Chapter Three

The rain became heavier as I hurried along Eccles Road and reached the White Horse public house set back among trees against the railway embankment. It was a popular lunchtime target for factory and office workers because you could nip in for a quick pint.
     Sleeting rain drifted over the railroad, showing up like tracer bullets in the Horse's glaring lights.
     I scraped leaves from my shoes onto a footbar and pushed into the Tavern, a room I usually didn't use, but did so this time hoping to see Billy Wells.
     Nick Lewis, the pub landlord came along the bar.
     "Hi, Alan. It's a nasty night."
     "It sure is." I glanced along the bar toward the door leading to the concert room and wondered where the snappy atmosphere had gone. "It's quiet tonight, Nick. Why don't you book a band and make the place jump a bit?"
     Nick showed surprise. "Do you reckon? I never thought of that."
     "Bring in a Traditional jazz band for Friday and Saturday nights - that will get people's feet tapping."
     "We can't afford a band, that'd cost a fortune. It's pricey enough booking comedians and singers. Anyway, how do I book a band?"
     "Stick an advert in the Shefton Chronicle. Phone up tonight, there'll be somebody available to take it." My throat was dry. "And pull me a pint of Rundles, will you?"
     The Tavern room was compact and filled with high-class furniture, and the customers who preferred comfort could browse the shelves of old books and look at the photos of Shefton as it was in the late years of the nineteenth century.
     One of those photos, in the corner next the fish tank, showed several men of the Horse's 1935 bowls team. The young man on the left of the group, with dark curly hair and a smile was Dad. I went across to look at it while Nick pulled my pint.
     He came back with a lovely bubbling head on the beer. "Looking at your old man?"
     "Yeah, just wondering how he would have been today if he'd made it through the war."
     Nick smiled. "He would have been okay, Alan. It's funny, but every time you walk in I think of your dad - you're almost his double."
     I paid for the beer and asked Nick if he had seen Billy Wells. Nick said yes, Billy was in the washroom. That was his glass of stout on the table nearest the lighted coal fire. He would be back in a minute. I sat down and placed my beer beside Billy's glass.
     When he returned, he smiled and sat next to me. "Don't see you in the Tavern very often, Alan." His voice was soft and engaging for a man of seventy-three. He worked in our forge as furnace man, stoking coke and coal whenever forge master Frank Vosper wanted a head of steam for the thirty hundredweight hammer. Sixty years of working at Cheadles had arched his back, yet his face had retained the sparkle of someone much younger.
     "You knew my dad, didn't you, Bill?"
     "He nodded, puffed at his pipe and indicated the photo I had been looking at. "That picture up there of the bowls team - I took that. It was a lovely day out at the Stanford Park club, which isn't far from here. It was an area semi-final - and we won. However, you're not here to talk about bowls, are you?"
     "No, Billy, I'm not. Can you tell me about my dad? I hardly remember him after I was ten because they called him up in 1940: I saw him only once after that."
     Billy sat back, eyes alert behind horn-rimmed glasses. "I remember him well. He worked at Milford Steel, which, as you know, is next door to Cheadles. I first met him when he was about your age. What are you now? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"
     "Just twenty-three."
     Billy shoved tobacco into his pipe. "Twenty-three, eh? A lovely age is that. Your life is in front of you when you're twenty-three. How long is it since you were demobbed?"
     "Well over two years."
     "And you came to Cheadles straight from school, didn't you?"
     "That's right. Fifteen when I started, joined up at eighteen, demobbed at twenty and worked at Cheadles ever since."
     Billy lighted tobacco. "How is your wife these days? I saw you both in the concert room at the weekend. I don't go in there often because it's cosier here by the fire."
     "Laura's fine, thanks."
     "And your daughter?"
     "She's lovely - nearly two now and she can almost outrun me."
     "Talking of running, have you recovered from that broken leg you got when playing football?"
