After a double egg sandwich and a mug of coffee for lunch, I played building blocks beside the fire with Edwina while Laura was toiling with a load of washing amid steam at the copper boiler in the kitchen. "If it rains this afternoon I'll never get these clothes dry," she said. I sat Edwina on the settee and hurried upstairs to pack my football kit. Laura had cleaned my boots and washed socks, shirt and shorts and placed them neatly in a holdall. When I came downstairs, I hoped she would not notice my clothes, but she did. "You're wearing one of your best suits - and a tie as well! What's going on?"

     "Nothing is going on," I said. "Byron Street Amateurs get changed at Dilworth church. I can't walk into a church dressed in overalls, can I?"

     "All right," said Laura, picking up Edwina for her to kiss me. "Don't get mud on your suit or you'll clean it yourself."

     I gave them each a kiss and went to the living-room door. I turned back. "I'll score a couple of goals for you both, how's that?"

     "I don't care if you score or not - just come home in one piece - today preferably." I walked out while Laura was still smiling and gave them a wave before driving off.


Dilworth church seemed surprisingly hostile against an overcast sky at the top of Byron Street Hill, the village's main thoroughfare. The odd shop dotted here and there were of the same grey stone used to construct the church. Some of our lads were waiting outside the church gate when I pulled up. I parked beside a low privet hedge from where I could see the football ground. There was no sign of a 4.2 jaguar.

     As I got out Tony came up spouting about how his motorcycle had let him down and he and Rita Savanna had arrived by taxi. "You and your bloody motorbike," Rita said to him. "I told you not to risk it. We'll probably need a taxi to get us back to Shefton."

     "Not likely," said Tony. "Alan will give us a lift into Shefton, won't you, mate?"

     Before I could answer, Pop Dawson asked if Fred Binks had arrived. The referee was getting anxious and wanted to start the match on time. "Why the rush?" said Tony. "Fred's got most of the kit and he ain't come yet."

     "That's what you get for trusting bloody motorbikes," said Rita.

     To pass the time, Mickey Davis started giving us historical details about Dilworth but nobody listened to him. The church clock was showing twenty minutes past two when Fred arrived on his 350 Norton, with wife Lily on the pillion and the kit, which he washed at a local laundrette, stuffed in the sidecar.

     We dashed to the changing area and both teams checked each other out on opposite sides of a cold whitewashed room. I removed my shoes and socks and stood bare footed on a copy of the local newspaper to keep my feet away from the chilly concrete floor. Pop Dawson came round to each of us with advice. To me, he said, "When you get the ball, don't mess about, just welly it into their net." It was like telling a kid in hot weather to lick ice cream.

     The Byron Street ground sloped downhill to each goal from the centre circle. It was the only ground I'd ever played on where you could stand at one end and couldn't see what was happening at the other. We trotted onto the pitch and found water laying at least an inch deep in each goalmouth. The rest of the tufted surface was a quagmire of cloying mud that would stick to you like glue if you went down.

     The ref, a spike-haired forty-odd year old was quicker than the rest of us. After ten minutes play, we were two down and another hiding looked imminent. Then, after breaking up a Byron Street attack, Mickey Davis whipped a pass down the right wing for Tony Ross to chase. He sent over a perfect cross. I closed in, superbly balanced, swung my right boot, missed the ball and landed on my back in front of goal. The ball came to rest in mud. Attackers and defenders swooped, hacking at the ball jammed in the mire. I was dragging myself up when a defender booted the ball clear. It would have been clear except it hit me on the side of the head, just behind my left ear. I went down. Nobody took notice of me. Another defender hammered the ball away. I got up and staggered toward the halfway line. Mickey Davis, covered in sludge, chugged past me, trying to regain his position in defence. "Nice day, ain't it?" he said.

     Lily Binks, Pop Dawson and Rita Savanna were shouting support from the touchline. I noticed a Jaguar parked close to the privet hedge. Two girls were standing there watching us. I recognised Natalie. I breathed in deep. This was it then - my moment of glory, time for me to demonstrate to her what I could do. This long-legged centre forward would show just who the best player on the pitch was. It was I - of course: Alan the Magnificent. My chance to prove it wasn't long coming. Fred Binks dispossessed a Byron Street player and sent Tony Ross galloping down the wing. I cruised in, hanging back slightly from their centre-half. Tony put over a lovely curling centre right in front of goal. This was it. I dived headlong, missed the ball and landed on my left side in a cold mesmerising sliding heap of slush. There was a frantic goalmouth scrimmage. Boots, elbows and fists flew. Somebody whacked the ball and with a squelching thud it hit me right in the cobblers.

