And Hugo Rune gave me a manly hug.

And I gave him a hug too.

And then we shook hands and parted company and I took myself away to find my cosy bed.

DEATH

I awoke to find myself once more in my cosy bed. The sun peeped in at my window and it was another day. And I yawned and stretched and then I became fully aware of my surroundings.

‘Oh my,’ I went. And, ‘What?’ I went. And things of that nature, confusedly. And I leaped from my bed and rushed to my window and flung the curtains wide.

Before me lay the town of Brentford, beautiful as ever.

But-

I turned back to my bed and turned on the wireless set.

‘And hello all,’ came the unsober tones of the Voice of Free Radio Brentford. ‘Another day to say, “Stick it to the Man, I’m pulling a sickie,” ’ and Lad Nicholson could be heard taking a noisy toke of something illegal.

‘So far, so very good,’ I said.

But-

I hastily dressed and ran down to breakfast.

‘Something special for you today, my hen,’ said my Aunt Edna, smiling as she said it.

I made a face of suspicion and asked, ‘Not Bratwurst?’

‘Heavens no, who would eat such foreign muck? This is a double full English.’ And my aunt placed before me the breakfast of the Gods and I fell to it with knife and fork and washed it down with tea.

‘This is wonderful,’ I told my aunt, even though it is rude to speak with your mouth full. ‘Probably the bestest breakfast I have ever tasted. But can I ask you two questions – and please do not think that I am a mentalist regarding the first of these.’

My Aunty Edna worried at a sprout with a Woolworth’s patent sprout worrier. ‘Go on then, ask,’ she said. ‘You teenagers will be the death of me every which way as it is.’

‘The first question,’ I said, ‘and please do not laugh – but who won the Second World War?’

My aunt did not laugh.

But-

She paused.

‘Now that,’ she finally said, ‘depends on what you mean by “won”.’

‘Did we win?’ I said. ‘Did the Allies win?’

‘You could say that, I think, yes.’

And I went, ‘Phew,’ as one might do, and forked down further breakfast.

‘You said you had two questions,’ said my aunt. ‘What is the second?’

I dabbed at my mouth with an oversized red gingham serviette. ‘I was just wondering,’ I said, ‘as to why I have been given this treat of the double English breakfast?’

My aunt did smilings upon me. ‘I think you know why,’ she said. I shook my head and said I did not.

‘Such a modest boy,’ said my aunt.

I stared at this lady and wondered. Did she know? Was she somehow aware of what had happened? That what had been had ceased to be? Or had never been?

But I did not want to think too much about that and though I would remember for ever my adventures with Mr Rune – who I was already missing quite badly – thinking too hard about what exactly they all meant and how they all worked was likely to bring on a collapse of the brain box. And I did not wish to live out the rest of my days as a hopeless loony.

‘I do not know quite what to say,’ I said to my aunt.

‘Then say nothing. Just make me proud.’

‘Just make you proud? All right.’

‘Get that big breakfast inside you and make me proud, all right?’

‘Absolutely all right,’ I said. ‘Everything is absolutely all right.’

‘Well, it will be,’ said my aunt, ‘when you come back later from your visit to the labour exchange… WITH A JOB.’

But-

But there were no buts to be butted. And so I finished my breakfast, washed and brushed up and was ushered through the front door of our home at the end of my Aunt Edna’s broom.

Work!

Well, it was going to have to come to that eventually and I knew it well enough. It was clear that Mr Rune had returned me to my own time on the exact same day as I had left it. Which once more made telling the tale of my adventures with him sound like the tallest of all tall tales or a work of Far-Fetched Fiction.

But-

And I looked all around and about me. The street signs were only in English. No brass band music issued from open windows and no swastika bunting sullied the skyline. All was as it should be and I was happy for that.

And it was that Monday morning again. But a good and free one this time. Although there was still that matter of finding a job, and that, it seemed, had to be faced.

But-

Perhaps, I thought to myself, now would be the time to get into the smoking of the Wild Woodbine, which so far I had failed to get to grips with. Having that ciggie protruding from my face would add that extra bit of professionalism. And if a job I had to find, then I would do so in the company of Wild Woodbine.

And it was Monday morning, so Norman Hartnel’s dad (the fellow I had met during my wartime adventure who was so keen to mete out corporal punishment upon me) would be away, and his son, my friend, behind the counter to sell me these very Wild Woodbines.

So all would be well and a happy ever after.

I reached Norman ’s shop and I peeped in through the window. I looked at the names of the products. Not a German sweetie was there to be seen, but many an ad for Wild Woodbine.

I pushed on the door and the shop bell rang and I took a wander inside.

Norman was numbering papers. The paperboy had not turned in for work this morning, preferring to take the advice of Lad Nicholson, stick it to the Man and pull a sickie.

Norman looked up from his numberings and viewed me with evident distaste. ‘I shouldn’t really be talking to you,’ he said. ‘Getting us thrown out of the pub last night. You are a menace you are.’

‘I apologise for all that,’ I said. For all that now seemed oh so long ago. ‘I know I behaved badly. Something to do with only being served German lager, was it not?’

‘It was no such thing,’ said Norman. ‘Although…’ And he made a curious face. ‘When I come to think about it, I can’t actually remember what it was about. But whatever it was, I do know that it was all your fault.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘A packet of Wild Woodbine, please.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Norman. ‘You are underage.’

‘I have to get a job today,’ I said, ‘and-’

But-

Norman now fell into laughter.

‘Get a job?’ he went, between mirthful outbursts. ‘You get a job? You lazy, shiftless-’ And he ha-ha-hah’d.

‘It is not funny,’ I said. ‘Well, I suppose it is quite funny-’

But-

The shop doorbell went ping at the entry of a customer.

‘Come back later,’ said Norman to me. ‘I’m busy.’ And he dabbed at his eyes with an undersized plain brown hankie that matched his shopkeeper’s coat. ‘And I have proper customers to serve. Oh dear!’

And I saw Norman ’s face literally cloud over and his mouth fall open and his eyes go all a-goggle in his head.

‘What is the matter with you?’ I asked. But he was staring past me. I turned to see what he was staring at.

And there stood Count Otto Black.