The next morning, Tuesday, went by reasonably well. I was completing a Denmark crankshaft in about eight hours, which would pay me at time and a half rate - exactly as estimated by old man Dingle. He was happy with that. "We don't want you turning them out inside half an hour and making me look bad on piecework times, do we?" he said.

     At the break, Wally came round at a trot to join me, obviously eager to give me the latest news. "I saw Tony Ross at the Horse last night, Al. Green-haired Rita was with him." He opened a pack of cheese and pickle sandwiches. "And guess what. Rita's ex-hubby was sitting at the next table to them. I mean how close to a punch-up can you get? Tell you what though - Rita's ex is a big bugger, but he's not as big as Tony is." Wally bit into a sandwich. "Hey, and speaking of big buggers, have you heard about Les Abbott?"

     "What about him?"

     "You know about Les having a lodger who Les thought was knocking his missus, Lisa? Well, I'm telling you, this lodger is about fourteen feet tall and he must weigh a firkin ton. Les took our advice about tackling this lodger and do you know what happened?"

     "Les had a go at him and Les is now in hospital?"

     "Oh no." Wally shook his newspaper to straighten its creases and to emphasise his story. "Les told him to pack his bags and firk off. We know this is true because Terry Bonsall lives next door to Les, and Terry had his ear 'ole stuck to the connecting wall and heard the bust-up. And guess what? This big bugger packed up and went - just like that!" Wally smirked. "But that's not all of it. Lisa was so happy the lodger had gone that she carried Les upstairs in his birthday suit and gave him a celebration party." Wally sniggered and drank tea. "Les said she used to carry him upstairs quite often before the lodger came. And now Les is getting a lot of what he hasn't been getting for ages."

     "Good for Les," I said.

     By nine o'clock that same evening I was machining the fourth Denmark crankshaft, and after double-checking the first three items were as per the Denmark blueprint, I asked Bill to coat them with a preservative. While he was doing this, I used Dingle's phone to call Samantha's number.

     A pleasant voice said, "Hello, Samantha speaking."

     "Hello, it's Alan. Can I speak to Natalie please?"

     For several moments all I could hear were the slap of our overhead belt and the clanking of hammers at the Byfield Forge. Then Natalie's voice said, 'hello'.

     "Hello," I said. "How are you?"

     "I'm okay, but whatever are those banging sounds?"

     "They are trip hammers working at a nearby factory."

     "Gosh, how can you stand the noise?"

     "You get used to it." I came straight to the point and asked her how things were with her family.

     Natalie sighed. "Angela's waiting to see where I go on Saturday afternoon. She came right out with it and told me."

     "We must give her the slip then. I think the game is at Dilworth against a team called Byron Street Amateurs."

     "Oh good. I know Dilworth."

     "There's only one football ground in the village. It's behind the church. I'm not certain of the fixture but I can let you know for sure on Friday night. Where do I phone you?"

     "That will be awkward. I'm going out on Friday night with Angela and Iris to a friend's birthday party. It might be better if I phoned you at work instead - say about nine."

     I said that would be okay. We would have spoken more but the deafening steam whistle of a passing train coupled with an outburst from the Byfield hammers cut short the conversation.

     Wednesday and Thursday were long shifts and I had to admit the hours were getting to me. By Thursday night when I got home I was so tired that I just had a cup of hot chocolate and went to bed.

     Mr Cheadle and Dingle checked with me at eleven o'clock on Friday morning how the Danish job was going. No problems, I said. Eight out of the ten crankshafts were finished, I was on the ninth and the last one I would complete on Saturday morning. Cheadle, a tall, languid man in his fifties, with pale blue eyes and wispy facial hair that passed for a beard, nodded. He said he would inform Olaffson, the Danish company so that one of their engineers could check the order on Saturday. They were pressing for delivery on that same day. Cheadle smiled and said, "I believe you are having trouble with the Shefton Housing Department over your rented accommodation."

     "That's right."

     He nodded thoughtfully. "Mr Dingle has told me the details. I do have friends at the Housing Department. I'll have a word with them and see what they can do for you. I cannot promise anything, but it may be of help." I thanked him and watched as he walked away with a long, raking stride. We nick-named him The Camel. I viewed him from a different angle after what he had just said.

Right on the Friday lunch buzzer, Tony Ross telephoned. This annoyed Dingle who loved having an undisturbed lunch in his own office. He leaned out the office door and called me as I was readying to wash off. He nodded to the phone he had left off the hook. "There's a Tony somebody on the line. Be quick about it."

