It suddenly hit me as I was letting Laura and myself in at our front door - I needed to telephone Natalie. Phone at half past ten she had said. Port and Lemon usually made Laura drowsy but tonight she was fighting to stay awake, mumbling about the chances of staying in our home. I made us both hot chocolate while she took off her shoes in front of the fire's dull embers. She sank onto the divan, feet tucked under herself. "I don't want to leave here," she said. "I couldn't live with mum all the time, not now. we're too much like each other." She reached up and pulled me down to her. "Do you still love me, Alan. If you do - show me how much."

Sometimes you have to compromise. After we had finished our drinks I carried her upstairs and lay her gently on our bed. Her body was warm and yielding. Forty minutes later she was asleep. I crept downstairs, dressed quickly, and decided not to use our telephone in case Laura woke up. I put on my raincoat and slipped out to the telephone kiosk which stood opposite number 24. Fortunately, the rain had eased. Natalie answered the phone. "Sorry I'm late, Natalie. Went to a jazz club. The weather turned bad. Had trouble getting home." She asked was I playing tomorrow. "Yes, I'm playing. Where shall I pick you up?"

"I'll make my own way - just tell me where it is."

I told her and asked if she knew the way. She did know. I told her to be at Bulling Street for three o'clock if she wanted to be there for the kick-off.


Bobby's failure to make the Needham band had upset Joe Hillian and Frank Vosper for after I clocked in on Saturday morning they waylaid me in the forge and played hell about it. "That kid played out of his socks," Joe said. "I couldn't have played better clarinet myself."

"You don't play clarinet," said Frank.

Joe sighed. "I know I don't play. But I couldn't have played better if I did."

I explained to them that Needham knew of Bobby's impending National Service, and this was the reason Bobby had not been chosen. They perked up when I said Needham would allow Bobby a few minutes stage time each evening. "Ah!" said Joe, beaming at me. "I'll slip into the office when Bobby comes in and I'll tell him that. 'E won't half be pleased." He called across the forge to Billy Wells. "Hey, Billy, our Bobby's playing for that Needham feller tonight."

I left him to it and walked into the cold, drab machine shop. Wally Mullins had a beautiful hangover. He didn't speak a word until the morning break when he came round to my lathe with coffee, daily newspaper, sandwiches in a paper folder and his orange-box seat. "What did you make of it last night?" he said. "Fancy that bastard Needham not choosing Bobby."

I swung my billycan to mix hot water with tea. "Did you know Billy's got his call-up papers."

"Yeah, I heard something about it."

I poured milk into my billycan, gave it another couple of swings and poured tea into the lid. "But for National Service, Wally, Bobby would be in the band. It's the same old story - National Service buggers up everything."

"It didn't bugger me." Wally rubbed bleary eyes. "When they called me up in '42 I failed my medical. Had a bad back. They tried calling me again in '49 but my back was worse."

"I didn't know you had back trouble."

"Yeah. had it for years. That's why Labourer Bill does the heavy lifting for me. You've probably noticed that he does all my chain work when there's heavy stuff on the end of the hook." I told him he had missed out not doing army service. He took a bite of ham and pickle sandwich. "Me in the army doing square-bashing? Not firkin likely! I'd rather do ten rounds with Rocky Marciano."

At ten o'clock somebody said the weather was improving: the windy storms of the past days had subsided. To my surprise, Old Man Dingle came up and asked how Bobby had fared at the audition. "He was very good, Mister Dingle, but he wasn't selected because his call-up is too near."

Dingle stroked his chin. "Ah, yes, that's right. he's due to enlist in three weeks. The army will put some stiffening in his back." Dingle rose on his toes. "You can't beat the army for sorting you out, you know. It gets rid of all the fluff behind your ears. Clears the dust from your brain. Makes a man of you."

"It did that with me," I said.

Dingle smiled. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that." He moved away a step then came back. "Heard anything from the Council about your house?" I told him no. He muttered something to himself about blundering officialdom and stalked off as though intent on solving all the problems the world had to offer.

The morning was going along steadily enough with Labourer Bill helping me mark out the Danish job when Terry Bonsall came up, looking out for Dingle, who had gone to the forge.Terry was a lad who tried to do everything covertly, but that only made him stand out the more. I was thinking mostly of Laura and Natalie and didn't first catch on to his line of conversation. "How's things with Natalie, then?" he asked. I said we were finished - I had packed her in. Terry checked again that Dingle wasn't around and that Bill was out of earshot. "Come off it. You were with her at the City Hall on Thursday."

