It was Friday morning. The Cheadles work force was talking of nothing else but Bobby Patterson auditioning at the White Horse. Joe Hillian had arrived early and had advised everyone who passed him to attend the audition - or else.

I put a traverse cut on my crankshaft job and slid round to Wally Mullins. He looked up from reading a newspaper. "Will you be at the Horse tonight, Wally?"

"Yeah, sure thing. Can't miss listening to Bobby, can I?"

"Is your memory working?"

He frowned. "Of course it is."

"Well," I said, sitting next him and ensuring I was out of Dingle's sight. "I'm bringing Laura. She might ask were you with me last night at the City Hall Vivaldi concert."

"I wasn't."

"I know you wasn't, but you must say that you were."

Wally was looking bad from a heavy drinking session. "Okay, so I was with you last night at the City Hall - how's that?"

"That's good. Just make sure you remember it."

The day slid on to four o'clock and I nipped across to the nearest hot stove and warmed myself against it. Jackie Ballinger was there, reading a newspaper. He looked round at me and grinned. "I'm auditioning at the Horse tonight," he said.

"Are you? I didn't know you were a musician Jackie. What are you playing - spoons, or are you shaking a tambourine?"

He grinned. "Don't be so bloody clever. I'm giving them a song."

"It's an instrumental audition, Jack. it's not for vocalists."

Jackie sniffed, rubbed the side of his face and left a dirt smudge on it. "I don't care if it's a clog dance competition - I'm going to sing."

"But you can't sing in tune."

Jackie closed the newspaper and shoved it under an arm. "I know that. But whenever I let rip, Nick Lewis stops me and gives me a free half pint. So pick the bones out of that." He laughed and walked back to his machine, singing 'Jezebel' - even more out of tune than usual. I stared after him. There was more sense to Jackie Ballinger than I had thought.

With old man Dingle's permission, I telephoned the Black Bull at five-thirty. Larry Hewitt, the pub landlord answered. I told him who I was and asked was I playing for the Bull on Saturday. He didn't know any details. Pop Dawson would be in at seven-thirty. Maybe I could phone then. I said thanks and hung up. When I got home I would wait until Laura went upstairs to get changed and I would phone Pop then. It struck me that I could have asked Mickey Davis the details at the City Hall. I shrugged. I had not thought of that because I was not then intending to play again.

I arrived home after six, bathed, changed and sat with Laura to a meal of ham salad. I said I hoped Edwina would be okay at Mum's. Laura poured me a second cup of tea. "I'm sure she will be."

I was helping Laura wash up in the kitchen, when there sounded a knock at the door. My hands were covered with soap suds so Laura answered it.

"Hello, Laura. Is Alan in?"

I shuddered: it was Tony Ross. Laura told him to wipe his boots and stepped back to let him in. Of course he had to open his big mouth. "What happened to you last night, Al?" he blared. I thought furiously of what signal I could give him but he just ploughed on, dropping me further in the muck. "We waited for you till near ten before picking the team," he bleated. "We're playing at home - meeting at Bulling Street, two o'clock. You're playing centre-forward."

I didn't dare look at Laura. She gave me an exasperated shove in the back and stalked into the living-room, slamming the door behind her.
 
Tony frowned. "Was it something I said?"

I kept my voice down. "You bet it was. I told her I was at the Bull last night and you've come round and said I wasn't there."

Tony spread his hands. "Well I didn't know that, did I?"

I let waste water out of the sink. It gurgled in the pipe. "Why didn't you contact me at work? You used to phone me there when I played."

"Never thought. I would have phoned you last night but I was with Rita. She's with me now. I just dropped in because we're on our way to the Horse. A mate's driving us there." He studied me. "You are playing tomorrow, aren't you?"

"I've a mind not to now you've dropped me in it."

