Rain bounced off the car as I pulled up at home. A train, whistle blowing, wheels clattering on the lines, headed north. Sometimes, they keep you awake but you get used to the racket. After all, the Byfield Forge Company is just down the road, set next door to Milford's and when their night shift starts, the drop hammers send echoes booming along the valley. Lights were on behind our lounge curtains. They moved, Laura looked out. The curtains closed. I sighed. It was five minutes past midnight. Retribution was at hand. In other words, I was going to cop it right in the neck.
     I dashed down the alley and took my time entering the kitchen, switched on the light, closed the door and took off my shoes and raincoat. I checked myself in the mirror over the washbasin and rubbed my hair with a towel and combed it. I trod silently to the lounge door. It took me a minute to turn the door handle. Laura was sitting on the carpet, close to the fire. I could sense her anger.

     "Okay," she said, without turning. "What's the story this time? Have you been thinking one up in the kitchen or were you standing at the door and wondering if I'm going to kill you when you come in?"

     "I've just had a bad night," I ventured.

     She turned then, her eyes boring at me. "You went out before I could get home with Edwina. I phoned you but there was no answer."

     "You must have just missed me."

     "Yes - I did, because you came home and you dashed straight out. A real quick-change artist, aren't you? Where've you been?"

     I sat at the table. "I told you on the phone - I went to the Royal hotel in Shefton."

     "What did you go there for? If you want a drink the White Horse is just down the road."

     "There's no life at the Horse, and little chance of it either."

     "Want to bet?" She picked up the local evening newspaper laying beside her and flipped it on to the table. "Take a look in the advert columns."

     "Whereabouts?"

     "Next to the last page at the top. I've ringed it in pencil."

     I read, Musicians required to audition for the new Lucky Needham Traditional Jazz band at the White Horse Hotel, Shatley, this Friday night at seven-thirty, November 10th. I said that sounded good.

     Laura smiled. "We'll go and have a listen."

     "They won't be on stage," I said, "it's auditions only and they have them in a spare room at the back."

     Laura's brown eyes stared me down. "You will take me to the Horse on Friday. From next Monday you'll be working late, so I'm determined you'll take me out before then."

     "Okay, okay, don't get upset." I read the advert again. Lucky Needham? The name was familiar. Then I remembered him. A drummer. He's been around the local jazz scene since the late 30s. If auditions were Friday night I'd have words with young Bobby Patterson who worked in our office.

     "What happened with the car?" she asked.

     "There was muck in the fuel line."

     "Your hands don't look dirty."

     "They wouldn't be. I had a garage mechanic put it right."

     "Who did you go with?"

     "Wally Mullins and Terry Bonsall."

     She didn't look impressed. "Hmm. So you went out looking like the Three Musketeers and you came back looking like the Three Stooges, eh?"

     I took my chance. "I met Tony Ross at the Royal. He asked me to play football again for the Bull."
     "Tony Ross? That idiot who runs around in old army clothes?"

     "Yes - him. I'm getting out of shape, Laura. A bit of football won't hurt me."

     Laura pulled a face as she arose and sat at the table. "It hurt the last time you played: you broke your leg. We'd just got married and there was you in hospital with your leg in pot. I visited you every day, even though I was working. Didn't see many of your football pals there though, did we? A fine bunch they turned out to be. When you couldn't play they forgot about you, and they never came to see you last year, either. And you're playing for them again? You must be barmy!"

     "I'm going to the Bull tomorrow night. Don't mind, do you?"

     "Yes, I do mind. What are you going there for anyway?"

     "Team selection."

     Laura stifled a yawn. "Gawd, anybody would think you were playing for Arsenal." Another yawn. "Aren't you going to ask me about Milford's then?"

     "Sure. How did it go?"

     A smile lit up her lovely face. "It went fine. I met some of my old work mates. Milford's has a good canteen, but I went to Mum's to see Edwina."

     "How is she?"

     "She's okay but she misses her dad." She came round the table, stood behind me, put her hands on my shoulders and kissed my neck. "I miss you too." She sighed. "I hope this mess about the house clears up. I can't concentrate on anything with that hanging over us."

     "Everything will work out fine." I got up, turned, kissed her. "I'll nip round to the Bull tomorrow night, then we'll go to the Horse on Friday - how's that?"

     "Okay," she said, yawning again. "Come on, let's go to bed."


A lightning flash illuminated the rain as I drove into Cheadles yard. Furious wind rattled the bicycle shed, trying to rip the metal roof sheets away. And with it came a flurry of leaves torn from trees near the river. Thunder crashed overhead. I parked the Austin and splashed through puddles to clock in.

     "Bastard of a morning!" observed Joe Hillian, his pants singeing by the glowing furnace door.