"Who told you that?"

Terry nodded wisely. "Tony Ross told me at the Bull last night. Said Mickey Davis had seen you with her at the Vivaldi concert." He sniggered. "Ha, you at a Vivaldi concert! That's like selling ice cream to the Eskimos!"

I sighed. Mickey Davis and his big mouth. "Mickey doesn't know anything, Terry. He must have seen my double."

Terry wasn't giving in. "Okay, then what about the Golden Dragon, that new Chinese place, eh? I'm told you and Natalie were drinking wine until it was coming out of your ears."

"We had one bottle of wine."

"Ah!" Terry smirked. "So you were with her. When are you seeing her again?"

"I've just told you - we've packed up."

Dingle appeared from the forge. Terry ducked low and said, "Are you packing her in because her brother's a big shot?" I asked Terry what did he mean. He asked had I heard of the Schaeffers. I said I hadn't. Terry seemed concerned. He said, "You should swot up on local industry, mate. get in your banger and drive ten miles along the East Coast Road from Shatley. Go through Leskam village. A couple of miles further on, to the right, you'll see Schaeffer Hall. Bloody big place it is too! Old man Schaeffer used to own Schaeffers, you know. You've heard of them, haven't you? The clothing manufacturers? Old Schaeffer handed over the business to the younger son and retired to the country. Bought this Hall; did it up, renamed it after himself. Shoots pheasant now. He's a crack shot they tell me. Can hit anything that moves - including lads who are chasing his daughters."

I checked a vernier gauge reading against the crank shaft blueprint. "I don't care what old man Schaeffer shoots at, Terry. I've stopped seeing Natalie. We had just one night out - and that's all."

Terry grinned, peered over my machine to see if Dingle was approaching, and said, "I'd believe you, Al. but for one thing: you're the biggest bleedin' liar in Shefton."

                                                    *****

While we waited for the time clock to click around to midday, Joe Hillian did his version of a pirouetting clog dancer, and sang hoarsely, 'My nephew Bobby's playing in the Needham Band. Told him just this morning and he thinks it's really grand. My...' He was knocked over in the rush to clock out, got up, straightened his waistcoat, put on his flat cap, donned a tattered raincoat and rushed out to grab a lift home with Frank Vosper.

I gave several lads a lift as far as Paper Road, dropped them off and got home to find Laura preparing sausages, eggs and bacon. I washed quickly, changed into fresh clothing and lifted Edwina high, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"What about me?" said Laura.

I obliged. She'd taken trouble over her appearance and looked gorgeous. She had a different hair style. She asked what did I reckon to it.

"How much?"

"It didn't cost anything - Mum did it for me."

"It looks terrific. Pour me a cup of tea, will you, love?"

She put her arms round my neck from behind. "I had my hair done for you. Just you." She gave me a kiss on the side of my jaw. Edwina smiled at me from her high chair. "Daddy kiss Mummy," she said.

After lunch I packed my football kit: an old pair of clean blue football socks, a pair of shin-pads, a pair of white shorts, a thick towel, a bar of soap and super clean football boots. Laura gave me a strong carrier bag to put them in. "What are we doing tonight?" she asked. I'd been waiting for this question. I said the Bull lads had invited me to a private party. Laura frowned. "A private party? Where?" I said I didn't know where - it was a mystery private party. I'd be home as quick as possible. She slumped heavily on the settee. "You'd best get back in time. I had my hair done especially for you. We're going to the Horse tonight. Be home by six-thirty."

"Yes, but..."

"By six-thirty, Alan."

                                                     *****

Rough, uneven Bulling Street, still ravaged and pock-marked from the 1940 blitz, lay in a bomb-cratered part of Shefton. Terraced houses were pre-1900 and so were many of the inhabitants. Pop Dawson was one. I spotted him standing outside a newsagents shop with Tony Ross and Albert Cosby, so I pulled in and parked up. The football ground was close by.

Tony was all grins. "You made it then?"

"Yeah, even got the wife to clean my boots."

"I wish I could get my wife to polish mine," said Pop, a round-faced, stoop-shouldered sixty-odd.

Natalie hadn't shown. I was still looking for her when Sid Binks arrived late on his motor bike and sidecar with the football kit in a worn-out hold-all with a busted handle. We had to rush to the ground in time for kick off. The weather was being slightly kinder to us for the recent hours of blustery rain had settled to a hazy drizzle.