     I winced at the memory. "Yeah, broke it playing for the Black Bull over at Bramcliffe. It happened two weeks after I was married. Was off work seven weeks. Lucky for me it wasn't a bad break. I've never played since then though." I drank a third of my beer. "About Dad," I prompted.
     "Your father, aye, he was a quiet man was your dad. Didn't drink alcohol, was a man of his word, said it, did it and that was that. Never any trouble to anyone. Was pleased as Punch when you came along. I remember seeing him and your mum pushing you in a pram up Berry Lane as I was coming down from the cottages at the top. You know, those old stone cottages near Calvert's farm."
     "I know 'em. Laura would move into one right now if she had the chance."
     "Yes, they don't build them like that now, what with your pre-fabricated houses and such." Billy took a drink of stout, and added, "Your parents were good folk. Your mum took it bad when your dad died but she worked hard to bring you up. I'm sorry you lost your mum this summer." He hesitated. "I can't say more than that, Alan."
     I finished my pint, bought Billy another stout against his protestations and popped into the Concert Room.
     I should have known better, for Wally Mullins and Terry Bonsall were standing at the far end of the bar in conversation with Sheila, Nick Lewis's wife. They asked me to join them but I said Laura was expecting me home early.
     Terry would not let me go, coming over and hooking an arm across my shoulders "Wally's told you about the Royal, hasn't he?"
     "He has and he got worked up about it."
     Terry ensured nobody could hear us by shoving me along the bar. He took a slurp of beer and grinned roguishly. "You will not believe the class of bird that gets in there, Al." He spoke confidentially as though a spy passing information. "None of your common-or-garden tarts, mate. No come-and-get-me slags - there's none of those. The Royal attracts top-class birds and they will suit you down to the ground - if you get my meaning."
     "I'm not interested."
     His arm tightened around me. "Sure you are. Come with us this Wednesday night. It's about time you let your hair down - and your trousers."
     I could smell beer on Terry's breath. "No thanks, the wife does not like competition."
     "How about this Saturday then, or Sunday?"
     "I don't think so."
     His hand slid from my shoulder and grasped my arm. "When your ma died in the summer, Wally and me attended her funeral, didn't we?"
     "Yes, and I was grateful to you for being there, but what of it?"
     "Well, now you can do something for us. It's taken you too long to come round after losing your mum. You used to be a pleasant bastard, but now you're miserable doom-faced bastard. Relax, man - cut loose and get among the girls again - just like you did when you were demobbed."
     Terry chuckled, drank more beer. "Remember that summer holiday you had with Wally and me at Shrimpton just before you started dating Laura?" He slapped my back. "I'll bet you do. Christ - the birds were all over you! You could have stayed single, mate, and played the field but you blew it by getting married. Still, if you see these birds at the Royal, you might change your mind."
     I managed to escape his grip. "Look, Terry, I've enough problems at home without asking for more. I'll see you tomorrow at Cheadles - right?"
     He frowned. "Cheadles tomorrow? Huh, what a pleasant bleedin' thought that is!"

                        *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I left the Horse at nine o'clock, an hour earlier than I usually did. The drizzle had stopped. I took a longer walk back home to give myself time to think but I hadn't come up with a solution about a damn thing when I entered the house via the kitchen. To my relief, Mum Atkinson had gone home. Laura sprawled on the settee watching a television program.
     "You're home early. What's up, have they run out of ale?"
     "No, I just didn't feel like drinking."
     "Good, then you'll still have a clear head." She pointed to the letter I had left unopened. It was open on the table. "Take a look at that. If you haven't got a headache now, you soon will have. I've read it and it's given me one already."
     The envelope contained two pages. I read them both - and read them again. It was a letter from the Shefton Housing Department seeking possible repossession of our home. I had to attend an interview with: Mr Strutz, Tuesday, nine-thiry a.m.
     Christ - that was tomorrow! 
     "Bloody hell! Does your mum know about this?"
