the fence. Plants and young trees that Crawshaw had tended for years were dug out and left to wither on the piles of topsoil and clay. He was working like a man possessed.
About 4 p.m., Joan went out to him and said, ‘Gilbert, you’re destroying our garden.’
Crawshaw carried on digging. He was chest-deep in the trench. ‘Better than having it destroyed by someone else.’
‘What are you doing this for?’
‘To find where the damned shelter comes out.’