As I was hurrying along crowded Batten Street bowed against the rain; I collided with a girl carrying parcels. One fell to the pavement. I picked it up, apologised, and glimpsed an oval face and grey eyes. She was considerably shorter than my six feet one inch.
          "And you should be sorry, Alan."
     I looked again at her and recognised Brenda Cartwright.
     We were at Cooper's Cafe shop doorway so I invited her in for coffee. She nodded. I pushed open the door and followed her, water dripping from our raincoats. She stacked the parcels on a seat next to her and after I had bought coffee and sandwiches we sat a corner table and watched shoppers scurrying by.
     "It's lousy weather," she said.
     "Sure is." I tried my coffee and found it tasted okay. "I didn't expect to see you, Brenda: last I heard you were in Canada."
     She smiled. "I was there until two weeks ago. Docked at Liverpool last Thursday. It was raining and it had me wondering why I was coming home."
     "Any specific reason for coming back?"
     She sipped coffee, grey eyes looking at me over the cup rim. "My marriage broke up."
     "Oh, I didn't know you were married. Did you get hitched over there?"
     "Horses get hitched," she corrected me. "Yes, I married this fellow in Montreal. Don't know why because we never hit it off. Must have been feeling lonely I guess."
     "I'm surprised you went to Canada. You don't seem a traveling type to me."
     She shrugged. Rainwater trickled from her hair. "I became fed up working here in an office and coming out at night into rotten weather."
     "So Canada was a spur of the moment thing, was it?"
     "No, not really. Dad went to Canada before he met and married my mum. Spent several years there but he missed his friends so he came back home. He was always telling me about Canada so I thought I'd see how good it was for myself."
     I remembered her father as easy-going. He had a foundry job at Hampton Engineering, a factory close to Cheadles. He slipped from a gantry and fell into a loaded molten metal vat. That happened while I was doing National Service.
     I stopped myself from mentioning him.
     Brenda's suntan went well with her blond hair. In the years she had been away time had treated her well. She had never realised it but I'd always thought a lot of her. I had seen her around town until I'd joined the army. Fancied taking her out but never asked because I was too interested playing football.
     She pushed back a curl of hair and sipped coffee. "Do you still play football?"
     I hadn't realised she knew I'd played. I told her I'd given up the game since breaking my left leg in a match a couple of years ago.
     "I didn't think a man of your size would ever be hurt."
     "It was just one of those things: I was tackled, fell awkward and that was it - a busted tibia."
     She pushed away her empty plate, thanked me for the sandwiches and coffee and glanced at her watch. "I have to hurry. Could you help me with this lot to the bus station?"
     I jumped at the chance. "I have a car parked behind the Town Hall. I'll drive you home."
     "That's very good of you." She frowned. "But you live on the Shatley estate, don't you?"
     I shrugged my left shoulder. "Yes, on Paper Road. Lived there since I was a kid."
     She began gathering the parcels. "I'd best travel by bus. Shatley is miles away from where I'm living now."
     "Where's that?"
     "Mayfield, across the other side of town."
     "That's no problem. It's only ten miles from Shatley to Mayfield." I picked up the two largest parcels. "Come on, let's go."
    
Mayfield was having its share of rain too. Water gurgled into drains as we pulled up at the house she indicated as home. I helped with the parcels to the front door, which opened as we got there. I recognised Brenda's mother whom I had seen occasionally with her husband when they had lived in Shatley. She offered me a cup of tea. No, but thanks, I said. I must go back to work after phoning my wife at home and telling her I was okay.
     Mrs Cartwright said thanks for my help and offered the use of her telephone. I said no thanks, I would phone Laura from work. I went back to my '38 Austin banger, gave them both a wave, and drove off.
     My wristwatch was showing eleven-thirty. I decided to have a look around town. It was still belting down rain as I joined the traffic back to Shefton. I tried some risky overtaking. The twisting blue light of a police car settled in behind me so I eased down. Didn't want to be picked up by those bastards for my Austin was so clapped out that an inspection would have me facing certain disqualification.
     I drove into the city and parked down a side street. The jewellery shop I wanted was on Brook Walk which meant I had to cross Main Street in rain which was becoming heavier. I looked at dark clouds huddling in threatening bunches. Traffic was sporadic. I sprinted across the street, splashing water in curving arcs and made Brook Walk and stopped for cover in the doorway of Lily's Record Shop. Normally I would have gone inside and browsed through the various jazz collections while having words with Lily and her long-time assistant, Rita Savannah, but there was another object on my mind.
     I squelched across the alleyway and reached the jewellery shop window. The ruby ring was still there in the third tray from the left on the top row. I couldn't see it properly because of rain streaming down the pane but it looked beautiful. The only thing I didn't care for was the price. I had a few spare quid in one of my suits and that would take care of the cost. I turned away, then stopped.
     Maybe somebody would buy that ring before I did. I entered the shop and a spring bar over the door triggered a jangling bell. Two women were behind the counter. There was a ruby ring in the window, I said. Could they put it to one side for me so I could collect it on Saturday?
     From somewhere out the back, a middle-age man with a smirk to his whiskered face came to me.
     "We don't put anything aside. We sell - and the customer pays - on the spot."
     "I can afford it, I just don't have the money with me. It would make a lovely present for my wife; it's her birthday soon."
     "Sorry."
     "Okay," I said, feeling hairs raising at the back of my neck. "I'll pop in Saturday - with the money."