"But you're in the team! Old Pop wasn't keen on selecting you because you hadn't turned up. We all said you should play so he was outvoted. Mad as hell he was." I asked if Mickey Davis had voted for me. "Yes, he did, but he wasn't there. He'd taken his wife to a concert at City Hall, but we knew about that." Tony put on his appeasing look. "Come on, mate, don't let us down. We've got new shirts: red and green stripes with numbers on the back. We'll look like a bunch of fighter aircraft coming out of the sun."

"Maybe you lot will come out of the sun," I said, "but it's me who will be shot down by fighter pilot Laura when you've gone."

He smiled apologetically and opened the door. "I'm sorry about that, Al. But you are playing tomorrow, aren't you" he lowered his voice. "It'll get you away from the wife. Remember one thing, they can't hit you when you're not there."

Maybe he had a point. I checked on where we were meeting. He grinned, "I've already told you - Bulling Street, two o'clock." He asked was I going to the audition at the Horse. I told him yes. "Good," he said, "I'll see you there then." He went out and slammed the door so hard that coal shifted in the bunker.

I fiddled about, arranging the crockery we had washed and when I had finished it was still in the same place. I waited at the living-room door and composed my thoughts. What the hell could I say? It took me a minute to turn the door handle. Laura was sitting near the fire, staring at flames licking at shiny coal lumps. I could tell by her clenched fists that she was hotter than hot. "Okay," she said. "What's your story? You weren't at the Bull last night so where were you? That's if you can remember."

"All right, I didn't go to the Bull - I went to the City Hall instead."

She looked up at me. "Whatever for?"

"There was an orchestra playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons. It's classical stuff."

"I know it's classical." Her brown eyes were trying to see through me. "But you listening to classical music - I don't believe it!"

I brought my raincoat from the kitchen, rifled through its pockets, pulled out the concert ticket stubs and held them for her to see. "There you are. Two tickets. Wednesday night, Vivaldi. Believe me now?"

She saw the prices on the ticket tabs. "Eight pounds for a Circle ticket!"

She didn't need to know they were Complimentary, so I didn't tell her. "You have to pay if you want to hear good music."

"Whose was the other ticket then?"

"Wally Mullins. he knows a lot about Vivaldi. It was him who persuaded me to go."

"Okay, then why say you'd been to the Bull instead of the concert?"

"Because I thought you'd be annoyed."

"About what?"

"About me paying eight quid a ticket."

She rose slowly. "I'm more annoyed at you lying through your teeth." I tried saying more but she pushed past me and went upstairs. I cursed Tony bloody Ross good and hard! Why the damn hadn't he phoned me at work? I tore the ticket stubs and threw them on the fire and watched them curl as though in agony, then scorch in the heat and finally burst into flames. Laura was right - I was a liar. But I was a liar by choice. Loved being a liar. Had striven as a kid to hone a lie to make it a believable truth. I might not be a great footballer - but I was a bloody good con artist. That's why when I was a youngster, they called me the Shatley Liar. They still did, and I was proud of that title. I looked in the mirror above the fireplace. I was good-looking. I'd been told that often enough. Wavy hair parted on the left, wide cheek bones, brown eyes: what more could a woman want? But maybe what I had was not enough for Laura. We had been at odds for some time. She had started siding with her mum. Okay, if that's how she wanted it, then maybe I was right to try for Natalie. I took another look in the mirror. And I liked what I saw.

Although rain still lurked in the strong night breeze, Laura opted for walking to the Horse instead of using the Austin. We set off at seven-thirty, with me not bothering to phone Pop Dawson because Tony had told me I was playing. She hugged my arm "It seems ages since we went out walking like this."

"Aye, and it seems ages since I had a pint."

"Oh, come off it! You're not going there just to drink, are you? Surely you're more interested in the music."

We reached the end of Paper Road, swung left down Belford Road toward the railway bridge, walked past Reap Lane and continued along Eccles Road until we reached the White Horse car park. It was full. And so was the concert room. I told Laura to hustle a seat near the stage while I bought our drinks. She wanted double port and lemon. She said, "Joe Hillian's just waved me over. Can you see him? he's at the third table from the left beside the stage." I said okay and eased past familiar faces, saying hello here and there and finally I made the bar.

