When Dad Had A Gun

When Dad Had A Gun

I was not supposed to know that Dad owned a gun. He kept it at the back of his wardrobe, hidden behind a pile of old jumpers that were fraying at the sleeves, and beneath some neatly folded decorating overalls that I’d never seen him wear. I found it late one afternoon, when I had the house to myself and I was rummaging around. I was not specifically looking for anything, although naturally I was hoping there’d be something here.

I didn’t (and still don’t) know much about guns and so I can’t say what sort it was. All I can say (from memory) is that it was lighter than I’d expected and had a wooden haft that fitted neatly in the place between my shoulder and my neck. It was summer and the sun was shining. I held the gun tight and poked it through the open bedroom window. I pointed it in the vague direction of some sparrows which had made their nests in spring, in the old apple tree at the bottom of the garden, the one that always blossomed without ever producing fruit.

I chose a particular bird, a small brown thing that had settled on the tip of the most obvious branch, and got it in my sights, the way I had seen snipers do in the old war films that Dad liked to watch when the football was on. I closed one eye and squeezed the trigger. It was only then that I realised I had no idea if Dads’ gun was loaded or not. I can’t remember if I was disappointed when it gave an empty click and the sparrow flew away. I carefully put the gun away and never thought to mention it.

That autumn, two weeks after Dad died - quietly in hospital, after a long standing illness - I went to find the gun again. I waited until Mum was back at work and then opened the wardrobe door. I didn’t know what to make of the fact that whilst the old jumpers and the decorating overalls were still there, the gun no longer was.