My Austin managed to hold out until I reached Cheadles steel yard, then the engine coughed, backfired, then stalled.
     Joe Hillian looked out from the forge doorway. "What the bloody hell was that bang, Alan?"
     The time clock stood in a side shelter next the forge. I clocked in at five minutes before one. "My banger's ready for the scrap yard, Joe."
     Joe rubbed his sweating neck with a towel. "Never dump a car, lad. If you give me your car keys I'll get my boss Frank Vosper to look at it. There's not much that Frank can't repair."
     I said thanks and left the key with Joe.
     The machine shop was starting up after the lunch break as I tapped on Dingle's office door.
     He nodded for me to enter. "You're a bit late lad. How did it go?"
     "Not too good. The way things look they may sling me out of my house."
     Dingle adjusted his glasses. "I'm sorry to hear that. Tell me about it."
     I told him.
     Dingle stroked his chin. "I've never heard that one before, but I'm sure these council departments don't know if they're coming or going. When will you receive the assessment?"
     "In about a month, but it could take longer."
     "Hmm." Dingle removed his glasses and rubbed them with a handkerchief. "I don't like the sound of it. Have you ever considered buying your own place?"
     "No, never thought of it."
     Dingle replaced his glasses and looked over them at me. "If you need references or anything I'm willing to give you one. Mr Cheadle would as well. Let me know if you have to move." He began studying blueprints on his desk and shuffled them. For a moment I thought he had dismissed me and I said 'thanks' and turned to leave.
     He called me back. "Hang on a minute, there's something I want you to see." He unrolled a large blueprint, placed small lead weights on each of its corners and stood aside for me to look at the layout of a fully-machined crankshaft. "What do you think of this?"
     I checked the measurements. "Nine feet long, twin-web, double-throw crankshaft. Quantity required - ten."
     Dingle waited for further comments. I didn't give any.
     "Nine feet long, Alan. What does that tell you?" I shrugged that I didn't know. Dingle pointed to the bottom left-hand corner of the blueprint. "This job is a special test order from Denmark. All ten items are to be forged and completely machined by us. The tolerances are tight and the delivery date is critical. Our forge has produced six already. How far are you from finishing the Finneston job?"
     "It'll be complete by Friday lunch."
     "That's good. How do you feel about working more overtime?"
     "I already work sixty-three hours a week."
     Dingle nodded. "I'm aware of that. I'm also aware you don't bugger about when a job needs doing, and when I set a time for you, you come up right on the nose - apart from the occasional Saturday mornings you have off." He tapped the blueprint. "This crankshaft weighs over three and a half hundredweights so you can't just pick them up and slap them on your lathe. You need block and tackle to lift them. Now, remember what I asked you about the length?"
     "Yes."
     "Your lathe will take any length up to twelve feet and ten inches. No other lathe we have can take more than seven feet. That means we are limited on this job to one lathe and one lathe operator - and that's you." His grey eyebrows raised. "We're talking long shifts. Starting next Monday at six o'clock in the morning till ten at night through one week and the Saturday from six till twelve."
     All sorts of thoughts were buzzing through my head.
     "Just me, eh?"
     "Just you."
     "That makes me special, don't it?"
     A wry smile flitted across Dingle's face. "It does, but don't let that go to your head. Well, what do you say?"
     "What's in it for me?"
     "A fat pay packet - with an added bonus if our Danish friends see fit to pay us one. Mr Cheadle says getting this order done on time could bring us more orders from them. Massive and repetitive orders. So, I'm asking you to work long hours - for one week. What do you say?"
     "I say it sounds good, Mr Dingle."
     "Excellent. Now, we've had a word with Ted Rollins, your Union rep and he understands the position we are in. Of course, we can't leave you here on your own. Labourer Bill will work the same hours as you - mainly for safety reasons. So, we start on this job this coming Saturday morning."
     Dingle stood up with an air of finality and buttoned his coat. I took the hint and went to my lathe.
     Wally did his famous slithering trick of leaving his machine and hiding behind my tailstock without Dingle seeing him.
     "Where the firkin hell have you been, Al?"
     I told him briefly about my housing problem as I donned my overalls.
     "You can't trust those Council bastards," he growled. "They give themselves priority on the housing list you know. You never find a council worker living in a dump, do you?" He stared at me, his thin face genuinely unhappy. "Where will you live if they kick you out then?"
     I switched on my lathe and listened to the slap of the belt as it passed over the pulleys. "I don't know."
     Wally knew me fairly well. "You won't move in with Laura's mum, will you?"
     "No, that's the last thing I'd do."
     He stuck up a thumb. "Good on you, mate. Fighting talk - that's what I like to hear." A crafty look crossed his face. "Is it from next Monday you're starting those long hours?"
     "Yeah, but how do you know about that?"
     Wally grinned. "There's no secrets at Cheadles, Al." He leaned closer. "How about this Wednesday night then?"
     "What about it?"
     "Wednesday night at the Royal. You know, those birds I've been telling you about. Come along and take a look. After all, you won't be free any night next week, will you? Have a few nights out now while you've got the chance."