     I spent the next ten minutes hutched over and cursing silently on the touchline.

     "Stand up straight, Alan," Pop advised. "Then bend over double."

     "I should lie down and count your assets if I were you," Lily said.

     I went back on five minutes before half time and Byron Street promptly scored to make it 3-0. However, right on the halftime whistle, I pushed the ball through to Tony and he used his searing pace to score. That made it 3-1.

     Byron Street Amateurs were renowned for providing an urn of marvellous tea on a stand and plastic cups for each team to use. Both sides intermingled for a talk. I knew Les Pearson, their left back who was having a tough match against Tony. "You've slowed down a bit, Alan," he said. "Is it the leg?"

     "It's both legs, Les. They don't do what I want them to do."

     Les grinned. "Huh, tell me about it. I'm thirty-nine now and I play from memory. My legs take no part in a game these days." He gave me an elbow. "There's a redhead bird over there by the hedge. I think she wants a word with you."

     Natalie waved to me. I excused myself to Les and trotted over to see her, careful not to spill my cup of tea. "You made it then," I said. She was still on the other side of the hedge. She had on a long coat, leather boots and gloves - all brown. Her hair, held by a mauve slide gave her a dazzling appearance. I couldn't believe that such a beautiful girl wanted anything to do with a prat like me.

     "Are you okay?" she asked. "I saw you had to go off."

     "Yes, I'm fine, thanks." Mud was drying on the side of my face. The last thing I did feel was fine but this was the moment for standing firm and pretending I was made of iron. Actually, I felt as tough as soaked cardboard. Natalie introduced me to Samantha, a tall willowy girl of about twenty who reminded me of the actress, Susan Shaw. Samantha said 'Hi'. She was wearing a bluish green three-quarter length suede coat that must have cost more than three of my suits. We spoke for a couple of minutes about the weather. I could not help noticing the 4.2 litre silver-grey Jaguar parked next to my heap of twisted metal.

     The referee blew his whistle summoning us to restart the match. I suggested to Natalie that they should sit in the Jaguar. They did just that. I did not want them standing with Rita Savanna or Lily Binks who might let it out that I was married.

     I finished my tea, left the cup on a tray next the urn and took up my position at centre forward. It was our kick-off. Tony had changed positions and was now standing next me at inside-right. "I see your wife's come," he sniggered. I told him to shut his mouth. "Now, now," he scoffed. "Don't get stroppy. Just turn your anger into goals."

     Something, I had no idea what, stung me into action and I scored two goals near the end. Pop Dawson yelled from the touchline, "That's the way to do it, Al. Give 'em some clog!"

     Tony sniggered again as we lined up for the kick-off. "My my, Al. You've sure wakened up this half. Has your fancy bird given you a promise then?" Before I could answer he took off and harassed their defence into an error and scored our fourth goal with a great solo effort. He came back and winked at me. "That's two of us on a promise," he said. "I'm not telling you who's promised me - but she's got green hair."

     With a minute to go, Fred Binks came up in support of a corner kick and scored with a looping header that squeezed in off a post. That gave us a 5-3 win. The whistle blew and suddenly I felt wobbly. Maybe it was the heavy ground conditions or maybe my long working hours, but the next thing I remember was Tony and one of their players helping me up.

     "Are you okay, Al?" asked Tony. "You gave me a right shock collapsing like that." The ref came over to check on me. I said I was fine, the ball hitting me on the head had probably caused it. "More like the one in the nuts," said Tony.

     Fortunately, the Byron Street team's changing area was blessed with a line of heated showers and they insisted I went in first to get myself sorted out. Tony used soap, a sponge and hot water to wash dried mud from my ear. "You stopped some beauties today, mate," he said. "One in the ear-ole, one in the guts and another in the 'Oh-dear-that-hurt area.' If that had happened to me I'd have gone home."