The match turned out to be against Rupert Street Methodists. I'd played against them a couple of times. Pop Dawson threw me the number 9 shirt. Get this on he said and grab a couple of goals. He scowled as I stepped in to my white shorts. He said the Bull played in black shorts and what was I doing in white? I told him I'd lost the black shorts and now I only had white. Sid said, "Compromise, Al - play without any on."

Rupert Street kicked off up the slope in their yellow strip and ran all over us in the first half hour. They may have been practising Methodists but they were anything but angelic. By this time I was puffing bad and had stitch. My legs ached from toiling in the puddles and the mud. Their centre-half didn't help my condition by elbowing me in the ribs at a corner kick. i was playing poorly. By half time we were three down. Pop talked to us on the touch line, said we had to do something constructive.

"Yeah," said Mickey Davis. "Let's go home."

The result was a 5-0 pasting. When you lose, it's amazing the different things you notice that you hadn't seen before. The damp changing room, the door hanging on one hinge. Pop told us to forget winning the league if we played like that. "And you," he said, looking at me. "You played like a prat. I would've done better myself."

"Then pick yourself for next week," I said, "because I'm not playing again."

"Why not?" he sneered. "Can't you stand the pace?"

"I've come back from breaking my leg, haven't I?"

"Let's not get upset," said Tony. "We all played rubbish but we're still clear in the league in second place."

Pop Dawson wouldn't let things be. "Are you coming to the Bull on Thursday, Alan, or are you expecting to walk into the team when you can't be bothered to attend the meetings?" I'd never walked away from an argument and I gave him some back. Told him he'd never kicked a football in his life. He stood on a touchline while others ran in mud, wind, rain and took kicks and bruises. So why didn't he just shove off and let the Bull play their matches without his loud mouth shouting the odds?

He said, "I've never kicked a ball in years because of this." He pulled down a stocking to below what should have been his left ankle. I learned later he had lost it on the Somme in World War I. Nobody spoke for a minute.

"I'm sorry, Pop," I said and I walked out.

He came to the door and called after me. "Alan." I stopped, turned, looked back at him. "Let's call it quits, shall we?" he said. "Let's start again. There's a place for you in the team if you want it."

I nodded thanks, apology on my face. "I might just take you up on that, Pop."

"Will you be at the meeting next Thursday?"

"Can't make it, Pop. I'm working till ten each night next week."

"Okay, we'll let you know somehow." He went back to the lads.

I looked up and down Bulling Street. There was no sign of Natalie. She had evidently missed her way. Or - she wasn't interested in me. There was obviously no chance of being with her tonight so I called in at the newsagents and bought a large box of chocolates. Laura would love them.

                                                     *****

I entered an empty home. The fire was dead. Yet another letter lay against the teapot. Laura had taken Edwina to her grandma's - to a surprise party, it said. She would be back at seven. I put the chocolates on the cold slab in the pantry, switched on the radio to catch the football results and listened to them while washing my hands and face at the kitchen sink. Stan Mortensen had scored two goals for Blackpool, and in another match, Jimmy Hagan had played a blinder for Sheffield United. There was nothing about me having had a lousy game against Rupert Street Meths. The match had left me with aching calves and sore ribs. I decided to take a bath and soak in hot water, but because the fire had gone out the water was only warm. I lowered myself into the bath and took my football boots with me...

A hand shook my arm. "Come on," said Laura. "You shouldn't sleep in the bath, you know." She washed my neck and back and gave me a slap across the shoulders. That bloody hurts when your shoulders are wet and the water's almost cold. I would have chased her from the bathroom but the last time I did that I slipped on a bar of soap and cracked a knee against the door.

I stepped out of the bath and gave the boots a good cleaning. "Don't hang about," I said. "Pass me a towel, will you? Then nip down stairs. There's a box of chocolates in the pantry. Whip the lid off. And I bags the coffee creams."

"You haven't had tea, have you?"

"No."

"Right, well get some clothes on. Edwina's in her cot. She wants her Daddy." She looked at me from head to toes. "You have some nasty bruises on your ribs." I told her to blame the Rupert Street Methodist centre-half. She came to me. Pushed herself close. Pressed her hands against my buttocks. "Never mind silly Rupert Street. I'll kiss your bruises better tonight. But you do me a favour first."

"What's that?"

"Let mum come round and look after Edwina while we go to the Horse. I can phone her. She'll be quite happy to baby-sit."

"Okay, phone her. Hang on though - what time is it?"

"It's quarter past seven."

"We'll have to rush or we'll never get a seat." I turned away from her to pick up another towel from the rail. She slapped my backside. I set off to catch her - and trod on a bar of slippery soap.