     I had five minutes to spare before work started, and Joe was the very man I wanted to see. I asked had he seen the advert about the auditions at the Horse.

     "I did, Al. And before you ask - I've told young Bobby to attend."

     "What did he say to that?"

     Joe's gargoyle face grinned. "At first he didn't want to audition."

     "Why ever not?"

     "Because he's a sensitive lad. He jumps if they drop a pencil near to him in the office. It's his nerves, see? But don't worry - he'll be there - you can count on it." Joe rocked decisively on his toes. "You'll be cheering him on if he makes the band?"

     "Sure will, Joe. Laura will be there too."

     Frank Vosper came in, cursing the foul weather. The wind wrenched the side door from his grasp and it crashed against the wall and rebounded shut.

     "Well done, Frank," said Joe. "But may I say, that is not the way to sneak in if you are late."


Wally Mullins had the mother and father of a headache with eyes sunken above dark blue skin pouches. He came round to join me at the morning break. "Christ!" he said. "That bloody woman!"

     "What woman?"

     "That old bird Terry and me were talking to last night. You saw her - the one with feathers in her hat." I said I did recall seeing her and Wally said, "after you left with that bird of yours, this old girl said to Terry and me, 'Why are you lads drinking plain beer? You should try some of the finer drinks.'  Terry asked her what fine drinks she was talking about. She said, 'A drink such as a brandy and port treble.'"Treble?" I said. "What the firkin hell's a treble?" Wally breathed out strong alcoholic fumes. "She explained that trebles are three parts brandy and three parts port - softened with a double gin."

     "That's a cocktail," I said.

     Wally burped. "It's worse than that mate - it's rocket fuel. She ordered three of these trebles. One for her; one for Terry; one for me. She knocked hers back at one hit. I thought to myself - I'm not having an old bird out-booze me, so I did the same. I felt great - for about ten seconds. Then something hit me under the chin. My eyes were streaming. Terry got another round just before last orders."
     Wally shuddered at the memory of it. "I held my glass up and I could see Devils dancing in the liquid. And do you know what? This old bird sinks her treble faster than you can blink. Terry seemed okay when he downed his. But me? I drank mine and then I circled that bar at ten thousand firkin feet!" He took a bite of cheese and pickle sandwich, and carried on. "We went to a private sponge club after that. you know the sort, where you can't get in unless you're three-parts pissed. This bird came with us. There were about a hundred people in a place that could hardly hold ten. Terry and me ran out of cash but this lass said don't worry - just drink."
     Wally took another bite of sandwich. "When I got outside I remember falling on the pavement and Terry laughing with that donkey sound he has. The next thing I remember I was home in bed. No idea how I got there." He measured a spoonful of sugar and dropped it into his mug of coffee, stirring it. His eyes were clearing, becoming more calculating. "How did you get along with that cracking bird you left with?"

     "Aw, she was nothing much. She lives out in the sticks. She just wanted a lift home. I told her to forget it."

     Wally looked disappointed. He loved red-hot news. I finished eating a sandwich and asked him if he had heard of Vivaldi and the Four Seasons.

     "Who?" He stopped chewing.

     "Vivaldi. A group. Are they worth seeing?"

     His eyes lit up. "You're having me on."

     "I'm not having you on. I'm simply asking - are they any good."

     "Vivaldi is not a group, Al. Vivaldi is a bloke born in Venice. He wrote operas and all that stuff. His Four Seasons is a work about the four seasons. You know - Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. Didn't you firkin know that?"

     "Of course I did." I drank tea from my billycan lid. "This Vivaldi bloke's at the City Hall tomorrow night. I'm taking Laura to see him."

     Wally grinned. "I doubt it, Al, because old Viv died in 1741."

     I hid behind a newspaper page. Fancy Wally knowing that!


Lunch time had rain drumming on the factory roof. It stopped us playing football in Cheadles back yard among piles of steel turnings and defunct castings so we gathered in a shed built of Anderson air-raid shelter sheets. Conversation centred mostly on the forthcoming audition at the White Horse.

     "Never mind the audition," moaned Les Abbott, a skinny lad in his late twenties who had a personal problem. "Let's play Pontoon then I can forget I'm not happy."

     "Not happy?" said Wally dealing cards. "Why aren't you happy, Les?"

     "I've got trouble at home."

     "It's your wife, isn't it, Les? said Terry Bonsall, who lived next door to him.

     "It's not the wife - it's the bleedin' lodger."

     "You and the wife have a lodger?" said Wally. "What the hell for?"

     "To earn extra income, of course."

     "Extra income!" said Terry. "Don't Cheadles pay you enough then?"

     "They pay me enough but the wife spends it all."