     The hot steamy shower eased my pains and I dried off and changed into my suit. "Here, what's with the flash suit then?" asked Fred Binks, feeling my suit collar. "Got the glad rags on, have we?"

     Mickey Davis towelled himself down. "He's brought his wife, Fred. That bird with the fancy Jag - complete with female chauffeur."

     Fred whistled. "Yeah, I saw that Jag. Couldn't miss it." He gave me a curious look. "I thought your missus had black hair?"

     Tony grinned. "She still has - it just happens that today she'd wearing a red wig."

     Pop Dawson asked was I feeling okay. "I'm okay, Pop, thanks. Just a bit tired, that's all."

     "Yeah, well take it easy. We've got you back scoring goals and we don't want to lose you again. Oh, by the way, our next match is also away. We're playing Chilton Magna. Do you know where it is?" I said I believed it was near the East Coast Road. "Correct," said Pop. "Take the East Coast Road, and just before Leskam, you turn right. It is signposted. The Magna are a new team and they're unbeaten so we have a tough match on." We talked some more about local football in general until it was time to go. I said cheerio to the Byron Street lads and walked out through the graveyard with Tony.

     A slight breeze rustled falling leaves. I glanced back at the church. Beyond its towering steeple the huge grey clouds were thickening. The whole set-up seeped despair and desolation. It was a ghastly sensation, similar to a massive web waiting to entrap me. I shuddered.

     Tony stopped abruptly. "Are you okay, mate? You've gone white!"

     "I don't know," I said. "There's something overpowering about this place. Seems like everything is hostile. Don't you feel it?"

     "I feel nothing except thirst," grinned Tony. "I reckon you're waiting for the next match. I'll bet it can't come soon enough." I asked him what he meant. He winked. "Chilton Magna, near Leskam. Leskam and Schaeffer Hall? Schaeffer Hall and Natalie Schaeffer? Get the connection?" He nodded to the Jaguar. "You will be playing near her territory. Who knows, her old man might invite you in for dinner, but to be honest, I reckon you're getting too involved with her. I know she's gorgeous but you're asking for trouble." He put a hand on my shoulder. "I know it's none of my business, but call it off and stick with your missus. The Schaeffers are bad news. Their Ronnie lives in London and he's a bad lot. You don't want to mix it with him." He slung his army kit bag over a shoulder. "You don't have to run me and Rita into Shefton: Pop's giving us a lift. He's told you how to get to Leskam so I won't phone you next week. Of course, you could come to the meeting at the Bull." I said I would think about that. He smiled and walked over the road to Rita who was standing by Pop's car.

     I stood for several moments on the church walkway and stared at the various headstones, thinking of those lives that had passed by and wondering if any of them had fulfilled their dreams. My calf gave me a sudden twinge. I was surprised it had lasted out the match. I shrugged and as I walked to the Jag Natalie got out. "Well played," said Samantha, leaning out a window and giving me a curious smile. "Is it okay for me to push off? You're taking Natalie into Shefton, aren't you?"

     And there it was - an escape to be home early with Laura. I could have said I was feeling lousy, could have said anything to wriggle out of it, but I nodded and agreed I was escorting Natalie into town. I breathed deeply. I was hooked on Natalie - and I knew it.

     Samantha smiled, her blue eyes lingering on me as though weighing me up. She twisted the ignition key, revved the engine, twisted the Jag onto the road and disappeared into the layers of mist covering the hill. Dust was settling fast, the church tower being barely visible against the sky.

     Natalie linked an arm with mine. "Where shall we go then?"

     "What do you have in mind?" I said, opening my car boot and shoving my holdall into it.

     She paused by the passenger door, hand resting on the door handle. "I'd rather we didn't go into Shefton. Maybe we could try a village pub or something like that."

     I opened the car door to let her in. "What's wrong with Shefton?" I said, walking round the car and getting in beside her.

     "It's not Shefton I'm bothered about," she said, "it's my brother, John. Angela's told him again about us. He telephoned the party I was at last night to make sure I hadn't slipped away to see you. When I arrived home at Golden Street, he phoned yet again - at two o'clock in the morning! He asked me straight out was I still seeing you. I said it was no business of his. He became angry. Then Angela started arguing with me, saying I should do as I was told. I had John telling me off over the phone and Angela shouting in my ear. In the end I hung up on John and told Angela to get lost."