On stage, Nick Lewis mouthed into the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to a man who is one of the best bandleaders around - Mister Lucky Needham." He handed the mike to a big fellow standing next him. Needham fiddled with the mike cable, flicked it behind his legs and grinned down at the audience.

     "Get on with it then," somebody called out. There were several good-natured boos. Whether or not Needham was lucky I don't know but he was certainly massive. A beer paunch hung over his belt. He was dressed late 40s bebopper style; multi-coloured waistcoat; dark blue shirt; black trousers tapering to his ankles; brothel-creeper shoes. Brown hair, crew-cut top, sides left long and lacquered in place. and a DA at the back. He had the lot - and the rattle.

"Good evening folks. I'm Lucky Needham and I welcome you to this night of auditions for my new jazz band. We were to hold auditions in a back room but I want to see how the boys can handle it on stage in front of an audience, and so here we are. I'm auditioning for trumpet, clarinet, trombone and banjo. My band will play traditional jazz - and traditional jazz only. I don't want any Charlie Parker or Dizzy Gillespie stylists trying it on. If you don't play Humphrey Littleton a la mode then don't waste my time."

     "What about a bleedin' foxtrot?" From somebody standing at the bar.

"Come to order, please," said Nick.

Needham grinned, obviously at home in this atmosphere. He nodded toward an old man sitting behind the pub piano. "This is Ken Barnes, ladies and gentlemen. Ken's been with me for 12 years. Can play anything. So how about some applause for him, huh?" There was a ripple. Needham glanced away to his right where several auditioning musicians were holding instruments at the ready. Bobby Patterson was fourth in line. Needham placed the mike in its holder and sat behind his drum kit. It was an American Leedy set up of snare drum, bass drum and two tom-toms. The cymbals were Avedis Zyldjian. He twirled a drum stick. "Let's go to work, shall we? Who's first?"

I got in an order of double port and lemon, and a pint of Rundle's bitter for me, plus drinks for Joe Hillian and Frank Vosper and wives. I knew what they drank off by heart. Somebody gave me an elbow in the back. I turned to see Wally Mullins with a pint of black and tan in hand. Whatever he was trying to say to me was lost in a mighty crescendo as Needham battered his drums as intro to the first number. I winced. Things could only get better. The first lad up was a trumpeter who played a passable version of Tiger Rag.
 
One trombone and one clarinet later, Bobby came on stage to wild applause. He put the clarinet to his lips. We waited. Nothing happened. You could have heard a mouse run across the stage. I saw Frank Vosper frown. Next him Joe Hillian was scowling and wondering what the hell was wrong with his nephew. Nobody smoked or talked or drank. Cigarette smoke swirled blue in the stage lighting. Still we waited. Lucky Needham's bushy eyebrows came closer together. I was thinking that Bobby's nerves had tied him up when there came a note, pure and soft, a searching note, that changed to a higher pitch, and suddenly Bobby was playing intricate patterns, playing with beauty and clarity that left Needham sitting silently behind his six-piece drum kit, riveted by what he was hearing. I didn't recognise the tune, and neither did anyone else. It didn't seem to matter when you heard a musician play from the heart like that. When he finished, there was silence - then applause. He left the stage and disappeared from my view.

As can happen sometimes in a packed room, Wally was pushed away from me and I eventually reached the table where Joe Hillian had saved a place for me. I passed him the loaded drinks tray. "Shove yourself in, Al," he said. "What did you think of my nephew, eh? Bloody good, wasn't he?"