     "No, I didn't open it until she'd gone. I told you it might be something important but you leave letters laying around and don't bother to read them."
     "We'd better find all our documents." I rifled through the sideboard drawers and found nothing. Then Laura remembered stuffing papers into an old suitcase which we then put under the stair well. I dragged it out, glad it was unlocked, and rummaged through documents until I had found all I thought I would need and put them into a large envelope.
     Laura tucked herself in an armchair, knees under chin and stared into the fire, something she did when stressed. "I can't believe it, Alan. How can the Council talk of repossession? You've lived here all your life - except for National Service. It's a good job I opened the letter - one more day and it would have been too late. You'll get time off work, I hope."
     I put my arm round her and kissed her. "I'll get time off. Old Errol Flynn Dingle's good like that so don't worry about a thing."
     "But what happens if we have to leave? There's no way I want to move in with mum. I'm very close to her - but not that close."
     "Leave it to me - I'll sort it out."
     
                      *            *            *             *            *            *  

Whenever you hope the weather will be fine you can bet it will rain. This Tuesday was no exception. I got up half an hour early and under the nearest lighted street lamp I fiddled with my old banger until it coughed to life. I would need her later to get me to Shefton. I arrived fifteen minutes before six and clocked in.
     Joe Hillian, the forge hammer driver had his backside near the glowing furnace. I could smell the heat singeing his pants.
     "You're early, Alan. has the wife kicked you out?"
     "No, I'm just keen to start work."
     Short, powerfully built, an ex-pro lightweight boxer of the 20's, Joe showed his gargoyle smile. A scar split the hair of his left eyebrow. "You must have heard, then?"
     "Heard what?"
     "Oh, you obviously haven't heard. Don't worry about it, you'll find out soon enough."
     I walked into the machine shop and fixed a mashing of tea in my billycan. Just before six Terry Bonsall and Wally Mullins arrived, both sulking with alcohol induced headaches. I steered clear of them and caught Dingle in his office donning his white coat of officialdom.
     He studied me. "You look bothered, Alan. There's no trouble I hope?"
     Yes, I had a problem. It had come up last night and I needed a couple of hours to tackle it. I told him what it was.
     He nodded. "Take off what time you need, but not too much. And don't forget to come back. I have news for you and I'll tell you about it when you show up."

                     *                    *                    *                    *

Shefton's various council departments stood in a dull and forbidding business complex in the city centre, and included the Town Hall, the Central Library, the Northern Hall and the Shefton City County Council offices. All these buildings seemed the same to me in the drenching rain. I found a door that lead me into a long corridor. A corridor of ill-planned offices, meaningless signs above pointless doors and gloomy staff who didn't seem to care if you were lost, found, or somewhere inbetween.
     I came to Reception and asked for the Housing Department. Upstairs, second floor,  
said a clerk. I reached a lift and pressed the 'up' button. Machinery whined but nothing came to collect me. I used the stairs. It was almost nine-thirty. Staff shoved me from one puzzled clerk to another until somebody of authority grabbed a phone and spoke into it.
     Mr Strutz proved short, compact, brownish tweed jacket, grey trousers, suede shoes and rimless glasses. Had a brusque, stand-off manner. I thought this is it, Alan. I'll put one over this prat in minutes. He ushered me into a cramped office. Filing cabinets adorned one wall. Two chairs and a table were stuck under the window overlooking the car park where I had parked my banger. I caught him appraising me with flickering glances.
     Rain beat against the window.
     He sat behind the table and smiled at me. "Dreadful morning, isn't it?" A half full mug of coffee rested near his left arm.
     "Terrible," I agreed.
     An array of documents lay on the table. "Sit down, please. And you are Mr...?"
     "Dibley. Alan Dibley." I dropped the Housing Department letter in front of him.
     He glanced at it. "Ah, yes, and you are residing at number 40 Paper Road on the Shatley estate of Shefton?"