     Wally frowned. "So what's this to do with the lodger?"

     Les grimaced, packed in his bad cards. "She spends my money on him. And, I think he's knocking her off and I don't know what to do about it."

     "I know what I'd do," said Terry. "I'd kick him out."

     The rest of us agreed with that.

     "Aye," said Les. "There's only one thing stopping me from doing that."

     "And what's that, Les?" This from Jacky Ballinger.

     Les looked mournfully round the table. "This lodger's a big bastard."


More rain hammered on the factory roof. Footsteps hurried toward us. The door opened and Joe Hillian, towel round his neck, gargoyle face screwed with anxiety glared at each of us. His faded blue eyes stopped at me. He jerked a thumb. "Here, Al, come and have a word with my nephew, Bobby, will you? He's come out of the office and says he's scared of auditioning for that jazz band. I don't know what the hell's up with the lad. He'll listen to you so come on and give him some advice."

     We found Bobby leaning against the forge tearoom door. "Hiya, Bobby," I said. "What's bothering you?"

     Frank Vosper, studiously peeling a banana, looked up from a battered Victorian dining table. "Bobby says he doesn't want to audition. He thinks he'll play badly and let us down."

     The forge rest room was large, comfortable - and dusty. I asked Bobby to sit down and talk about it. We sat together at the table. Bobby looked uneasy in his clerical office suit. Now eighteen, he had a passion for the big band era of the 30s and played clarinet a la Benny Goodman. I asked him if he was still practising.

     His eyes sparkled. "I sure am."

     "You'll be auditioning for Lucky Needham then?"

     Bobby frowned. "Uncle Joe's told me about that, but I don't want to audition." I asked him why not. He said he didn't have the confidence to step onto a stage and play. I told him this could be his chance. What was the point practising if he didn't test himself when it mattered? He shrugged. "I don't think I'm ready. I'd look a fool if I auditioned and turned out to be hopeless."

     "You're not hopeless, Bobby," said Billy Wells, making a fresh pot of tea. "I've heard it said that you're good on clarinet. I'm not a musician but I'll bet you are worth listening to."

     Frank Vosper finished off the banana and tossed the skin into a waste bucket. "Bobby," he said, "I remember you telling me about your clarinet. You said, 'when I open my clarinet case, I see five sections of beauty. I assemble those sections - and I have a clarinet. I fit a reed to the mouthpiece and I tighten it in place."

     Bobby nodded. "That's right, then I said I blow gently down the clarinet and I hear a beautiful note. I move my fingers on the keys and on the holes, and I hear notes. Suddenly, I'm transported to another world. I play a tune. I ad-lib. And I'm unbelievably happy."

     "Good," said Joe. "Then get stuck into that audition and make us all happy. We'll support you lad, and if that Needham feller doesn't select you for the band - I'll thump him - and that will make him Unlucky Needham." The one o'clock buzzer sounded. Joe grinned at Bobby. "I'm your uncle, right? And we are family, right? What do you say to the audition?"

     Bobby nodded. "I'll play."

     Joe smirked at his work pals. "Come on, you idle bastards, there's work to do."


News of Bobby's involvement at the Friday night audition filtered quickly through the factory. Even old Errol Flynn Dingle was pleased. The message was out: support Bobby on Friday - or else. No excuses tolerated. All those not attending would be reported to Joe Hillian.

     "And," said Joe, in a crowded wash up room at five minutes to six, "all bastards missing will, on Saturday morning, be fed to the forge furnace on my largest shovel."

I arrived home just after six, relieved to find Laura at home with Edwina. I washed at the kitchen sink with Edwina hanging onto my trousers, singing, 'Daddy, Daddy,' Laura switched on an electric two-bar fire to heat the lounge until the coal fire took hold. She said she had caught a heavy downpour on the way home with Edwina. I suggested she took driving lessons. When she passed and used the car, I would use the bicycle. Laura didn't think driving lessons a good idea. I told her to think about it. After our evening meal and with washing up completed, I sat close to the roaring fire and read Edwina nursery rhymes from a book mum had bought her. Edwina wasn't much interested. She languished on my lap and dozed.
Laura switched on the television. "It's seven o'clock," she said. "Are you staying in?"

     Christ - I had almost dozed off! I passed Edwina gently to her and got up. "No, I'm off out. I've promised to see the lads at the Bull. I'm playing again and they're selecting the team tonight for Saturday."

     "You'll be back early?"

     "I should be." I hurried upstairs to change, really looking forward to seeing Natalie again.
     I put on my best suit - a thirty-five quid job made-to-measure at Hufton's the best tailor in town. I wore a raincoat to hide the suit and slipped out the front door and called "see you later."