Monday morning was cold and clear when I clocked in and met Joe Hillian heating his trousers beside the forge furnace. "Where were you this weekend, Al? Our Bobby was asking about you." His gargoyle face split into a smile. "He played for Lucky Needham on Friday and Saturday - just for a few minutes mind. And do you know what? Needham slipped our kid a couple of quid!" Joe grinned again. "What about that, eh? Our Bobby's a professional musician now."

     "I'm glad to hear it, Joe."

     Joe flicked at a scorching patch on his trouser leg. "You would have been glad if you had been there." He moved an inch away from the furnace. "Next weekend is the last time our kid will play because he joins up the following Thursday, so make sure you come."

     "I'll' be there," I said.

     In the main workshop Wally was speaking to a group of lads huddled round the nearest hot stove to my lathe. "I'm telling you," I heard him say, "this Scottish bird has money rolling out of her ears. You only have to mention what you drink - and whammo! Just like magic - pound notes appear in her hand!"

     "That's right," laughed Terry Bonsall. "She bought enough ale for us last night to float a battleship."

     Les Abbott scratched his head. "You've got to watch out for birds when they pay for you. They've always got an exterior motive."

     "You mean ulterior, Les," said a voice.

     Les nodded. "Yeah, well, whatever it is I mean, I'm saying that a bird who pays for your drinks just ain't normal." He stared at Wally. "She might be trying to kidnap you and fly you off to some foreign land."

     "You're dead right there, Les," said Terry. "This bird comes from Scotland and you can't get more foreign than that."

     "All right, all right, what's going on here then?" said Dingle, sneaking up craftily.

     "We're just having a natter, Mr Dingle," said Les. "It ain't six o'clock yet."

     The works buzzer sounded.

     "It is now," smirked Dingle. "So what are you lot hanging about for, eh?"



I made no effort to contact Dingle until mid morning. I put a long traverse cut down the face of a ring forging and tapped on Dingle's office door. He head came up from a blueprint he was reading. "Come in," he said, "and shut the door. I have a headache this morning. Can't think why." His blue eyes gazed at me over small bags of lined skin. "Got another problem, have we?"

     "It's the Housing Department again, Mr Dingle. "They want me to attend a meeting about my house."

     "When?"

     "Tomorrow - nine o'clock. And they might want me sometime in the afternoon as well."

     Dingle frowned. "Hmm..seems like you could be there all day. Take tomorrow off and get it sorted."

     That was exactly what I wanted him to say. I said thanks and returned to my
lathe. An hour later Cheadle turned up and after a chat in Dingle's office they went into the yard through a side door.

     Wally did not miss the opportunity. He leaned on my lathe's tailstock, staring intently at me. "Here, Al," he said, above the slap of the belts, "you know a lot about birds, don't you? What do I do about this Scottish bird? Is she having me on or what?"

     "How do you mean?"

     Wally pursed his lips. "She wants me to travel to Scotland with her this weekend. She's got some sort of place on an island. A three-bedroom bungalow in a bunch of trees." Wally stared across the shop, lost in thought. "I'm not very good with women, Al. Never have been. I don't know what to do when I'm alone with a bird." He glanced at me. "I don't know if she's having me on but I've said I'll go with her. I've even asked Dingle for next Monday and Tuesday off. He says it's okay. But do you think going with her to Scotland is what I should do?"

     "I don't know, Wally. I've never been out with a woman who is a lot older than I am."

     "But you've seen her. What do you think? Is she worth a trip to Scotland?"

     "It depends if you can afford the train fare and also stand the cold. It can get perishing in Scotland."

     Wally's brown eyes lit up. "The cold doesn't bother me. And there's no train fare, Al. She's got a 1926 Ford jalopy. She's picking me up outside here at Saturday lunch."

     "Who's paying for the petrol?"

     Wally grinned. "She said that all expenditure was on her. All I have to do is turn up - and bring my body with me."

     "Sounds good to me," I said. "You never know - she might buy you something exceptional."