     "Brilliant," I said, "he'll make the band for sure." I handed Laura her drink. She said she thought I'd gone home.
     The auditions finished at nine-fifteen. Needham called for a ten minute break and announced to cheers that all musicians should gather on stage for a jam session. But first he wanted a drink. The concert room reeked of heavy cigarette smoke and beer fumes. Fred Thompson, twelve pints full, face beetroot colour, tried a headstand on a table loaded with glasses. He skidded off the table, landed on his backside and was taken to recover in the games room. Fred had never succeeded with this attempt in two years. Laura gave me a gentle elbow in the ribs: she wanted another port and lemon. It was murder pushing through to the bar. Cigarette smoke was grabbing my throat. I glimpsed Rita Savannah's green hair. Jackie Ballinger tried singing 'Jezebel' but somebody shut him up with a fresh pint of Guinness. I waved a pound note in front of Nick Lewis. "Give us a pint, Nick."

Nick, hot, but not flustered, grinned. I could tell the night's taking were up. "Port and lemon for Laura?" he asked. I said yes, and put some port in it this time.
 
"What do you reckon to young Bobby?" I asked.

Nick put my pint glass on the counter. "He's good, but I don't think Needham will have him. Lucky says Bobby's not right for the band." I said I didn't believe it. Nick shrugged, passed over a port and lemon, took my note and gave me change, said, "That's what Lucky said. If you don't believe me ask him yourself."

I returned to the table just as the jam session started. It took sixteen choruses of At The Jazz Band Ball to complete the evening. Bobby was outstanding. Needham, sweating heavily and looking happy with himself grabbed the mike and called for order. "Ladies and gentlemen, have you enjoyed the evening?" There were cheers. "You have? Good. Right, now how about some applause for all the musicians who have played for you this evening?" He waited until the applause had stopped. "Thanks folks for your appreciation. I'll now announce my new band members who will play regularly for me from tomorrow night."

The names were read out - Nick was right - Bobby was not in the band. The White Horse dropped into an unearthly silence. Even the cigarette smoke in the room seemed shocked. Joe Hillian was dumbfounded. "It's a fix," he uttered softly. "My Bobby should be in the band." He glared at his wife sitting beside him. "Did you hear that, Bertha?" He got up. "I'll stick one on Needham's chin."

Bertha restrained him. "Sit down, you fool. You're not in the boxing ring now. And put your tie straight, you look like a ventriloquist's dummy."

It took me ten minutes to buttonhole Needham. I got to him on stage. "Can I have a word?" I said.

He stared coldly at me. "I'm tired, mate, so make it quick."

"Why didn't you select Bobby Patterson on clarinet?"

"Look," he said wearily. "I run a band, not a charity shop. I didn't select the kid because..."

"He was the best clarinet player by far."

Needham fiddled with the buttons on his waistcoat. "I know the kid can play, but I don't want him."

"Why not?"

Needham stood very straight. he must have been six-five. "Look, mate, normally I don't give reasons but let me put you straight." He shoved the drum sticks into a plastic holder. "Ever heard of National Service? That kid's received his call-up papers. I reckon he'll be square-bashing in a month. So he's no good to me, is he?" His coarse features relaxed. "Look, I know everybody has their favourites. You've got yours - and I've got mine."

"Okay," I said, "so he's joining up soon. But surely you can give him a spot in your band, say for ten minutes? The locals would appreciate that and so would Bobby. You've nothing to lose. It wouldn't do your reputation any harm either."

Needham thought about that and nodded. "Okay, tell him he's got ten minutes on Friday and Saturday nights - but he plays for nothing."

I said thanks and I left him and Ken Barnes chatting to the selected musicians and to Nick Lewis. The place was almost empty except for two glass collectors. Laura was sitting near the door. She gave me a right telling off. Said Tony Ross and Rita Savannah had waited a couple of minutes to speak to me but they'd lost patience and left with their friend by car. And why was I waffling to Needham? I told her about Bobby. Forget Bobby, she said, think of me. We went outside into heavy sleet. She didn't stop complaining. Hadn't I consideration for her? She bent my ears most of the way home. I was thinking of Natalie as an east wind drove rain over the railway embankment. Laura said we should have used the Austin. I groaned and pulled up my raincoat collar.

It's amazing how the weather turns bad when you're getting a telling-off.