     "I am, here's the rent book. We are up to date."
     Strutz' bald head shone under the overhead light. "We have no concerns over rent payment, Mr Dibley, but as you are aware, our records show that the named occupier is Mrs Geraldine Dibley, who, unfortunately passed away in June."
     "I'm aware of that, Mr Strutz, so what does that mean exactly?"
     Strutz put his hands together as though in prayer. "It means the house is officially vacant."
     "It can't be vacant because I live there. I've lived there all my life - except for two years National Service."
     "Maybe you have, Mr Dibley, but there are other considerations."
     "Such as what?"
     "A long waiting list. There are people on our housing waiting list who have been there for years."
     "Maybe they have, but what does the waiting list have to do with me? You don't kick one family out in order to house another family - do you?" I could feel anger and doubt welling up inside me and I didn't know which I feared the most.
     "We must be selective with housing allocations," Strutz went on, as though I had not spoken.
     "I don't need a house allocation. I already live in one."
     Strutz stared at me as though my manner disappointed him. "Actually, we were  informed only ten days ago of Mrs Dibley's passing. Why didn't you communicate earlier with the Records Office?"
     "I reported her death within seven days. If you've only just found that out then you should update your system."
     "Our system is excellent." He sorted through papers on the table and shoved one in front of me. "Here is an Application for Housing form." He took up a fountain pen. "Let's have some details, Mr Dibley. What is your age?"
     "Twenty-three."
     "Date of birth?"
     "October 28th 1930."
     "Married or single?"
     I gave him the details - married, with one child.
     "Apart from your National Service, have you always lived at this property?"
     "Yes." I brought out the rest of the documents I had and put them in front of him.
He studied them as though they were forgeries. Suddenly, I realised that this jumped-up little bastard was holding my family's future in his manicured hands. One moment I had been living in comfort at a house I'd known all my life and here I was on the verge of losing it.
     Strutz pushed my documents aside and showed me the Housing Application form. "Fill this in, mark your envelope specifically for my attention and post it to the Housing Department. You should have the result in four to six weeks."
     "I'll fill it out now, then maybe I'll get an instant answer."
     Strutz pondered his next words, then said, "There are no instant answers in the Housing Department, Mr Dibley. Fill in the form now if you wish and leave it at Reception, but you will still wait four to six weeks for an answer. That is standard practise."
     "That's not good enough. My wife's upset that we might lose our home. And if we are kicked out - what will you do then?"
     "You will automatically be placed on the waiting list, but you can earn points. You have a child, that will move you up the list."
     "If I go on the list, how long will I have to wait?"
     "I cannot tell you that. But, do you have close relatives where you could stay?"
     "No, both my parents have passed on and I don't have brothers or sisters."
     "How about your wife?"
     "Her parents have gone as well." Laura's mother hadn't, of course, but I wasn't telling him that."
     He picked up our marriage certificate. "You were married when?"
     "August 1951."
     His fingers travelled across Edwina's birth certificate. "Edwina was born....December 1951." He glanced up at me. "There is a discrepancy."
     "There's no discrepancy, Mr Strutz. We had to get married. My wife was several months pregnant. Now am I here to be lectured - or are we talking about the Housing Department allowing me to stay at Paper Road?"
     Strutz shrugged. "Please feel free to hand in your Housing Application form at Reception." He stood up with a finality that implied the interview was over. He smiled faintly, opened the door for me, and said, "I don't judge you, Mr Dibley - I had to get married too."
     I gazed at him a moment. Maybe he understood my situation. After collecting my documents I handed in the Housing Application form at Reception and left the building utterly dejected.
     Rain pelted the car park. I started for my banger but veered away toward the City centre. Why should I tear around to suit others? Take time out, Al. Have an hour off. You're in Shefton, mate. Nip to Cooper's Cafe and grab a coffee and a sandwich.
     And to hell with officialdom......