     Wally simpered. "She already has, but don't tell the lads. She's bought me a sporan and a kilt. And also," he paused for effect. "If I'm a real good boy she will buy me a set of bagpipes."

     There was no answer to that.



I decided at lunchtime to take a walk in the sun, along Eccles Lane and past the offices of Milford Steel. Laura was firmly in my thoughts. What I was about to do tomorrow had much to do with her. In fact, it had everything to do with her. Although the sun was bright, it didn't warm the air where trees were shading the road so I turned back and reached Cheadles scrap yard to find the lads playing football with a battered tennis ball. Les Abbott had an odd way of running: leaning sideways to his left while running forward. He chased the bouncing tennis ball as it came toward me. I trapped it and rolled it back to him. He turned with it and collided with Wally. "Clumsy bastard!" growled Les.

     Dingle wasn't in his office so I slipped inside, picked up the telephone directory and checked the address and telephone number of the Schaeffer Clothing Company. I went to my lathe and sat down. The Schaeffer building was on Compton Street. I knew that area for I had played football a few years back in Compton Park. It came to me then - the sheer size of Schaeffers. I knew the company employed thousands of people. John Schaeffer might prove difficult to trace in a company that size.

     The restart alarm buzzed. The fitter started our overhead belt engine and Wally came back limping. "That Les Abbott is firkin stupid," he moaned. "Kicked me on the knee, he did. Deliberate, it was." Wally rubbed the troubled knee. "Somebody should Les to be more careful. Runs about like an idiot. He's never been the same since they kicked out that firkin lodger."



I clocked out at six o'clock and instead of driving home I took the Lancet Road circular route to cut out travelling through Shefton. Compton Road began at the bottom of Compton Park Hill and ran for two miles southward. I cleared the main shopping area rail system then drove past the Florham Steel  Company and reached the Schaeffer gated front entrance. Lights were still shining in some of the offices. I drove slowly to the rear of the premise. There was nothing in sight except a bus shelter and a red telephone box. The telephone box gave me an idea.    

     I drove back to Shatley and stopped for a double helping of fish and chips, dosed with salt and vinegar and then wrapped in newspaper. I couldn't be sure that John Schaeffer would be working tomorrow. I took faith in Natalie's remark that John spent most of his time at the factory. But what if he was not there? I shrugged. I'd deal with that problem if it arose. When I reached home, Lassie, tail wagging, intercepted me on the rear porch. She could smell the fish and chips. I reached down and scratched her ear. "Come on," I said. "Let's have supper."


     It was early Tuesday morning before I went to bed, setting the alarm to awake me at seven. Not for a moment did I sleep, just stared at the ceiling and wondered what I would do when I met John Schaeffer. I rose at six and washed mechanically at the kitchen basin. House lights were glowing dull at the Calvert Farm beyond the Hamper Bridge. The trip hammers started echoing along the valley, from the Byfield Forge Company. It seemed odd not being at my lathe smelling the pungent heat from the forge nor hearing the incessant moan of the overhead drive motor and the slap of the belts.

     I fried a couple of eggs and cut a wedge of cheese to go with a mug of coffee. I decided not to travel until eight o'clock. By doing that I would miss the early traffic. I chose my best suit and my favourite tie to wear. I opened the front door to test the weather. It was cold. There was no wind. I took my raincoat with me and dropped it onto the Austin's back seat. 

     Setting off just after eight, I headed for the Lancet Road circular route, chewing on my bottom lip. My reflection in the driving mirror showed dark circles beneath my blue eyes. A dog dashed out in front of me. Missed it by a whisker. The sun was edging over the distant eastern hills, spilling daggers of light through tall conifers along Western Bank.     

     The Schaeffer factory loomed much larger in daylight. I did not think of trying my luck at the main front entrance. What would I tell the officials at the gatehouse? That I was a sales rep, or maybe that I was a buyer ready to place an order? I knew the offices were in a three-storey building to the left of the main entrance and that John Schaeffer reigned there. I entered the telephone box at the rear of the complex and picked up the receiver. The line was good. I had the Schaeffer number on a scrap of paper in my wallet. I dialled the required digits and a female voice said, "Good morning, this is Schaeffer Manufacturing." I told her I was Mr Bentley and was Mr Schaeffer available. She told me to hold the line. A green and grey coloured bus picked up the people at the stop and then rumbled past the box. The telephonist came back and said Mr Schaeffer was indeed present. Did I wish to speak to his secretary. I said yes, please and she put me through.