     Tony sounded breathless. "You're playing Saturday, Al. Against Byron Street Amateurs at Dilworth. Ground's just behind the church. Kick off two-thirty. Be there for two o'clock. Here, and you'll never guess what."
 
     Too many people were asking me to guess. I said, "Okay, tell me."

     "I've bought a motor bike so look out for me. I'll be wearing goggles and looking like a fighter pilot. Rita's coming as well. See you Saturday." And with a laugh he hung up.

     Dingle glowered mock annoyance. "Was that the lad who used to phone here a couple of years ago about you playing football?"

     "Yes, Mr Dingle."

     "Aye, well tell him to cut it out. Especially when I'm about to have a quiet lunch."

     I'll do that, Mr Dingle." I turned to leave when he asked if I'd heard anything about the house. "Not yet," I said. "But if I haven't heard anything from them by Monday night could you let me have Tuesday morning off so I can visit the Housing Department to sort things out?"

     "Of course you can have time off, lad. But don't make a day of it, right? I know Mr Cheadle has spoken to you about it. I'm sure that a few words from him to his friends will help you, so don't go stirring trouble. And get back here double quick."

     I thanked him and said I wouldn't dream of coming back late. I hurried off to get my hands washed. Throughout the afternoon, because Cheadle and Dingle had mentioned it, I was thinking of the house. Awaiting the Housing Department's decision had me hamstrung. What annoyed me the most was Mr Strutz implying I hadn't reported my mother's death to the relevant authority within the normal time period. I had done this, but where I had slipped up was by not informing the Housing Department that Mum was no longer the head of the house. Surely they couldn't throw us out? Not just like that. The one strong point we had in our favour was that we had nowhere else to live. I nodded to myself. That should swing it for us. The Department wouldn't know that Laura's mum lived alone. I knew of several of my pals who were married and living with relatives. Most of them found it difficult. I did not want that problem.

     Bill helped me fit the last crankshaft onto the lathe. I thanked him for his assistance. He grinned. "It's all in a long shift's work."

     Old man Dingle came over just before six for a final check on the job. I said everything was okay. It would be finished by ten o'clock tomorrow morning. He said little but looked pleased. So was I. Working sixteen hour shifts was a mug's game.

     Bill brought out a set of draughts and a board from the back of an old cupboard. We played three games over mugs of tea and thick sandwiches. They were three quick games. I lost all three. I said I hadn't realised Bill could play draughts.

     He drew thoughtfully on his pipe. I smelled the rich tobacco and watched the smoke curl toward the roof. "I've never played before," he said.

     It was nine o'clock and Natalie had not yet phoned. I was waiting in the office when the phone jangled. I grabbed it up and said 'hello'.

     "Is that you, Alan?"

     It was Natalie. "It is, yeah."

     "What about tomorrow then?"

     "The match is on and it's a two-thirty kickoff at Dilworth. The ground is behind the church, but I think I have already told you. How will you get there?"

     "I'm playing safe. There's only one set of keys for my car. I've got them, and I'm keeping them. But that doesn't matter because Samantha is bringing me in her Jag."

     "Her Jag?"

     "Yes, it's the latest 4.2 model."

     I whistled. "Some folk have all the luck."

     Natalie hung up then: friends at the party were calling for her.

For what I hoped would be the last time on a late shift, we locked the factory at ten o'clock. The night was clear. "That's handy," said Bill looking skyward. "I can walk home by moonlight." He said cheerio and strolled off toward his lodgings.

     I arrived home to a mug of tea and a pile of toasted bread. "Hey, that's grand," I said, giving Laura a kiss. She asked had I booked the Delphi seats. I told her not to worry about it.

     She persisted. "Have you booked them?"

     "I'll do it tomorrow. But you could book them couldn't you?"

     "I could - but I want you to do it." She put her hands playfully around my neck. "And if you forget - I'll strangle you."

A crying Edwina woke me at four-thirty. I got up, slipped into her room and took her downstairs. The living-room was cold. I flicked on the switch of a two bar electric fire and selected a thicker set of Edwina's nightclothes that we kept in a drawer. I heated them by the fire. I asked how was my lovely daughter. She clung tight to me. That was enough to let me know how she felt. I loved her too. I made her a warm drink of chocolate. By five o'clock she was asleep. I put her back to bed.