     "Can't do that. I've got a wife and a kid to go home to."

     Wally nodded. "Maybe you have, but there's nothing like a shot at something extra."

     I said I would consider it and Wally slid back to his lathe, smirking.

     Just after four o'clock Frank Vosper came through from the forge to see me. "I've fixed your car," he said, wiping sweat from his face with a cloth and dropping my car keys onto my cabinet. "It only took a minute. You had muck in the fuel line. Get a new filter - they don't cost much."

     "What do I owe you?"

     "A pint of ale will do fine." He watched as I machined a thread on a Finneston pin shaft. "Joe says you were talking of dumping your Austin."

     "Yeah, the bloody thing keeps letting me down."

     "My brother runs a garage at Button Green. Let him service it for you then it will run a lot smoother."

     "I doubt it, Frank."

     "I'm sure it would. I checked its oil and water levels. There was hardly any in."

     "That's because I don't put any in, Frank. The only things I shove in that banger is petrol - and me."

I pulled up outside home with rain bouncing off the car. Home: a house among many in a crowded street with each one looking much like its neighbour. Most of my life I'd lived here. Maybe my house was late Victorian, with red brick and tired paintwork, but it was still mine.
     Subconsciously something was niggling me. Then I realised all our house lights were off. I knew what that meant. I used my key to open the back door, exchanged my shoes for slippers, whipped off my coat and went into the living room. The coal fire had slid to a dull red. I switched on the room light and found a note leaning against a teapot on the table. It said Laura had taken Edwina to her grandma in Eccles Road. I thought, that's typical. I work; go to the Housing Department; go back to work, and when I come home Laura's buggered off to see her mother. After shovelling coal on the fire, I washed, changed and telephoned Mrs Atkinson.
     "Hello, who's that?" Mother Hubbard's voiced sounded barbed.
     "It's Alan. Can I speak to Laura?"
     "Yes. You're not calling from a pub, are you?"
     I didn't answer her taunt.
     Laura came on. "What do you want?" She sounded distinctly frosty.
     "What are you doing at your mum's? Don't you want to hear what the Housing people had to say?"
     "Okay - what did they say?"
     "I'm not discussing it on the phone."
     "Oh, then I'll have to wait till I come home, won't I?"
     "You should be here now. There's no tea ready for me."
     "Oh, what a shame! Fry yourself sausage and egg. I'll come home when it stops raining."
     "I'll come and pick you up in the banger."
     "Don't bother."
     "Yes, but I've had...."
     There was a click and all I could hear was the dialling tone.