     After some furious clicking sounds, a voice said. "Mrs Plover speaking, secretary to Mr Schaeffer. You are Mr Bentley?" The voice was pleasant and discreet. I agreed I was Mr Bentley. I did not have an appointment to meet Mr Schaeffer but was it possible I could see him concerning my placing a possible order? "I could arrange for you to see our Chief Purchasing Officer," Mrs Plover suggested, "for Mr Schaeffer is very busy at the moment."

     "I'm just passing through Shefton, Mrs Plover," I said. My company has asked me to chance my arm with Schaeffers and I usually meet the top man of each company I visit. My order could run into thousands of pounds and I am sure Mr Schaeffer would be interested."

     Mrs Plover hesitated. "If you would hold a moment," she said, "and I will speak to him." I heard the sound of a chair squeaking back followed by a double knock on a door. I waited twenty seconds then Mrs Plover came back and said, "Mr Schaeffer will see you this morning at eleven. I hope that is convenient."

     "That is most convenient, Mrs Plover. How do I find my way to your offices?"

     "Our main entrance is Compton Road, the gate is painted blue. Tell the officer at the gate you have an appointment to see Mr Schaeffer and he will direct you to us. We do have a car park inside the grounds you can use. I will telephone the gatehouse now and tell them to look out for you."

     "Thank you, Mrs Plover."

     "Oh - before you go - which company do you represent?"

     "Bentley's," I said. "In the southern counties." When she didn't answer immediately I hung up, drove to Compton Road and parked along a blind alley of dingy shops and houses some ten minutes walk from Schaeffer's front entrance. My watch showed twenty minutes before ten o'clock. I donned my raincoat and turned up the collar against a sharp coldness, for the sun had dissappeared behind a cloudbank. I walked for a while, thinking over what I might say to Schaeffer. He had plenty to answer for. I reflected again on losing Laura and Edwina. I nodded to myself - yes, Schaeffer would pay for that. I tried to recall what he would look like. The only photo I had seen of him had been in Natalie's apartment at Golden Street.

     At ten minutes before eleven, I reached Schaeffer's main gate and tapped on the gatehouse door. An elderly man dressed in a military style uniform opened it. "Yes?" he said brusquely.

     "I'm Mr Bentley, I have an appointment with Mr Schaeffer at eleven."

     "Ah - yes." He turned to a colleague. "Harry, accompany Mr Bentley to Mr Schaeffer's office." He smiled at me, his grey eyes steely bright. "Can't have you wandering around on your own, sir," he said. "You could get lost in a place this size."

     Harry proved to be a slender oldster of bustling appearance whose footsteps moved briskly but without length. He quickstepped importantly to lead me across a yard to a revolving door that took us into a hall. "This is our reception centre, sir," Harry said. He pressed a lift's 'up' button and we travelled to the third floor. The doors opened to show offices along each side of a corridor. Harry pointed to a door at the end. "If you go along there, sir, knock and enter and you will be in Mrs Plover's office. She will show you in to Mr Schaeffer." I thanked Harry and waited until he was travelling down.

     I walked past offices and knocked on the frosted glass door which had Mrs Plover's name on it. A voice said for me to enter. I went in. An attractive middle-age woman rose from a seat behind a solid oak desk. A name board with 'Mrs Plover' imprinted on it stood on the table.

     "Mr Bentley?" she said uneasily.

     A wall clock showed five minutes before eleven. "That's right. Sorry if I'm a little early."

     "That is no problem. I will tell Mr Schaeffer that you are here." She knocked on a heavy oak door and peeped in. There was muffled conversation then she held the door open for me.

     "Mr Schaeffer will see you now," she said.