     "Good for you," I said.

     She turned in her seat to face me, "John can make things awkward for me. He has friends who can be mean and I don't want him to send someone to hurt you."

     "Surely he wouldn't do that?"

     "I'm convinced he would, Alan. He has people who do shady work for him. There are stories in Shefton about him being a gangland figure. I don't know if they are true." She stopped then and looked through her window.

     I scowled at the windscreen. Her brother John was becoming a pain in the neck. I glanced at her. Was she really worth this hassle? She then suggested a small cafe in Lindley, a tiny village on Shefton's northern outskirts. It was then I remembered I hadn't booked the Delphi seats! I checked my wristwatch - it was five o'clock. I had to get to a phone to book the seats. Visiting a cafe in Lindley would mean taking Natalie back to Shefton and she'd want to know why I was not spending the whole evening with her. I told her that I wasn't feeling too good. My head was aching.

     She turned to face me. "If you're not well run me home and we'll meet tomorrow. I saw you hit several times during the match."

     The grey clouds gathering overhead flushed to a livid purple and suddenly a heavy wind brought leaves spiralling earthward. I grabbed my change of escape. "Okay, I'll take you home. I sorry about it, but I do feel rough."

     I twisted the ignition key and sighed inwardly when she fired first time. Natalie's fingers touched my left ear and startled me. "You have bad bruising there," she said, "and it's getting darker."

     I grinned. "Yes, that's when I fell over trying to score." I pulled onto the road and switched on my headlights. They reflected off the thickening mist.


We reached the eastern outskirts of the city hardly having exchanged a word. I pulled up beside two telephone boxes on the south side of West Street near Paradise Oval, the centre of the city's law industry. The mist was bad here for vision was roughly twenty yards. "We could meet tomorrow, Alan, if you want to."

     "I do want to." Yet again muddled thoughts raced through my head. "But I don't know just when I can see you, it could be as late as eight o'clock."

     "Is tomorrow too early then?"

     "It's not too early, but I've promised friends I'd play golf tomorrow morning and then spend the day at their house until the evening." I'd never played golf - couldn't tell a putter from a driver. "Of course, if it's too foggy, then I'll be at their house most of the day."

     The story was weak but it appeared sufficient to satisfy her for she nodded and said, ""You seem upset about something."

     "It's this knock on my head. Must have left me a bit disorientated. I'm sorry I've ruined the evening. I love being with you, but..."

     "It doesn't matter. We can meet on Saturday when you play at Chilton Magna. That will give me chance to sort things out with John and Angela."

     I frowned. That would make it a week before I saw her again. I asked how did she know we were playing at Chilton Magna.

     She smiled briefly. "Samantha has a young sister who is totally deaf. Her family study sign language and lip-reading. Samantha's very good at both. She saw you and Terry talking on the church path. She says that among other words, Tony said, Chilton Magna near Leskam."

     "What else did she read?"

     "Something about Schaeffer Hall, but Tony turned away from her then so she couldn't decipher anything else."

     "Decipher?" I said. "Does Samantha work for the Secret Service or what?"

     Natalie laughed softly. "Of course not."

     "That means I must be careful what I say when Samantha is around."

     "It does, although evidently she found you difficult to read because when you talk you hardly move your lips."

     I asked was she familiar with Chilton Magna. She said yes, her parents lived at Schaeffer Hall, near Leskam. Could I let her know if the match was definitely on, and the kick-off time. I told her I was attending the team meeting next Thursday at the Bull in Bramcliffe.

     "Where is it?" she said. "I'd like to come."

     My spirits rose at the thought of seeing her before Saturday. I gave her the Bull's location. "Okay," I said. "Let's make that a date. The meeting starts at eight. Do I pick you up?"

     "No, I'll come with Samantha. See you at eight o'clock - 'bye." She got out and hurried toward Golden Street, her high-heels clicking on paving slabs.

     I rushed into a kiosk and after a minute of miscalling and obtaining a wrong number I connected with the Delphi ticket office and a voice very similar to the squeaky tones of Bluebottle out of the Goon Show, said, "He-he! Hello lovely person calling. This is the Delphi ticket office. What can I do for you?"