     Rising so early after a heavy week at Cheadles had given me a headache. I made toast, loaded it with margarine and strawberry jam and stayed close to the fire. After another cup of tea I fixed two cheese and tomato sandwiches for work, filled a flask with coffee, and got into my work clothes. The morning was crisp with little wind. A faint greyness showed to the east. The car door handle was cold to my touch. The car would not start. I gave it a few choice curses and the engine whined into life. The car juddered and vibrated me to Cheadles yard.

     Wally Mullins, suffering from another Friday night's drinking session was quivering beside a heated stove. Terry Bonsall didn't look much better, but then he was the heaviest drinker of anyone at Cheadles - and that was saying something. Somebody turned on the main drive engine and we settled down to another morning of slap-slap from the drive belts. A train clattered by on the railroad. Worse still, Jacky Ballinger started singing 'Oh Donna Clara.'

     Labourer Bill checked how I was going. Pretty good, I said. The final crankshaft would be finished by ten o'clock. He nodded and slouched off with that peculiar walk he had. I gave Wally a drink of coffee. He said thanks - it would help bring him round. I suggested he drank too much ale. He winced at the thought of drinking less. Our forge hammer started crashing against glowing hot steel and you could see sparks arcing across the open doorway.

     The buzzer sounded for the morning break. Wally came round with sandwiches, a mug of tea, a morning newspaper and his battered orange box. He asked if I was going to the Horse tonight. I said no, I was going to the Delphi.

     That brought Wally fully awake. "The Delphi! That clapped-out dump?" He grimaced. "I wouldn't go there, Al. If you sit in the stalls the mob in the gods throw sticky sweets at you. I went there just once. Sitting in the stalls I was when some bastard threw a rugby ball from the circle. Hit me right on the firkin 'ead, it did!" Wally allowed another minute to pass before he said what he was bursting to say. "Are you going out with your fancy bird, or with Laura?"

     I dodged the question. "I'm playing for the Black Bull this afternoon."

     Wally bit into a boiled egg sandwich. "Are you with Natalie or with Laura?"

     "You'll keep your mouth shut?"

     Wally saluted. "Scout's honour."

     "This afternoon, Wally, I am escorting Betty Grable. Tonight I shall be at the Delphi with Ava Gardner and Rita Hayworth."

     Wally almost tore his newspaper at the thought. "Just imagine that, eh? A night with Rita and Ava. Core, me and them in the same bed! And there's me with the door key secreted on my body. And Betty Grable's serving me grapes and wine. Christ - what a way to go!"

At nine-thirty, complete with Vernier gauge and micrometers in a small leather suitcase, a Mr Steven Olek of Olaffson Engineering, Denmark showed up. Cheadle and old man Dingle watched him take measurements of the crankshafts near the marking out table. Heads nodded. There were smiles. Dingle caught me eye and gave me a thumbs up sign. Labourer Bill, assisted by Walt Wilson, another labourer, hoisted crankshafts on and off the table with block and tackle. By eleven o'clock the checks were complete. Bill repainted the crankshafts with a preservative and each shaft was rapped then loaded onto a lorry for delivery to an east coast dockyard.

For a moment I stood by my lathe. The Danish job was done. I felt a flood of overwhelming relief. I knew Dingle would not give me another job until Monday so I cleaned down the lathe and oiled all the slides. This gave me time to think of the match at Dilworth. I flexed my right leg. Somewhere, round the back of the calf, was a slight strain. With the rain that had fallen during the week the Dilworth pitch would be muddy. Not good conditions for a strain. Wally came round at five minutes before twelve and we went to the crowded washroom. Joe Hillian moved aside after washing his hands. I used his sink. "Coming to the Horse to see our Bobby tonight?" he asked me above the chatter. I said no, I was taking Laura to the pictures - by special request.

     "What?" said Joe. "You're not watching our Bobby?"

     "No. Laura's demanded I take her to the Delphi." 

     "By Christ!" said Terry Bonsall. "What a bloody hole that is." He glared round the washroom. "Did you hear that, lads? Our Alan is taking his missus to the Delphi!" 

     "I can't help it," I said. "It's a film she wants to see. It's called 'The Way To The Stars.' Has any of you seen it?"

     "Yes," said Frank Vosper. "I saw it just after the war."

     Joe Hillian scoffed. "Yeah, and I'll bet that was the Boer War, you old git."

     The twelve o'clock alarm sounded, time cards clicked on the wall clock and in the rush I set off for home, thinking of Dilworth and of Natalie.